The wheel of time, p.1133
The Wheel of Time, page 1133
“I want you to continue your work,” Egwene said. “You and the others were effective at capturing several Black sisters and unearthing the ferrets. This is much the same thing.” Merely far, far more dangerous.
“We’ll try, Mother,” Yukiri said. “But one sister among hundreds? One of the most crafty and evil creatures ever to have lived? I doubt she will leave many clues. Our investigations into the murders have, so far, yielded very little in the way of results.”
“Keep at it anyway,” Egwene said. “Saerin, what have you to report?”
“Tales, rumors and whispers, Mother,” Saerin said with a grimace. “You likely know the most famous stories regarding Mesaana—how she ran the schools in lands conquered by the Shadow during the War of Power. So far as I can tell, those legends are quite true. Marsim of Manetheren speaks of that in detail in her Annals of the Final Nights, and she’s often a reliable source. Alrom gathered quite a full report of living through one of those schools, and fragments of it have survived.
“Mesaana wished to be a researcher, but was rejected. The details are not clear. She also governed the Aes Sedai who went to the Shadow, leading them in battle at times, if Alrom’s report is to be believed. I’m not convinced it is; I think it likely Mesaana’s leadership was more figurative.”
Egwene nodded slowly. “But what of her personality? Who is she?”
Saerin shook her head. “The Forsaken are more monsters in the night than real ‘personalities’ to most, Mother, and much has been lost or misquoted. From what I can tell, among the Forsaken you could think of her as the realist—the one who, rather than sitting high on a throne, steps in and gets her hands dirty. Elandria Borndat’s Seeing Through the Breaking insists that, unlike Moghedien and Graendal, Mesaana was willing to take the reins directly.
“She was never known as the most skilled or powerful of the Forsaken, but she was extremely capable. Elandria explains that she did what needed to be done. When others would be scheming, she would be carefully building up defenses and training new recruits.” Saerin hesitated. “She…well, she sounds much like an Amyrlin, Mother. The Shadow’s Amyrlin.”
“Light,” Yukiri said. “Little wonder she set up here.” The Gray seemed very unsettled by that.
“The only other thing I could find of relevance, Mother,” Saerin said, “was a curious reference from the Blue scholar Lannis, who indicated that Mesaana was second only to Demandred in sheer anger.”
Egwene frowned. “I’d assume that all of the Forsaken are full of hate.”
“Not hate,” Saerin said. “Anger. Lannis thought Mesaana was angry—at herself, at the world, at the other Forsaken—because she wasn’t one of those at the forefront. That could make her very dangerous.”
Egwene nodded slowly. She’s an organizer, she thought. An administrator who hates being relegated to that position.
Was that why she’d stayed in the Tower after the Black sisters had been found? Did she desire to bring some great accomplishment to the Dark One? Verin had said that the Forsaken shared one unifying trait: their selfishness.
She tried to deliver a broken White Tower, Egwene thought. But that has failed. She was probably part of the attempt to kidnap Rand as well. Another fiasco. And the women sent to destroy the Black Tower?
Mesaana would need something grand to offset so many failures. Killing Egwene would work. That might send the White Tower back into division.
Gawyn had been mortified when she’d said she might use herself as bait. Dared she do so? She gripped the railing, standing above the Tower, above the city that depended on her, looking out on a world that needed her.
Something had to be done; Mesaana had to be drawn out. If what Saerin said was true, then the woman would be willing to fight directly—she wouldn’t hide and poke from the shadows. Egwene’s task, then, was to tempt her with an opportunity, one that didn’t seem obvious, one she couldn’t resist.
“Come,” Egwene said, walking toward the ramp back down into the Tower. “I have some preparations to make.”
Chapter 16
Shanna’har
Faile walked the camp in the waning evening light, making her way toward the quartermaster’s tent. Perrin had sent their group of scouts through the gateway to Cairhien; they’d return the next morning.
