Robert Jordan - The Gathering Storm

He closed and latched his saddlebags. That would have to do. He pushed his way out of the tent, slinging the bags over his shoulder, then made his way toward the horse lines. As he walked, he flagged down Ra-jar, who was showing a squad of soldiers some advanced swordplay techniques. Rajar set another man in charge, then hurried over to Gawyn, frowning at the saddlebags.

"I'm going to inspect the fourth outpost," Gawyn said.

Rajar glanced at the sky; it was already dimming. "So late?"

"Last time I inspected in the morning," Gawyn said. Odd, how his heart wasn't racing. Calm and even. "Time before that, it was the afternoon. But the most dangerous time to be surprised is evening, when it's still light enough for an attack but late enough that men are tired and full of supper."

Rajar nodded, joining Gawyn as he walked. "Light knows we need them for watchful scouts now," he agreed. Bryne's own scouts had been investigating villages not half a day's ride from Dorian. "I'll get you an escort."

"Not needed," Gawyn said. "Last time, Outpost Four saw me coming from a good half a mile. A squad raises too much dust. I want to see how keen their eyes are when it's just one rider."

Rajar frowned again.

"I'll be safe," Gawyn said, forcing out a wry smile. "Rajar, you know I will be. What? Are you afraid I'll be taken by bandits?"

Rajar relaxed, chuckling. "You? They'd sooner catch Sleete. All right, then. But make certain to send a messenger for me when you get back into camp. I'll stay up half the night worrying if you don't return."

Sorry to cost you the sleep then, my friend, Gawyn thought, nodding. Rajar ran back to supervise the sparring, and Gawyn soon found himself just outside the camp, undoing Challenge's hobble as a village boy— doubling as a stablehand—fetched his saddle.

"You have the look of a man who has made up his mind," a quiet voice said suddenly.

Gawyn spun, hand falling to his sword. One of the shadows nearby was moving. Looking closely, he was able to make out the form of a shadowed man with a crooked nose. Curse those Warder cloaks!

Gawyn tried to feign casualness as he had with Rajar. "Happy to have something to do, I suppose," he said, turning from Sleete as the stableboy approached. Gawyn tossed him a copper and took the saddle himself, dismissing the boy.

Sleete continued to watch from the shadow of a massive pine as Gawyn put the saddle on Challenge's back. The Warder knew. Gawyn's act had fooled everyone else, but he could sense that it wouldn't work on this man. Light! Was he going to have to kill another man he respected? Burn you, Elaida! Burn you, Siuan Sanche, and your entire Tower. Stop using people. Stop using me!

"When shall I tell your men that you aren't returning?" Sleete asked.

Gawyn pulled the saddle straps tight and waited for his horse to exhale. He looked over Challenge, frowning. "You don't plan to stop me?"

Sleete chuckled. "I fought you thrice today and didn't win a single bout, although I had a good man to lend me aid. You have the look about you of a man who will kill if needed, and I don't thirst for death so eagerly as some might assume."

"You'd fight me," Gawyn said, finally doing up the saddle and lifting the bags into place, tying them on. Challenge snorted. The horse never did like carrying extra weight. "You'd die if you thought it was necessary. If you attacked, even if I killed you, it would raise a ruckus. I'd never be able to explain why I'd killed a Warder. You could stop me."

"True," Sleete said.

"Then why let me go?" Gawyn said, rounding the gelding and taking the reins. He met those shadowed eyes and thought he caught the faintest hint of a smile on the lips beneath them.

"Perhaps I just like to see men care," Sleete said. "Perhaps I hope you'll find a way to help end this. Perhaps I am feeling lazy and sore with a bruised spirit from so many defeats. May you find what you seek, young Trakand." And with a rustle of the cloak, Sleete withdrew, fading into the darkness of oncoming night.

Gawyn slung himself into his saddle. There was only one place he could think to go for help in rescuing Egwene.

With a kick of the heels, he left Dorian behind.

CHAPTER 14

A Box Opens

o this is one of the Shadowsouled," Sorilea said. The white-haired Wise One circled around the prisoner, looking thoughtfully at Semirhage. Of course, Cadsuane had not expected fear from one such as Sorilea. The Aiel woman was a rugged creature, like a statue that had weathered storm after storm, patient before the winds. Among the Aiel, this Wise One was a particular specimen of strength. She had arrived at the manor house only recently, coming with those who had brought al'Thor a report from Bandar Eban.

Cadsuane had anticipated finding many things among the Aiel who followed Rand al'Thor: fierce warriors, strange ways, honor and loyalty, inexperience with subtlety and politics. She had been right. One thing she had certainly not expected to find, however, was an equal. Certainly not in a Wise One who could barely channel. And yet, oddly, that was how she regarded the leathery-faced Aiel woman.

Not that she trusted Sorilea. The Wise One had her own goals, and they might not completely coincide with Cadsuane's. However, she did find Sorilea capable, and there were blessed few people in the world these days who deserved that word.

Semirhage flinched suddenly, and Sorilea cocked her head. The Forsaken was not floating this time; she stood upright, wearing the stiff brown dress, her short, dark hair tangled from lack of brushing. She still projected superiority and control. Just as Cadsuane herself would have in a similar situation.

