Robert Jordan - A Crown of Swords

"Eben and I began destroying the first palisades soon as we arrived," Adley went on. "Weiramon didn't much like that; I think he would have stopped us, but he was afraid to. Anyway, we began setting fire to the logs and blowing holes in the walls, but before we more than started, Sammael came. A man channeling saidin , at least, and a lot stronger than Eben or me. As strong as you, my Lord Dragon, I'd say."

"He was there right away?" Rand said incredulously, but then he understood. He had been sure Sammael would stay safe in Illian behind defenses woven of the Power if he thought he had to face Rand; too many of the Forsaken had tried, and most were dead now. In spite of himself, Rand laughed — and had to hug his side; laughing hurt. All that elaborate deception to convince Sammael he would be anywhere but with the invading army, to bring the man out of Illian, and all made unnecessary by a knife in Padan Fain's hand. Two days. By this time, everybody who had eyes-and-ears in Cairhien — which certainly included the Forsaken — knew that the Dragon Reborn lay on the edge of death. As well toss wet wood on the fire as think otherwise. "Men scheme and women plot, but the Wheel weaves as it will"; that was how they said it in Tear. "Go on," he said. "Morr was with you last night?"

"Yes, my Lord Dragon; Fedwin comes every night, just like he's supposed to. Last night, it was plain as Eben's nose we'd reach the forts today."

"I don't understand any of this." Dashiva sounded upset; a muscle in his cheek was twitching. "You've lured him out, but to what purpose? As soon as he feels a man channel with anything near your strength, he'll flee back to Illian and whatever traps and alarms he has woven. You won't get at him there; he will know as soon as a gateway opens within a mile of the city."

"We can save the army," Adley burst out, "that's what we can do. Weiramon was still sending charges against that fort when I left, and Sammael cuts every one to rags despite anything Eben or I can do." He shifted the arm with the singed sleeve. "We have to strike back and run immediately, and even so, he nearly burned us where we stood, more than once. The Aiel are taking casualties too. They're only fighting the Illianers who come out — the other hillforts must be emptying, so many were coming when I left — but any time Sammael sees fifty of us together, Aiel or anybody, he rips them apart. If there were three of him, or even two, I'm not sure I'd find anybody alive when I go back." Dashiva stared at him as if at a madman, and Adley shrugged suddenly, as though feeling the lightness of his bare black collar compared with the sword and Dragon on the older man's. "Forgive me, Asha'man," he muttered, abashed, then added in a still lower voice, "But we can at least save them."

"We will," Rand assured him. Just not the way Adley expected. "You're all going to help me kill Sammael today." Only Dashiva looked startled; the other men just nodded. Not even the Forsaken frightened them anymore.

Rand expected argument out of Min, maybe a demand to come along, but she surprised him. "I expect you would as soon no one found out you're gone before they have to, sheepherder." He nodded and she sighed. Perhaps the Forsaken had to depend on pigeons and eyes-and-ears just like anyone else, but being too sure could be fatal.

"The Maidens will want to come if they know, Min." They would want to, and he would be hard-pressed to refuse. If he could refuse. Yet the disappearance even of Nandera and whoever she had on guard might be too much.

Min sighed again. "I suppose I could go talk to Nandera. I might be able to keep them out in the hallway for an hour, but they won't be pleased with me when they find out." He almost laughed again before he remembered his side; they definitely would not be pleased with her, or with him. "More to the point, farmboy, Amys won't be pleased. Or Sorilea. The things I let you get me into."

He opened his mouth to tell her he had not asked her to do anything, yet before he could utter a word, she moved very close. Looking up at him through long lashes, she put a hand on his chest, tapping her fingers. She smiled warmly and kept her voice soft, but the fingers were a giveaway. "If you let anything happen to you, Rand al'Thor, I'll give Cadsuane a hand whether she needs one or not." Her smile brightened for a moment, almost cheerily, before she turned for the doors. He watched her go; she might make his head spin sometimes — nearly every woman he had ever met had done that at least a time or two — but she did have a way of walking that made him want to watch.

Abruptly he realized Dashiva was watching as well. And licking his lips. Rand cleared his throat loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the door closing behind her. For some reason, the plain-faced man raised his hands defensively. It was not as though Rand glared at him; he could not go around glaring at men just because Min wore tight breeches. Surrounding himself with the emptiness of the Void, he seized saidin and forced frozen fire and molten filth into the weaves for a gateway. Dashiva leaped back as it opened. Maybe having a hand sliced off would teach the man not to lick his lips like a goat. Something crooked and red spiderwebbed across the outside of the Void.

He stepped through onto bare dirt, with Dashiva and the others right behind, releasing the Source as soon as the last stepped clear. A sense of loss rushed in as saidin left, as awareness of Alanna dwindled. The loss had not seemed so great while Lews Therin was there; not so huge.

Overhead, the golden sun was more than halfway down to the horizon. A gust of wind swept dust from under his boots without leaving any coolness behind. The gateway had opened in a cleared area, marked off by a rope strung between four wooden posts. At each corner stood a pair of guards in short coats and baggy trousers stuffed into their boots, swords that appeared slightly serpentine hanging at their sides. Some had heavy mustaches that hung to their chins or thick beards, and all had bold noses and dark eyes that seemed tilted. As soon as Rand appeared, one of them went running.

"What are we doing here?" Dashiva said, looking about incredulously.

Around them stretched hundreds of sharp-peaked tents, gray and dusty white, tents and picket lines of already saddled horses. Caemlyn lay not many miles away, hidden behind the trees, and the Black Tower not much farther, but Taim would not know of this unless he had a spy watching. One of Fedwin Morr's tasks had been to listen — to feel — for anyone trying to spy. In a ripple of murmurs spreading outward from the ropes, men with bold noses and serpentine swords rose from their heels and turned to stare expectantly toward Rand. Here and there women stood as well; Saldaean women often rode to the wars with their husbands, at least among the nobles and officers. There would be none of that today, though.

Ducking under the rope, Rand strode directly to a tent no different from any other except for the banner on the staff in front, three simple red blossoms on a field of blue. The kingspenny did not die back even in Saldaean winters, and when fires blackened the forests, those red flowers were always the first to reappear. A blossom nothing could kill: the sign of House Bashere.

Inside the tent, Bashere himself was already booted and spurred, and his sword on his hip. Ominously, Deira was with him, in a riding dress the same shade as her husband's gray coat, and if she wore no sword, the long dagger at her belt of heavy silver roundels would do to go on with. The leather gauntlets tucked behind that belt spoke of someone meaning to ride hard.

"I hadn't expected this for days yet," Bashere said, rising from a folding camp chair. "Weeks, I hoped, in truth. I had hoped to have most of Taim's leavings armed the way young Mat and I planned — I've gathered every maker of crossbows I could find into a manufactory, and they're starting to produce them like a sow dropping piglets — but as it is, no more than fifteen thousand have crossbows and know what to do with them." With a questioning look, he lifted a silver pitcher from atop the maps spread out on his folding table. "Do we have time for punch?"