Perrin was still brooding about the Whitecloaks. Over the last several days, the two armies had exchanged several letters, Perrin trying to maneuver for a second, more formal parley while the Whitecloaks insisted on a battle. Faile had given Perrin choice words about sneaking off to meet with the Whitecloaks without her.
Perrin was stalling as he let Elyas and the Aiel scout the Whitecloaks to try to find a way to sneak their people out, but it was unlikely to be an option. He’d succeeded back in the Two Rivers, but there had been only a handful of captives then. Now there were hundreds.
Perrin was not dealing well with his guilt. Well, Faile would talk with him shortly. She continued through the camp, passing the Mayener section to her left, with banners flying high.
I will have to deal with that one soon as well, Faile thought, looking up at Berelain’s banner. The rumors about her and Perrin were problematic. She’d suspected that Berelain might try something in Faile’s absence, but taking him into her tent at night seemed particularly forward.
Faile’s next steps would have to be taken with extreme care. Her husband, his people, and his allies were all balanced precariously. Faile found herself wishing she could ask her mother for advice.
That shocked her, and she hesitated, stopping on the worn pathway of trampled yellow grass and mud. Light, Faile thought. Look what has happened to me.
Two years ago, Faile—then called Zarine—had run from her home in Saldaea to become a Hunter for the Horn. She’d rebelled against her duties as the eldest, and the training her mother had insisted she undergo.
She hadn’t run because she’d hated the work; indeed, she’d proven adept at everything required of her. So why had she gone? In part for adventure. But in part—she admitted to herself only now—because of all the assumptions. In Saldaea, you always did what was expected of you. Nobody wondered if you would do your duty, particularly if you were a relative of the Queen herself.
And so…she’d left. Not because she’d hated what she would become, but because she had hated the fact that it had seemed so inevitable. Now here she was, using all of the things her mother had insisted she learn.
It was nearly enough to make Faile laugh. She could tell a host of things about the camp from a mere glance. They’d need to find some good leather for the cobblers soon. Water wasn’t a problem, as it had been raining light sprinkles often over the last few days, but dry wood for campfires was an issue. One group of refugees—a collection of former wetlander gai’shain who watched Perrin’s Aiel with outright hostility—would need attention. As she walked, she watched to make certain the camp had proper sanitation, and that the soldiers were caring for themselves. Some men would show utmost concern for their horses, then forget to eat anything proper—or at least healthy. Not to mention their habit of spending half the night gossiping by the campfires.
She shook her head and continued walking, entering the supply ring, where food wagons had been unloaded for the horde of cooks and serving maids. The supply ring was almost a village itself, with hundreds of people quickly wearing pathways in the muddy grass. She passed a group of dirty-faced youths digging pits in the ground, then a patch of women chattering and humming as they peeled potatoes, children gathering the rinds and throwing them into the pits. There weren’t many of those children, but Perrin’s force had gathered a number of families from around the countryside who—starving—had begged to join.
Serving men ran baskets of peeled potatoes to cooking pots, which were slowly being filled with water by young women making trips to the stream. Journeyman cooks prepared coals for roasting and older cooks were mixing spices into sauces that could be poured over other foods, which was really the only way to give flavor to such mass quantities.
Elderly women—the few in the camp—shuffled past with bent backs and light wicker baskets bearing herbs clutched on thin arms, their shawls rippling as they chatted with crackling voices. Soldiers hurried in and out, carrying game. Boys between childhood and manhood gathered sticks for tinder; she passed a small gaggle of these who had grown distracted capturing spiders.
It was a tempest of confusion and order coexisting, like two sides of a coin. Strange how well Faile fit in here. Looking back at herself only a few years before, she was amazed to realize that she saw a spoiled, self-centered child. Leaving the Borderlands to become a Hunter for the Horn? She’d abandoned duties, home and family. What had she been thinking?
She passed some women milling grain, then walked around a fresh batch of wild scallions lying on a blanket beside them, waiting to be made into soup. She was glad she’d left and met Perrin, but that didn’t excuse her actions. With a grimace, she remembered forcing Perrin to travel the Ways in the darkness, alone. She didn’t even recall what he’d done to set her off, though she’d never admit that to him.
