The Gathering Storm

19 Gambits

Chaos. The entire world was chaos. Tuon stood on the balcony of her audience hall in the palace of Ebou Dar, hands clasped behind her back. In the palace grounds—flagstones washed white, like so many surfaces in the city—a group of Altaran armsmen in gold and black practiced formations beneath the watchful eyes of a pair of her own officers. Beyond them, the city proper rose, white domes banded with colors spreading alongside tall, white spires.

Order. Here in Ebou Dar, there was order, even in the fields of tents and wagons outside the city. Seanchan soldiers patrolled and kept the peace; there were plans to clean out the Rahad. Just because one was poor was not a reason—or an excuse—to live without law.

But this city was just a tiny, tiny pocket of order in a world of tempest. Seanchan itself was broken by civil war, now that the empress had died. The Corenne had come, but recapturing these lands of Artur Hawkwing progressed slowly, stalled by the Dragon Reborn in the east and Domani armies in the north. She still waited to hear news of Lieutenant-General Turan, but the signs were not good. Galgan maintained that they might be surprised at the outcome, but Tuon had seen a black dove the hour she was informed of Turan’s predicament. The omen had been clear. He would not return alive.

Chaos. She glanced to the side, where faithful Karede stood in his thick armor, colored blood-red and a deep green, nearly black. He was a tall man, square face nearly as solid as the armor he wore. He had fully two dozen Deathwatch Guards with him this day—the day after Tuon’s return to Ebou Dar—along with six Ogier Gardeners, all standing along the walls. They lined the sides of the high-ceilinged, white-pillared room. Karede sensed the chaos, and did not intend to let her be taken again. Chaos was the most deadly when you made assumptions about what it could and couldn’t infect. Here in Ebou Dar, it manifested in the form of a faction intent on taking Tuon’s own life.

She had been dodging assassinations since she could walk, and she had survived them all. She anticipated them. In a way, she thrived because of them. How were you to know that you were powerful unless assassins were sent to kill you?

Suroth’s betrayal, however . . . Chaos, indeed, when the leader of the Forerunners herself turned traitor. Bringing the world back into order was going to be very, very difficult. Perhaps impossible.

Tuon straightened her back. She had not thought to become Empress for many years yet. But she would do her duty.

She turned away from the balcony and walked back into the audience chamber to face the crowd awaiting her. Like the others of the Blood, she wore ashes on her cheeks to mourn the loss of the Empress. Tuon had little affection for her mother, but affection was not needed for an empress. She provided order and stability. Tuon had only begun to understand the importance of these things as the weight had settled on her shoulders.

The chamber was wide and rectangular, lit with candelabras between the pillars and the radiant glow of sunlight through the wide balcony behind. Tuon had ordered the room’s rugs removed, preferring the bright white tiles. The ceiling bore a painted mural of fishers at sea, with gulls in the clear air, and the walls were a soft blue. A group of ten da’covale knelt before the candelabras to Tuon’s right. They wore filmy costumes, waiting for a command. Suroth was not among them. The Deathwatch Guard saw to her, at least until her hair grew out.

As soon as Tuon entered the room, all of the commoners bowed on knees with foreheads to the ground. Those of the Blood knelt, bowing their heads.

Across from the da’covale, on the other side of the hall, Lanelle and Melitene knelt in dresses emblazoned with silver lightning bolts in red panels on their skirts. Their leashed damane knelt facedown. Tuon’s kidnapping had been unbearable to several of the damane; they had taken to inconsolable weeping during her absence.

Her audience chair was relatively simple. A wooden seat with black velvet on the arms and back. She sat down, wearing a pleated gown of the deepest sea blue, a white cape fluttering behind her. As soon as she did, the people in the room rose from their positions of adulation—all save the da’covak, who remained kneeling. Selucia stood and stepped up beside the chair, her golden hair in a braid down her right side, the left side of her head shaven. She did not wear the ashes, since she was not of the Blood, but the white band on her arm indicated that she—like the entire Empire—mourned the loss of the Empress.

Yuril, Tuon’s secretary and secretly her Hand, stepped up to the other side of the chair. The Deathwatch Guards moved in subtly around her, dark armor glittering faintly in the sunlight. They had been particularly protective of her lately. She didn’t blame them, recent events considered.

