Robert Jordan: The Gathering Storm

The hard-eyed young man turned back to her. “Repeat your instructions.”

“I am to return to Ebou Dar with a message for our leaders there.”

“The Daughter of the Nine Moons,” the Dragon Reborn said sternly. “You will deliver my message to her.”

Falendre stumbled. She was not in any way worthy to speak to one of the Blood, let alone the High Lady, daughter of the Empress, might she live forever! But this man’s expression allowed no argument. Falendre would find a way. “I will deliver your message to her,” Falendre continued. “I will tell her that . . . that you bear her no malice for this attack, and that you desire a meeting.”

“I still desire one,” the Dragon Reborn said.

As far as Falendre knew, the Daughter of the Nine Moons had never known about the original meeting. It had been arranged in secret by Anath. And that was why Falendre knew for certain that this man must be the Dragon Reborn. For only the Dragon Reborn himself could face one of the Forsaken and not only survive, but come out the victor.

Was that really what she had been? One of the Forsaken? Falendre’s mind reeled at the concept. Impossible. And yet, here was the Dragon Reborn. If he lived, if he walked the land, then the Forsaken would, too. She was muddled, her thoughts going in circles, she knew. She bottled up her terror—she would deal with that later. She needed to be in control.

She forced herself to meet those frozen gemstones this man had for eyes. She had to preserve some dignity if only to reassure the four other surviving sul’dam. And the damane, of course. If the sul’dam lost composure again, there would be no hope for the damam.

“I will tell her,” Falendre said, managing to keep her voice even, “that you still desire a meeting with her. That you believe there must be peace between our peoples. And I am to tell her that Lady Anath was . . . was one of the Forsaken.”

To the side, she saw some of the marath’damane push Anath through the hole in the air, maintaining a stately bearing despite her captivity. She always had tried to dominate above her station. Could she really be what this man said she was?

How was Falendre to face the der’sul’dam and explain this tragedy, this terrible mess? She itched to be away from it, to find someplace to hide.

“We must have peace,” the Dragon Reborn said. “I will see it happen. Tell your mistress that she can find me in Arad Doman; I will quell the battle against your forces there. Let her know that I give this as a sign of good faith, just as I release you out of good faith. It is no shame to be manipulated by one of the Forsaken, particularly not . . . that creature. In a way, I rest more easily, now. I worried that one of them would have infiltrated the Seanchan nobility. I should have guessed that it would be Semirhage. She always preferred a challenge.”

He spoke of the Forsaken with an incredible sense of familiarity, and it gave Falendre chills.

He glanced at her. “You may go,” he said, then walked over and passed through the rip in the air. What she would give to have that traveling trick for Nenci. The last of the marath’damane passed through the hole, and it closed, leaving Falendre and the others alone. They were a sorry group. Talha was still crying, and Malian looked ready to sick up. Several of the others had had bloodied faces before they washed, and faint red smears and flakes of crusted blood still marred their skin. Falendre was glad she had been able to avoid accepting Healing for them. She had seen one of those men Healing members of the Dragon’s party. Who knew what taint it would leave on a person to be beneath those corrupt hands?

“Be strong,” she commanded the others, feeling far more uncertain than she sounded. He had actually let her free! She’d barely dared hope for that. Best to be away soon. Very soon. She chivvied the others onto the horses he had given, and within minutes they were riding south, toward Ebou Dar, each sul’dam riding with her companion damane at her side.

The events of this day could mean having her damane stripped from her, being forbidden to hold the a’dam ever again. With Anath gone, punishment would be demanded of someone. What would High Lady Suroth say? Damane dead, the Dragon Reborn insulted.

Surely losing access to the a’dam was the worst that could happen to her. They wouldn’t make one such as Falendre da’covale, would they? The thought made the bile twist inside of her again.

She would have to explain the events of this day very carefully. There had to be a way she could present these matters in a way that would save her life.

She had given her word to the Dragon to speak directly to the Daughter of the Nine Moons. And she would. But she might not do so immediately. Careful consideration would have to be given. Very careful consideration.

She leaned in close to her horse’s neck, nudging her mount forward, ahead of the others. That way, they wouldn’t see the tears of frustration, pain and terror in her eyes.

Tylee Khirgan, Lieutenant-General of the Ever Victorious Army, sat her horse atop a forested hilltop, looking northward. Such a different place this land was. Her homeland, Maram Kashor, was a dry island on the very southeastern tip of Seanchan. The lumma trees there were straight, towering monsters, with fronds sprouting from the top like the hair crest of a member of the High Blood.

The things that passed for trees in this land were gnarled, twisting, branching shrubs by comparison. Their limbs were like the fingers of old soldiers, gone arthritic from years holding the sword. What had the locals called these plants? Brushwood trees? So odd. To think that some of her ancestors might have come from this place, traveling with Luthair Paendrag to Seanchan.

Her army marched down the road below, throwing dust into the air. Thousands upon thousands of men. Fewer than she’d had before, but not by many. It had been two weeks since her fight with the Aiel, where Perrin Aybara’s plan had worked impressively. Fighting alongside a man like him was always a bittersweet experience. Sweet for the sheer genius of it. Bitter for the worry that one day, they would face each other on the battlefield. Tylee was not one who enjoyed a challenge in a fight. She’d always preferred to win straight out.

Some generals said that never struggling meant never being forced to improve. Tylee figured that she and her men would do their improving on the practice field, and leave the struggling to her enemies.

She would not like to face Perrin. No, she would not. And not just because she was fond of him.

Slow hoofbeats sounded on the earth. She glanced to the side as Mishima rode his horse, a pale gelding, up next to hers. He had his helm tied to his saddle, and his scarred face was thoughtful. They were a pair, the two of them. Tylee’s own face bore its share of old scars.

Mishima saluted her, more respectful now that Tylee had been raised to the Blood. That particular message, delivered by raken, had been an unexpected one. It was an honor, and one she still wasn’t accustomed to.

“Still mulling over the battle?” Mishima asked.

“I am,” Tylee said. Two weeks, and still it dominated her mind. “What do you think?”

“Of Aybara, you mean?” Mishima asked. He still spoke to her like a friend, even if he kept himself from meeting her eyes. “He is a good soldier. Perhaps too focused, too driven. But solid.”

“Yes,” Tylee said, then shook her head. “The world is changing, Mishima. In ways we cannot anticipate. First Aybara, and then the oddities.”