Her mother had once called her spoiled, and she’d been right. Her mother had also insisted that Faile learn to run the estates, and all the while Faile had dreamed of marrying a Hunter for the Horn and spending her life far away from armies and the boring duties of lords.
Light bless you, Mother, Faile thought. What would she, or Perrin, have done without that training? Without her mother’s teachings, Faile would have been useless. Administration of the entire camp would have rested on Aravine’s shoulders. Capable though the woman was as Perrin’s camp steward, she couldn’t have managed this all on her own. Nor should she have been expected to.
Faile reached the quartermaster’s station, a small pavilion at the very heart of the cooking pits. The breeze brought an amalgamation of scents: fat seared by flames, potatoes boiling, peppered sauces spiced with garlic, the wet, sticky scent of potato peelings being carried to the small herd of hogs they’d managed to bring out of Malden.
The quartermaster, Bavin Rockshaw, was a pale-faced Cairhienin with blond speckled through his graying brown hair, like the fur on a mixed-breed dog. He was spindly through the arms, legs and chest, yet had an almost perfectly round paunch. He had apparently worked at quartermastering as far back as the Aiel War, and was an expert—a master as practiced in overseeing supply operations as a master carpenter was at woodworking.
That, of course, meant that he was an expert at taking bribes. When he saw Faile, he smiled and bowed stiffly enough to be formal, but without ornamentation. “I’m a simple soldier, doing his duty,” that bow said.
“Lady Faile!” he exclaimed, waving over some of his serving men. “Here to inspect the ledgers, I assume?”
“Yes, Bavin,” she said, though she knew there would be nothing suspicious in them. He was far too careful.
Still, she made a cursory motion of going through the records. One of the men brought her a stool, another a table upon which to place the ledgers, and yet another a cup of tea. She was impressed at how neatly the columns added up. Her mother had explained that often, a quartermaster would make many messy notations, referencing other pages or other ledgers, separating different types of supplies into different books, all to make it more difficult to track what was going on. A leader who was befuddled by the notations would assume that the quartermaster must be doing his job.
There was none of that here. Whatever tricks of numbering Bavin was using to obscure his thievery, they were nothing short of magical. And he was stealing, or at least being creative in how he doled out his foodstuffs. That was inevitable. Most quartermasters didn’t really consider it thievery; he was in charge of his supplies, and that was that.
“How odd it is,” Faile said as she leafed through the ledger. “The strange twists of fate.”
“My Lady?” Bavin asked.
“Hmm? Oh, it is nothing. Only that Torven Rikshan’s camp has received their meals each evening a good hour ahead of the other camps. I’m certain that’s just by chance.”
Bavin hesitated. “Undoubtedly, my Lady.”
She continued to leaf through the ledgers. Torven Rikshan was a Cairhienin lord, and had been placed in charge of one of the twenty camps within the larger mass of refugees. He had an usually large number of nobles in his particular camp. Aravine had brought this to Faile’s attention; she wasn’t certain what Torven had given to receive supplies for meals more quickly, but it wouldn’t do. The other camps might feel that Perrin was favoring one over another.
“Yes,” Faile said, laughing lightly. “Merely coincidence. These things happen in a camp so large. Why, just the other day Varkel Tius was complaining to me that he had put in a requisition for canvas to repair torn tents, but hasn’t had his canvas for nearly a week now. Yet I know for a fact that Soffi Moraton ripped her tent during the stream crossing but had it repaired by that evening.”
Bavin was silent.
Faile made no accusations. Her mother had cautioned that a good quartermaster was too valuable to toss into prison, particularly when the next man was likely to be half as capable and equally corrupt. Faile’s duty was not to expose or embarrass Bavin. It was to make him worried enough that he kept himself in check.