Here I am, Tuon thought, surrounded by my might, damane on one side and Deathwatch Guard on the other. And yet I feel no safer than I did with Matrim. How odd, that she should have felt safe with him.

Directly in front of her, lit by indirect sunlight from the open balcony behind, was a collection of the Blood, Captain-General Galgan highest of them. He wore armor this day, the breastplate painted a deep blue, nearly dark enough to be black. His powdery white hair ran in a crest with the sides of his head shaven, and was plaited to his shoulders, for he was of the High Blood. With him were two members of the low Blood—Banner-General Najirah and Banner-General Yamada—and several commoner officers. They waited patiently, carefully not meeting Tuon’s eyes.

A gathering of other members of the Blood stood several steps behind, to witness her acts. Wiry Faverde Nothish and long-faced Amenar Shumada led them. They were both important—important enough to be dangerous. Suroth wouldn’t be the only one who saw opportunity in these times. If Tuon were to fall, practically anyone could become Empress. Or Emperor.

The war in Seanchan would not end quickly; but when it did, the victor would undoubtedly raise him—or herself to the Crystal Throne as well. And then there would be two leaders of the Seanchan Empire, divided by an ocean, united in desire to conquer one another. Neither could allow the other to live.

Order, Tuon thought, tapping the black wood of her armrest with a blue-lacquered fingernail. Order must emanate from me. I will bring the calm airs to those beset by storms.

“Selucia is my Truthspeaker,” she announced to the room. “Let it be published among the Blood.”

The statement was expected. Selucia bowed her head in acceptance, though she had no desire for any appointment other than to serve and protect Tuon. She would not welcome this position. But she was also honest and straightforward; she would make an excellent Truthspeaker.

At least this time, Tuon could be certain that her Truthspeaker wasn’t one of the Forsaken.

Did she believe Falendre’s story, then? It stretched plausibility; it sounded like one of Matrim’s fanciful tales of imaginary creatures that lurked in the dark. And yet, the other sul’dam and damane had corroborated Falendre’s tale.

Some facts, at least, seemed straightforward. Anath had been working with Suroth. Suroth—after some persuasion—had admitted that she had met with one of the Forsaken. Or, at least, she thought she had. She hadn’t known that the Forsaken was the same as Anath, but she seemed to find the revelation believable.

Whether or not she really was Forsaken, Anath had met with the Dragon Reborn, imitating Tuon. And had then tried to kill him. Order, Tuon thought, keeping her face still. I represent order.

Tuon gestured rapidly to Selucia, who was still Tuon’s Voice—and her shadow—even with the added responsibility of Truthspeaker. When ordering those far beneath herself, Tuon would first pass the words to Selucia, who would speak them.

“You are required to send him in,” Selucia said to a da’covale beside the throne. He bowed himself to the ground, touching head to the floor, then hurried to the other end of the large room and opened the door.

Beslan, King of Altara and High Seat of House Mitsobar, was a slender youth with black eyes and hair. He had the olive skin common to the Altaran people, but he had taken to wearing clothing like that favored by the Blood. Loose trousers of yellow and a high-collared coat that came down only to the middle of his chest, a yellow shirt underneath. The Blood had left a clear passage down the middle of the room, and Beslan walked through it, eyes lowered. Upon reaching the supplication space before the throne, he went down on his knees, then bowed low. The perfect image of a loyal subject, except for the thin golden crown on his head.

Tuon gestured to Selucia.

“You are bidden to rise,” Selucia said.

Beslan rose, though he kept his gaze averted. He was a fine actor.

“The Daughter of the Nine Moons expresses her condolences to you for your loss,” Selucia said to him.

“I give the same to her for her loss,” he said. “My grief is but a candle to the great fire felt by the Seanchan people.”

He was too servile. He was a king; he was not required to bow himself so far. He was the equal of many of the Blood.

She could almost have believed he was just being submissive before the woman who would soon become Empress. But she knew too much of his temperament, through both spies and hearsay.

“The Daughter of the Nine Moons wishes to know the reason you have ceased holding court,” Selucia said, watching Tuon’s hands move. “She finds it distressing that your people cannot have audience with their king. Your mother’s death was as tragic as it was shocking, but your kingdom needs you.”

