“You have made it amply clear that my attentions are not wanted. A queen and a simple guardsman. Pure foolishness.”
“A queen no longer,” she said.
“Not in name, Morgase. Just in mind.”
A leaf fell from above and struck the pool. With a lobed margin and verdant richness, it should have had a long life yet.
“Do you know the worst part of this?” Tallanvor asked. “It’s the hope. The hope I let myself feel. Traveling with you, protecting you, I thought maybe you would see. Maybe you would care. And forget about him.”
“Him?”
“Gaebril,” Tallanvor snapped. “I can see that you still think of him. Even after what he did to you. I leave my heart here, but you left yours in Caemlyn.” From the corner of her eye, she could see him turn away. “Whatever it is you saw in him, I don’t have it. I’m only a simple, common, idiot of a Guardsman who can’t say the right words. You fawned over Gaebril, and he all but ignored you. That’s how love is. Bloody ashes, I’ve all but done the same thing with you.”
She said nothing.
“Well,” he said, “that’s why I have to go. You’re safe now, and that’s all that matters. Light help me, but that’s still all that I care about!”
He began to walk away, feet crunching twigs.
“Gaebril was one of the Forsaken,” she said.
The crunching twigs stopped.
“He was really Rahvin,” she continued. “He took over Andor through use of the One Power, forcing people to do as he said.”
Tallanvor hissed, twigs crunching as he hastened back to her. “Are you certain?”
“Certain? No. But it does make sense. We can’t ignore what is happening in the world, Tallanvor. The weather, the way food spoils in a heartbeat, the movements of this Rand al’Thor. He is no false Dragon. The Forsaken must be loose again.
“What would you do, if you were one of them? Raise up an army and conquer? Or simply stroll into a palace and take the Queen as your consort? Twist her mind so that she lets you do as you wish. You’d gain the resources of an entire nation, all with minimal effort. Barely a finger raised…”
She raised her head and stared off into the distance. Northward. Toward Andor. “They call it Compulsion. A dark, foul weave that removes the will from your subject. I’m not supposed to know that it exists.
“You say that I think of him. That is true. I think about him and hate him. Hate myself for what I let him do. And a part of my heart knows that if he were to appear here and demand something from me, I’d give it. I couldn’t help myself. But this thing I feel for him—this thing that blends my desire and my hatred like two locks in a braid—it is not love.”
She turned and looked down at Tallanvor. “I know love, Tallanvor, and Gaebril never had it from me. I doubt that a creature like him could comprehend love.”
Tallanvor met her eyes. His were dark gray, soft and pure. “Woman, you give me that monster hope again. Be wary of what lies at your feet.”
“I need time to think. Would you refrain, for now, from going to Tear?”
He bowed. “Morgase, if you want anything from me—anything—all you ever need to do is ask. I thought I made that clear. I’ll remove my name from the list.”
He withdrew. Morgase watched him, her mind a tempest despite the stillness of the trees and pond before her.
Chapter 22
The End of a Legend
At night, Gawyn couldn’t see the White Tower’s wounds.
In darkness, one couldn’t tell the difference between a beautifully intricate mural and a wall full of mismatched tiles. At night, the most beautiful of Tar Valon’s buildings became another dark lump.
And at night, the holes and scars on the White Tower were patched with a bandage of darkness. Of course, on a night as dark as these clouds caused, one also couldn’t tell the Tower’s color. White or black; at night, it didn’t really matter.
Gawyn walked the White Tower grounds, wearing stiff trousers and coat of red and gold. Like a uniform, but of no specific allegiance. He didn’t seem to have a specific allegiance these days. Almost unconsciously, he found himself walking toward the eastern tower entrance as if to climb up to Egwene’s sleeping chambers. He set his jaw, turning the other way.
He should have been sleeping. But after nearly a week of guarding Egwene’s door at night, he was—as soldiers liked to say—on a midnight lunch. Perhaps he could have stayed in his rooms to relax, but his quarters in the White Tower’s barracks felt confining.
Nearby, two small feral cats stalked through tufts of grass, eyes reflecting the torchlight of a guard post. The cats hunkered low, watching him as if considering—for a brief moment—whether or not he’d be worth attacking. An unseen owl cruised in the air above, the only evidence of its passing a solitary feather that floated down. It was easier to pretend at night. Some men lived their entire lives that way, preferring the curtains of darkness to the open windows of daylight, because they let them see the world all in shadow.
It was summer now, but though the day had been hot, the night was strangely cold. He shivered at a passing breeze. There hadn’t been any murders since the death of that unfortunate White. When would the killer strike again? He—or she—could be moving through the hallways at this moment, searching for a solitary Aes Sedai as those cats searched for mice.
Egwene had sent him away from her door, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be on the watch. What good was it to walk the grounds? He should be indoors, where he had a chance of doing some good. Gawyn made his way to one of the servant entrances.