“Perhaps you can do something about these irregularities, Bavin,” she said, closing the ledger. “I loathe to burden you with silly matters, but the problems must not reach my husband’s ears. You know how he is when enraged.”
Actually, Perrin was about as likely to hurt a man like Bavin as Faile was to flap her arms and fly away. But the camp didn’t see it that way. They heard reports of Perrin’s fury in battle, along with her occasional arguments with him—provoked by Faile so that they could have a proper discussion—and assumed he had a terrible temper. That was good, so long as they also thought of him as honorable and kind. Protective of his people, yet filled with rage at those who crossed him.
She rose from the stool, handing the ledgers to one of the men, curly-haired and with ink stains on his fingers and jerkin. She smiled at Bavin, then made her way out of the supply ring. She noted with displeasure that the bunch of wild scallions beside the pathway had spoiled in the moments since she’d seen them last, their stalks melted and runny, as if they’d been rotting in the sun for weeks. These spoilings had begun only recently inside of camp, but by reports, it happened far more frequently out in the countryside.
It was hard to tell the hour with the sky so full of clouds, but it seemed from the darkening horizon that her time to meet with Perrin had come. Faile smiled. Her mother had warned her what would happen to her, had told her what was expected of her, and Faile had worried that she would feel trapped by life.
But what Deira hadn’t mentioned was how fulfilling it would be. Perrin made the difference. It was no trap at all to be caught with him.
Perrin stood with one foot up on the stump of a felled tree, facing north. The hilltop let him look out over the plains toward the cliffs of Garen’s Wall rising like the knuckles of a slumbering giant.
He opened his mind, questing out for wolves. There were some in the distance, almost too faint to feel. Wolves stayed away from large gatherings of men.
The camp spread out behind him, watchfires fluttering at its boundaries. This hillside was far enough away to be secluded, but not so distant as to be solitary. He wasn’t certain why Faile had asked him to meet her here at dusk, but she’d smelled excited, so he hadn’t pried. Women liked their secrets.
He heard Faile coming up the side of the hill, stepping softly on the wet grass. She was good at being quiet—not nearly as good as Elyas or one of the Aiel, but better than one might think of her. But he could smell her scent, soap with lavender. She used that particular soap only on days she deemed special.
She stepped atop the hillside, beautiful, impressive. She wore a violet vest over a long silk blouse of a lighter shade. Where had she gotten the clothing? He hadn’t seen her in this fine outfit before.
“My husband,” she said, stepping up to him. He could faintly hear others near the foot of the hill—probably Cha Faile. She’d left them behind. “You look concerned.”
“It’s my fault that Gill and the others were captured, Faile,” he said. “My failures continue to mount. It’s a wonder anyone follows me.”
“Perrin,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “We’ve spoken of this. You mustn’t say such things.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve never known you to be a liar,” she said with a softly chiding tone.
He looked at her. It was growing dark, though he could still make out details. She’d have a harder time seeing them.
“Why do you continue to fight this?” she asked. “You are a good leader, Perrin.”
“I wouldn’t have given myself up for them,” he said.
She frowned. “What does that have to—”
“Back in the Two Rivers,” Perrin said, turning away from her, looking north again, “I was ready to do it. When the Whitecloaks had Mat’s family and the Luhhans, I’d have given myself up. This time, I wouldn’t have. Even when I spoke to their leader, asking his price, I knew I wouldn’t give myself up.”
“You’re becoming a better leader.”
“How can you say that? I’m growing callous, Faile. If you knew the things I did to get you back, the things I would have done…” He fingered the hammer at his side. The tooth or the claw, Young Bull, it matters not. He’d thrown away the axe, but could he blame it for his brutality? It was only a tool. He could use the hammer to do the same terrible things.
“It’s not callous,” Faile said, “or selfish. You’re a lord now, and you can’t let it be known that capturing your subjects will undermine your rule. Do you think Queen Morgase would abdicate to tyrants who kidnapped her subjects? No leader could rule that way. Your inability to stop evil men does not make you evil yourself.”