Beslan bowed. “Please have her know that I did not think it appropriate to elevate myself above her. I am uncertain how to act. I meant no insult.”

“Are you certain that is the true reason?” Selucia Voiced. “It is not, perhaps, because you are planning a rebellion against us, and do not have time for your other duties?”

Beslan looked up sharply, eyes wide. “Your Majesty, I—”

“You need not speak any further lies, child of Tylin,” Tuon said directly to him, causing gasps of surprise from the assembled Blood. “I know of the things you have said to General Habiger and your friend, Lord Malalin. I know of your quiet meetings in the basement of The Three Stars. I know of it all, King Beslan.”

The room fell silent, Beslan bowed his head for a moment. Then, surprisingly, he rose to his feet and stared her directly in the eyes. She wouldn’t have thought the soft-spoken youth had it in him. “I will not allow my people to—”

“I would still my tongue if I were you,” Tuon interrupted. “You stand on sand as it is.”

Beslan hesitated. She could see the question in his eyes. Wasn’t she going to execute him? If I intended to kill you, she thought, you would be dead already, and you would never have seen the knife.

“Seanchan is in upheaval,” Tuon said, regarding him. He appeared shocked at the words. “Oh, did you think I would ignore it, Beslan? I am not content to stare at the stars while my empire collapses around me. The truth must be acknowledged. My mother is dead. There is no empress.

“However, the forces of the Corenne are more than sufficient to maintain our positions here on this side of the ocean, Altara included.” She leaned forward, trying to project a sense of control, offirmness. Her mother had been able to do so at all times. Tuon did not have her mother’s height, but she would need that aura. Others had to feel safer, more secure, simply by entering her presence.

“In times such as these,” Tuon continued, “threats of rebellion cannot be tolerated. Many will see opportunity in the Empire’s weakness, and their divisive squabbling—if left unchecked—would prove the end of us all. Therefore, I must be firm. Very firm. With those who defy me.”

“Then why,” Beslan said, “am I still alive?”

“You started planning your rebellion before events in the Empire were made known.”

He frowned, dumbfounded.

“You began your rebellion when Suroth led here,” Tuon said, “and when your mother was still queen. Much has changed since then, Beslan. Very much. In times like these, there is potential for great accomplishment.”

“You must know I have no thirst for power,” Beslan said. “The freedom of my people is all I desire.”

“I do know it,” Tuon said, clasping her hands before her, lacquered nails curling, elbows on the armrests of her chair. “And that is the other reason you are still alive. You rebel not out of lust for station, but out of sheer ignorance. You are misguided, and that means you can change, should you receive the proper knowledge.”

He looked at her, confused. Lower your eyes, fool. Don’t make me have you strapped for insolence! As if he had heard her thoughts, he averted his eyes, then lowered them. Yes, she had judged correctly regarding this one.

How precarious her position was! True, she had armies—but so many of them had been thrown away by Suroth’s aggression.

All kingdoms on this side of the ocean would need to bow before the Crystal Throne, eventually. Each marath’damane would be leashed, each king or queen would swear the oaths. But Suroth had pushed too hard, particularly in the fiasco with Turan. A hundred thousand men, lost in one battle. Madness.

Tuon needed Altara. She needed Ebou Dar. Beslan was well loved by the people. Putting his head on a pike after the mysterious death of his mother. . . . Well, Tuon would have stability in Ebou Dar, but she would rather not have to leave battlefronts unmanned to accomplish it.

“Your mother’s death is a loss,” Tuon said. “She was a good woman. A good queen.”

Beslan’s lips tightened.

“You may speak,” Tuon said.

“Her death ... is unexplained,” he said. The implication was obvious.

“I do not know if Suroth caused her to be killed,” Tuon said, softening her voice. “She claims that she did not. But the matter is being investigated. If it turns out that Suroth was behind the death, you and Altara will have an apology from the throne itself.”

Another gasp from the Blood. She silenced them with a glance, then turned back to Beslan. “Your mothers loss is a great one. You must know that she was loyal to her oaths.”

“Yes,” he said, voice bitter. “And she gave up the throne.”