"What are these weaves?" Sorilea asked, gesturing. The weaves in question were the source of Semirhage's occasional flinching.

"A personal trick of mine," Cadsuane said, undoing the weaves and remaking them to show how they were done. "They ring a sound in your subjects' ears every few minutes and flash a light in their eyes, keeping them from sleep."

"You hope to make her so fatigued that she will talk," Sorilea said, studying the Forsaken again.

Semirhage was warded to keep her from hearing them, of course. Despite two days without decent sleep, the woman wore a serene expression, eyes open but blocked by glowing lights. She had likely mastered some kind of mental trick to help her stave off exhaustion.

"I doubt it will break her," Cadsuane admitted. "Phaw! It barely even makes her flinch." She, Sorilea and Bair—an aged Wise One with no channeling ability—were the only ones in the room. The Aes Sedai maintaining Semirhage's shield sat in their places outside.

Sorilea nodded. "One of the Shadowsouled will not be manipulated so easily. Still, you are wise to try, considering your . . . limitations."

"We could speak to the Car'a'cam" Bair said. "Convince him to turn this one over to us for a time. A few days of... delicate Aiel questioning and she would speak whatever you wish."

Cadsuane smiled noncommittally. As if she would let another handle the questioning! This woman's secrets were too valuable to risk, even in the hands of allies. "Well, you are welcome to ask," she said, "but I doubt al'Thor will listen. You know how the fool boy can be when it comes to hurting women."

Bair sighed. It was odd to think of this grandmotherly lady engaging in "delicate Aiel questioning."

"Yes," She said. "You are right, I suspect. Rand al'Thor is twice as stubborn as any clan chief I've known. And twice as arrogant too. To presume that women cannot bear pain as well as men!"

Cadsuane snorted at that. "To be honest, I considered having this one strung up and whipped, al'Thor's prohibitions be blackened! But I don't think it would work. Phaw! We'll need to find something other than pain to break this one."

Sorilea was still regarding Semirhage. "I would speak with her."

Cadsuane made a motion, dismissing the weaves that kept Semirhage from hearing, seeing or speaking. The woman blinked—just once—to clear her vision, then turned to Sorilea and Bair. "Ah," she said. "Aiel. You were such good servants, once. Tell me, how strongly does it bite, knowing how you betrayed your oaths? Your ancestors would cry for punishment if they knew how many deaths lay at the hands of their descendants."

Sorilea gave no reaction. Cadsuane knew some tidbits of what al'Thor had revealed about the Aiel, things that had been said at second or third hand. Al'Thor claimed that the Aiel had once followed the Way of the Leaf, sworn not to do harm, before betraying their oaths. Cadsuane had been interested to learn of these rumors, and she was more interested to hear Semirhage corroborating them.

"She seems so much more human than I had anticipated," Sorilea said to Bair. "Her expressions, her tone, her accent, while strange, are easy to understand. I had not expected that."

Semirhage's eyes narrowed for just a moment at that comment. Odd. That was a stronger reaction than virtually any of the punishments had produced. The flashes of light and sound prompted only slight involuntary twitches. This comment of Sorilea's, however, seemed to affect Semirhage on an emotional level. Would the Wise Ones actually succeed so easily where Cadsuane had long failed?

"I think this is what we need to remember," Bair said. "A woman is just a woman, no matter how old, no matter what secrets she remembers. Flesh can be cut, blood can be spilled, bones can be broken."

"In truth, I feel almost disappointed, Cadsuane Melaidhrin," Sorilea said, shaking a white-haired head. "This monster has very small fangs."

Semirhage reacted no further. Her control was back, her face serene, her eyes imperious. "I have heard some little of you new, oathless Aiel and your interpretations of honor. I will very much enjoy investigating how much pain and suffering it will require before members of your clans will shame themselves. Tell me, how far do you think I would have to push before one of you would kill a blacksmith and dine on his flesh?"

She knew more than "some little" if she understood the near-sacred nature of blacksmiths among the Aiel. Sorilea stiffened at the comment, but let it go. She rewove the ward against listening, then paused, and placed the globes of light in front of Semirhage's eyes as well. Yes, she was weak in the Power, but she was a very quick learner.

"Is it wise to keep her like this?" Sorilea asked, her tone implying that of any other she would have made a demand. For Cadsuane, she softened her words, and it almost brought a smile to Cadsuane's lips. They were like two aged hawks, Sorilea and she, accustomed to roosting and reigning, now forced to nest in neighboring trees. Deference did not come easily to either one of them.

"If I were to choose," Sorilea continued, "I think that I would have her throat slit and her corpse laid out on the dust to dry. Keeping her alive is like keeping a snapwood blacklance as a pet."

"Phaw!" Cadsuane said, grimacing. "You're right about the danger, but killing her now would be worse. Al'Thor cannot—or will not—give me an accurate count of the number of Forsaken he has slain, but he implies that at least half of them still live. They'll be there to fight at the Last Battle, and each weave we learn from Semirhage is one fewer they can use to surprise us."