The low-ceilinged hallway inside was clean and well lit, like the rest of the Tower, though the floor was set with dull gray slate instead of glazed tiles. An open room to his right resounded with laughter and chatting, off-duty guardsmen enjoying time with their comrades. Gawyn gave them barely a glance, but then froze.
He looked back in, recognizing some of the men. “Mazone? Celark? Zang? What are you men about?”
The three looked up with alarm, then chagrin. They were among about a dozen Younglings who were dicing and smoking pipes with the off-duty Tower guardsmen. The Younglings stumbled to their feet and gave salutes, though he was no longer their commander. They didn’t seem to realize that.
Celark, foremost among them, hastened over to Gawyn. He was a lean fellow with light brown hair and thick fingers. “My Lord,” he said. “Nothing important, my Lord. Just a little harmless fun.”
“The Warders don’t like this kind of behavior,” Gawyn said. “You know that, Celark. If it gets around that you’re staying up this late dicing, you’ll never convince an Aes Sedai to take you.”
Celark grimaced. “Yes, my Lord.”
There was something reluctant in that grimace. “What?” Gawyn said. “Out with it, man.”
“Well, my Lord,” Celark said. “It’s that some of us, we aren’t so sure that we want to be Warders. Not all of us came here for that, you know. Some were like you, wanting to train with the best. And the rest of us…well, things have changed now.”
“What things?” Gawyn asked.
“Foolish things, my Lord,” the man said, looking down. “You’re right, of course. There’s early sparring tomorrow. But, well, we’ve seen war. We’re soldiers now. Being a Warder, it’s all a man should aspire to. But some of us, we’d rather not see what we have now end. You know?”
Gawyn nodded slowly.
“When I first came to the Tower,” Celark said, “I wanted nothing more than to be a Warder. Now I don’t know that I want to spend my life protecting one woman, solitary, roving about the countryside.”
“You could be Warder to a Brown or White,” Gawyn said. “And stay in the Tower.”
Celark frowned. “With all respect, my Lord, I think that might be just as bad. Warders…they don’t live like other men.”
“That’s for certain,” Gawyn said, eyes lifting upward, toward Egwene’s distant quarters. He would not go seeking that door. He forced his gaze back down to Celark. “There’s no shame in choosing a different path.”
“The others make it sound like there is.”
“The others are wrong,” Gawyn said. “Gather those of you who want to remain with the Younglings and report to Captain Chubain tomorrow. I’ll speak with him. I’ll wager he could use you as a division in the Tower Guard. He lost a lot of men in the Seanchan attack.”
Celark relaxed visibly. “You’d do that, my Lord?”
“Of course. It was an honor to lead you men.”
“Do you think…maybe you could join with us?” The youth’s voice was hopeful.
Gawyn shook his head. “I’ve another path to take. But, the Light willing, I’ll end up close enough to keep an eye on you.” He nodded toward the room. “Go back to your games. I’ll speak to Makzim for you as well.” Makzim was the stern, thick-armed Warder currently leading the training sessions.
Celark nodded gratefully, hurrying back to the others. Gawyn continued down the corridor, wishing his choices were as easy as those of his men.
Lost in thought, he’d climbed halfway to Egwene’s rooms before he stopped to realize what he was doing. I need something to distract me. The hour wasn’t too late. Perhaps he could find Bryne and chat.
Gawyn made his way to Bryne’s rooms. If Gawyn had a strange position among the Aes Sedai, Bryne’s was nearly as odd: Warder to the former Amyrlin, general of Egwene’s conquering army, and renowned great captain. Bryne’s door was open a crack, emitting a line of light across the blue-tiled corridor. That was his habit when he was in and awake, should one of his officers need him. Many nights Bryne was away, staying at one of his command centers around the island or in a nearby village.
Gawyn knocked softly.
“Come.” Bryne’s voice was firm and familiar. Gawyn slipped in, then returned the door to its cracked position. Bryne sat at a rickety-looking desk, working on a letter. He glanced at Gawyn. “Just a moment.”
Gawyn waited. The walls were papered with maps of Tar Valon, Andor, Cairhien and surrounding regions. Many bore recent notations in red chalk. Bryne was preparing for war. The notations made it clear he felt he’d eventually have to defend Tar Valon itself against Trollocs. Several maps showed villages across the northern part of the countryside, listing their fortifications—if any—and their loyalty to Tar Valon. They’d be used for supply dumps and forward positions. Another map had circles pointing out ancient watchtowers, fortifications and ruins.
There was a methodical inevitability to Bryne’s calculations, and a sense of urgency. He wasn’t looking to build fortifications, but to use those already in place. He was moving troops into the villages he felt most useful; another map showed progress in active recruitment.
It wasn’t until Gawyn stood there—smelling the musty scent of old paper and burning candles—that he felt the reality of the impending war. It was coming soon. The Dragon would break the seals of the Dark One’s prison. The place he had told Egwene to meet him, the Field of Merrilor, was marked in bright red on the maps. It was north, on the border of Shienar.