“No,” Tuon said curtly. “The throne belongs to you. This is the ignorance of which I spoke. You must lead your people. They must have a king. I have neither time nor desire to do your duty for you.

“You assume that the Seanchan dominance of your homeland will mean your people lack freedom. That is false. They will be more free, more protected, and more powerful when they accept our rule.

“I sit above you. But is this so undesirable? With the might of the empire, you will be able to hold your borders and patrol your lands outside of Ebou Dar. You speak of your people? Well, I have ordered something prepared for you.” She nodded to the side, where a willowy-limbed da’covale stepped forward with a leather satchel.

“Inside,” Tuon said, “you will find numbers gathered by my scouts and guard forces. You can see directly the reports of crimes during our occupation here. You will have reports and manifests, comparing how the people were before the Return and after it.

“I believe you know what you will find. The Empire is a resource to you, Beslan. A powerful, powerful ally. I will not insult you by offering you thrones you do not want. I will entice you by promising stability, food, and protection for your people. All for the simple price of your loyalty.”

He hesitantly accepted the satchel.

“I offer you a choice, Beslan,” Tuon said. “You may choose execution, if you wish. I will not make you da’covale. I will let you die with honor, and it will be published that you died because you rejected the oaths and chose not to accept the Seanchan. If you wish it, I will allow it. Your people will know that you died in defiance.

“Or, you may choose to serve them better. You may choose to live. If you do so, you will be raised to the High Blood. You will step forward and reign as your people need you to do. I promise you that I will not direct the affairs of your people. I will demand resources and men for my armies, as is proper, and your word cannot countermand my own. Aside from that, your power in Altara will be absolute. No Blood will have the right to command, harm, or imprison your people without your permission.

“I will accept and review a list of noble families you feel should be raised to the low Blood, and I will raise no fewer than twenty of them. Altara will become the permanent seat of the Empress on this side of the ocean. As such, it will be the most powerful kingdom here. You may choose.”

She leaned forward, unlacing her fingers. “But understand this. If you decide to join with us, you will give me your heart, and not just your words. I will not allow you to ignore your oaths. I have given you this chance because I believe you can be a strong ally, and I think that you were misguided, perhaps by Suroth’s twisted webs.

“You have one day to make your decision. Think well. Your mother thought this to be the best course, and she was a wise woman. The Empire means stability. A rebellion would mean only suffering, starvation and obscurity. These are not times to be alone, Beslan.”

She sat back as Beslan regarded the satchel in his hands. He bowed in supplication to withdraw, though the motion was jerky, as if he were distracted.

“You may go,” she said to him.

He rose, but did not turn to leave. The room fell still as he stared down at his hands and the satchel. She could read his struggle in his expression. A da’covale approached to hasten him on his way, as he had been dismissed, but Tuon raised her hand, stilling the servant.

She leaned forward, several members of the Blood shuffling their feet as they waited. Beslan just stared at that satchel. Finally, he looked up, eyes determined. And then, surprisingly, he got back down on his knees.

“I, Beslan of House Mitsobar, pledge my fealty and service to the Daughter of the Nine Moons and through her to the Seanchan Empire, now and for all time, save that she chooses to release me of her own will. My lands and throne are hers, and I yield them to her hand. So I do swear before the Light.”

Tuon let herself smile. Behind Beslan, Captain-General Galgan stepped forward, addressing the King. “That is not the proper way to—”

Tuon silenced him with a gesture. “We demand that this people adopt our ways, General,” she said. “It is fitting that we accept some of theirs.” Not too many of those ways, of course. But she could thank her long conversations with Mistress Anan for allowing her to understand this. The Seanchan had, perhaps, made a mistake with this people in making them swear Seanchan oaths of obedience. Matrim had sworn those oaths, but ignored them handily when the time came—yet he had been certain to keep his word to her, and his men had assured her he was a man of honor.

How strange that they would be willing to elevate one oath over another. These people were odd. But she would have to understand them in order to rule them—and she would have to rule them to gather strength for her return to Seanchan.

“Your oath is pleasing to me, King Beslan. I raise you to the High Blood and give you and your House dominance over the kingdom of Altara, for now and all time, your will for the administration and governance of it second only to that of the Imperial Throne itself. Rise.”

He stood, legs looking shaky. “Are you certain you’re not ta’veren, my Lady?” he asked. “Because I certainly wasn’t expecting to do that when I walked in here.”

Ta’veren. These people and their foolish superstitions! “I am pleased with you,” she said to him. “I knew your mother for only a short time, but I did find her quite capable. I would not have enjoyed being forced to execute her only remaining son.”

He nodded in appreciation. To the side, Selucia covertly signed, That was well handled. Unconventional, perhaps, but very delicately done.

Tuon felt a warm sense of pride. She turned to the white-haired General Galgan. “General. I realize you have been waiting to speak with me, and your patience is to be commended. You may now speak your thoughts. King Beslan, you may withdraw or remain. It is your right to attend any public conferences I have in your kingdom, and you need no permission or invitation to attend.”

Beslan nodded, bowing but retreating to the side of the room to watch.

“Thank you, Highest Daughter,” Galgan said reverently, stepping forward. He waved to his so’jhin, who stood in the hallway outside. They entered—first prostrating themselves before Tuon—then quickly set up a table and several maps. One servant brought Galgan a bundle, which he carried, approaching Tuon. Karede was at her right shoulder in a moment, Selucia at her left, but Galgan kept a respectful distance. He bowed and unrolled the item on the ground. It was a banner of red, bearing a circle in the center, split by a sinuous line. One half of the circle was black, the other white.

“What is it?” Tuon asked, leaning forward.

“The banner of the Dragon Reborn,” Galgan said. “He sent it with a messenger, asking yet again for a meeting.” He glanced up—not meeting her eyes, but showing a thoughtful, concerned face.

“This morning when I arose,” Tuon said, “I saw a pattern like three towers in the sky and a hawk, high in the air, passing between them.”

The various members of the Blood in the room nodded appreciatively. Only Beslan seemed confused. How did these people live, not knowing the omens? Had they no desire to understand the visions of fate the Pattern was giving them? The hawk and three towers were an omen of difficult choices to come. They indicated that boldness would be needed.

“What are your thoughts on the Dragon Reborn’s request for a meeting?” Tuon asked Galgan.

“Perhaps it would be unwise to meet with this man, Highest Daughter. I am not certain of his claims to his title. Beyond this question, does the Empire not have other concerns at this time?”

“You wonder why our forces have not retreated,” Tuon said. “Why we have not struck out for Seanchan to secure the throne.”

He bowed his head. “I trust your wisdom, Highest Daughter.”

“This is the Dragon Reborn,” Tuon said. “And not just an impostor. I am convinced of it. He must bow before the Crystal Throne before the Last Battle can begin. And so we must stay. It is not an accident that the Return happened now. We are needed here. More than we are needed, unfortunately, in our homeland.”

Galgan nodded slowly. He agreed with her on not retreating to Seanchan; he had simply assumed it would be what she wished. In declaring they would stay, she had earned his respect. Not that he wouldn’t still consider seizing the throne for himself. A man could not hold his position without a great deal of ambition.

However, he was known to be a prudent man as well as an ambitious one. He would not strike unless he was convinced it was for the best. He would have to believe that he had a strong potential for success and that removing Tuon would be better for the Empire. That was the difference between an ambitious fool and an ambitious wise man. The latter understood that killing someone was only the beginning. Taking Tuon’s life and assuming the throne himself would gain him nothing if it alienated the rest of the Blood.

He walked to his table with maps. “If you wish to continue to prosecute the war, Highest Daughter, permit me to explain the condition of your army. One of our most ambitious plans is being organized by Lieutenant-General Yulan.”

Galgan gestured to the assembled officers and a short, dark-skinned man of the low Blood stepped forward. He wore a black wig to hide his baldness, and he approached and knelt before Tuon, bowing.

“You are commanded to rise and speak, General,” Selucia Voiced.

“The Highest Daughter should know my thanks,” Yulan said, rising. At the map table, he gestured for several aides to hold up a map so that Tuon could see. “Aside from setbacks in Arad Doman, the process of reclaiming these lands has proceeded as expected. More slowly than we would wish, but not without great victories. The people of these kingdoms do not rally to the defense of their neighboring nations. We have had great success seizing them one at a time. Only two issues cause us worry. The first is this Rand al’Thor, the Dragon Reborn, who has been pursuing an aggressive war of unification to the north and east. The Highest Daughter’s wisdom will be needed in teaching us to subdue him.

“The other concern has been the large number of marath’damane concentrated in the place known as Tar Valon. I believe the Highest Daughter has heard of the great weapon they used to destroy a large patch of land north of Ebou Dar.”

Tuon nodded.

“The sul’dam have never seen its like,” Yulan continued. “We assume it is a thing of damane, which can be taught to them, if the right marath’damane are taken. This wondrous ability they have to transport instantly from one place to another—if true—will prove a second technique of great tactical advantage that we must capture.”

Tuon nodded again, studying the map, which showed the place called Tar Valon. Selucia Voiced, “The Highest Daughter is curious as to your plans. You will proceed.”

“My thanks are expressed deeply,” Yulan said, bowing. “As Captain of the Air, I have the honor of commanding the raken and to’raken serving the Return. I believe that a strike at the very heart of our enemy’s lands would not only be possible, but highly advantageous. We have not yet had to fight many of these marath’damane in combat, but as we advance into lands controlled by the Dragon Reborn, we will undoubtedly face them in great numbers.

“They assume that they are safe from us at this time. A strike now could have great impact on the future. Each marath’damane we leash is not only a powerful tool gained by our forces, but one lost by the enemy. Preliminary reports claim that there are hundreds upon hundreds of marath’damane congregated in this place called the White Tower.”

That many? Tuon thought. A force like that could turn the war entirely. True, those marath’damane who had traveled with Matrim had said that they would not take part in wars. Indeed, marath’damane who had once been Aes Sedai had—so far—proven useless as weapons. But could there be some way to twist their supposed vows? Something Matrim had said in passing made her suspect they could. Her fingers flew.

“The Daughter of the Nine Moons wonders how a strike against them could be feasible,” Selucia Voiced. “The distance is great. Hundreds of leagues.”

“We would use a force of mostly to’raken,” General Yulan said. “With some raken for scouting. Our captured maps show large grasslands with very few inhabitants, which could be used as resting points along the way. We could strike across Murandy here,” he pointed at a second map, which aides held up, “and come at Tar Valon from the south. If it pleases the Highest Daughter, we could raid at night, while the marath’damane are asleep. Our objective would be to capture as many of them as possible.”

“It is wondered if this really could be accomplished,” Selucia Voiced. Tuon was intrigued. “What numbers would we be able to use for such a raid?”

“If we were fully committed?” Yulan asked. “I believe I could gather up between eighty and a hundred to’raken for the assault.”

Eighty to a hundred to’raken. So, perhaps around three hundred soldiers, with equipment, leaving room to bring back captured marath’damane. Three hundred would be a considerable force for a raid like this, but they would have to move quickly and lightly, so as to not be trapped.

“If it pleases the Highest Daughter,” General Galgan said, stepping forward again. “I believe General Yulan’s plan has much merit. It is not without potential for great loss, but we will never have another such opportunity. If brought to bear in our conflict, those marath’damane could disable us. And if we could gain access to this weapon of theirs, or even their ability to travel great distances. . . . Well, I believe that the risk of every to’raken in our army is worth the gains.”

“If it pleases the Highest Daughter,” General Yulan continued. “Our plan calls for the use twenty squads of the Fist of Heaven—two hundred troops total—and fifty linked sul’dam. We think that, perhaps, a small group of Bloodknives would be appropriate as well.”

Bloodknives, the most elite members of the Fist of Heaven, itself an exclusive group. Yulan and Galgan were dedicated to this action! One never committed Bloodknives unless one was very serious, for they did not return from their missions. Their duty was to stay behind after the Fists withdrew and cause damage—as much damage as possible—to the enemy. If they could place some of them in Tar Valon, with orders to kill as many marath’damane as possible. . . .

“The Dragon Reborn will not react well to this raid,” Tuon said to Galgan. “Is he not connected to these marath’damane!”

“By some reports,” Galgan said. “Others say he is opposed to them. Still others say they are his pawns. Our poor intelligence in this area lowers my eyes, Highest Daughter. I have not been able to sort the lies from the truths. Until we have better information, we must assume the worst, that this raid will anger him greatly.”

“And you still think it worthwhile?”

“Yes,” Galgan said without hesitation. “If these marath’damane are connected to the Dragon Reborn, then we have greater reason to strike now, before he can use them against us. Perhaps the raid will enrage him—but it will also weaken him, which will place you in a better position for negotiating with him.”

Tuon nodded thoughtfully. Undoubtedly, this was the difficult decision of the omen. But her choice seemed very obvious. Not a difficult decision at all. All of the marath’damane in Tar Valon must be collared, and this was an excellent way to weaken resistance to the Ever Victorious Army with a single, powerful blow.

But the omen spoke of a difficult decision. She gestured to Selucia. “Are there any in the room who disapprove of this plan?” the Voice asked. “Any who would offer objection to what General Yulan and his men have advanced?”

The Blood in the room regarded one another. Beslan might have stirred, but he remained silent. The Altarans had not made any objections to their marath’damane being collared; it seemed they had little trust for those who could channel. They had not been as prudent as Amadicia in outlawing these Aes Sedai, but neither were they welcoming. Beslan would nor object to a strike against the White Tower.

She sat back, waiting . . . For what? Perhaps this wasn’t the decision the omen had referred to. She opened her mouth to give the order to go forward with the raid, but at that moment the opening of the doors made her pause.

The Deathwatch Guards who guarded the door stepped aside a moment later, admitting a so’jhin who served in the hallway. The strong-armed man, Ma’combe, bowed himself low to the ground, the black braid over his right shoulder dropping to the side and hitting the tiled floor. “May it please the Daughter of the Nine Moons, Lieutenant-General Tylee Khir-gan would like an audience.”

Galgan looked shocked.

“What is it?” Tuon asked him.

“I had not realized that she had returned, Highest Daughter,” he said. “I suggest in humility that she be given leave to speak. She is one of my finest officers.”

“She may enter,” Selucia Voiced.

A male da’covale in a white robe entered, preceding a woman in armor, her helm under her arm. Dark of skin, with short black hair worn in tight curls against her scalp, she was tall and lean. Her hair was sprinkled with white at the temples. The overlapping plates of her armor were striped with red, yellow and blue lacquer, and creaked as she walked. She was only of the low Blood—recently raised by General Galgan’s order—but she had been informed of this via raken. She wore her hair barely shaved a finger’s width up the sides of her head.

Tylee’s eyes were red with fatigue. Judging by the scent of sweat and the stink of horse she gave off, she had come straight to Tuon upon arriving in the city. She was followed into the room by several younger soldiers, also exhausted, one bearing a large brown sack. Upon reaching the supplication space—a red square of cloth—all went down on their knees. The common soldiers proceeded to touch foreheads to the floor, and Tylee jerked as if to follow, but stopped herself. She was not yet accustomed to being one of the Blood.

“It is obvious that you are tired, warrior,” Selucia Voiced. Tuon leaned forward. “It is presumed that you have news of great import?”

Tylee rose to one knee, then gestured to the side. One of her soldiers rose to his knees and lifted up his brown sack. It was stained on the bottom with a dark, crusted liquid. Blood.

“If it pleases the Highest Daughter,” Tylee said, voice betraying exhaustion. She nodded to her man, and he opened his sack, dumping things onto the floor. The heads of several animals. A boar, a wolf, and . . . a hawk? Tuon felt a chill. That hawk’s head was as large as a person’s. Perhaps larger. But they were not . . . right. The heads were horribly deformed.

She could swear that the hawk’s head, which rolled so that she could see the face clearly, had human eyes. And . . . the other heads had . . . human features as well. Tuon suppressed a shiver. What foul omen was this?

“What is the meaning of this?” Galgan demanded.

“I presume that the Highest Daughter knows of my military venture against the Aiel,” Tylee said, still on one knee. Tylee had captured damane during that engagement, though Tuon didn’t know much more than that. General Galgan had been awaiting her return with some curiosity to receive the full story.

“In my venture,” Tylee continued, “I was joined by men of various nationalities, none of whom had sworn the oaths. I will give a full report on them when there is time.” She hesitated, then glanced at the heads. “These . . . creatures . . . attacked my company during our return ride, ten leagues from Ebou Dar. We took heavy casualties. We brought several full bodies as well as these heads. They walked on two feet, like men, but had much the appearance of animals.” She hesitated again. “I believe them to be what some on this side of the ocean speak of as Trollocs. I believe them to be coming here.”

Chaos. The Blood began to argue about the implausibility of it. General Galgan immediately ordered his officers to organize patrols and send runners to warn of a potential attack on the city. The sul’dam at the side of the room hurried forward to inspect the heads while the Deathwatch Guards quietly surrounded Tuon, to give an extra layer of defense, watching everyone—Blood, servants, and soldiers—with equal care.

Tuon felt she should be shocked. But, oddly, she wasn’t. So Matrim was not mistaken about this, she signed covertly to Selucia. And she had assumed Trollocs to be nothing more than superstition. She glanced at the heads again. Revolting.

Selucia seemed troubled. Are there other things he said that we discounted, I wonder?

Tuon hesitated. We shall have to ask him. I should very much like to have him back. She froze; she hadn’t meant to admit so much. She found her own emotions curious, however. She had felt safe with him, ridiculous though it seemed. And she wished he were with her now.

These heads were yet another proof that she knew very little of him. She reasserted control of the chattering crowd. Selucia Voiced, “You will silence yourselves.”

The room fell still, though the Blood and the sul’dam still looked very disturbed. Tylee still knelt, head bowed, the soldier who had borne the heads kneeling beside her. Yes, she would have to be thoroughly questioned.

“This news changes little,” Selucia Voiced. “We were already aware that the Last Battle approaches. We appreciate Lieutenant-General Tylee’s revelations. She is to be commended. But this only makes it more urgent that we subdue the Dragon Reborn.”

There were several nods from those in the room, including General Galgan. Beslan did not seem so quickly persuaded. He just looked troubled.

“If it pleases the Highest Daughter,” Tylee said, bowing.

“You are allowed to speak.”

“These last few weeks, I have seen many things that have given me thought,” Tylee said. “Even before my troops were attacked, I was worried. The wisdom and grace of the Highest Daughter undoubtedly let her see further than one such as I, but I believe that our conquests so far in this land have been easy compared to what might come. If I may be so bold ... I believe that the Dragon Reborn and those associated with him may make better allies than enemies.”

It was a bold statement. Tuon leaned forward, lacquered nails clicking on the armrests of her chair. Many of the low Blood would be so in awe at meeting one of the Empress’s household, much less the Highest Daughter, that they would not dare speak. Yet this woman offered suggestions? In direct opposition to Tuon’s published will?

“A difficult decision is not always a decision where both sides are equally matched, Tuon,” Selucia said suddenly. “Perhaps, in this case, a difficult decision is one that is right, but requires an implication of fault as well.”

Tuon blinked in surprise. Yes, she realized. Selucia is my Truthspeaker now. It would take time to accustom herself to the woman in that role. It had been years since Selucia had corrected or reproved her in public.

And yet, meeting with the Dragon Reborn, in person? She did need to contact him, and had planned to. But would it not be bettet to go to him in strength, his armies defeated, the White Tower torn down? She needed him brought to the Crystal Throne under very controlled circumstances, with the understanding that he was to submit to her authority.

And yet . . . with Seanchan in rebellion . . . with her position here in Altara barely stabilized . . . Well, perhaps some time to think—some time to take a few deep breaths and secure what she already had—would be worth delaying her strike on the White Tower.

“General Galgan, send raken to our forces in Almoth Plain and eastern Altara,” she said firmly. “Tell them to hold our interests, but avoid confrontation with the Dragon Reborn. And reply to his request for a meeting. The Daughter of the Nine Moons will meet with him.”

General Galgan nodded, bowing.

Order must be brought to the world. If she had to do that by lowering her eyes slightly and meeting with the Dragon Reborn, then so be it.

Oddly, she felt herself wishing—once again—that Matrim were still with her. She could have put his knowledge of this Rand al’Thor to good use in preparing for the meeting. Stay well, you curious man, she thought, glancing back at the balcony, northward. Do not dig yourself into trouble deeper than you can climb to freedom. You are Prince of the Ravens now. Remember to act appropriately.

Wherever it is you are.