Melitene, Fortuona’s der’sul’dam, stepped forward and bowed again. The stout, graying woman led a damane with dark brown hair and bloodshot eyes. Apparently this one wept often.
Melitene had the presence to look embarrassed at the weeping, and bowed extra low. Fortuona chose not to notice that the damane was acting so displeasingly. This one was a fine catch, despite her petulance.
Fortuona made a series of gestures to Selucia, instructing her in what to say. The woman watched with keen eyes, half of her head covered in cloth while she waited for the hair to grow there, the other half shaved. Fortuona would eventually have to choose another Voice, as Selucia was now her Truthspeaker.
“Show us what this woman can do,” Selucia said, Voicing the words Fortuona had signed to her.
Melitene patted the damane on the head. “Suffa will show the Empress—may she live forever—the Power of slicing the air.”
“Please,” Suffa said, looking pleadingly toward Fortuona. “Please, listen to me. I am the Amyrlin Seat.”
Melitene hissed, and Suffa’s eyes opened wide, obviously feeling a blast of pain through the a’dam. The damane continued anyway. “I can offer great bounty, powerful Empress! If I am returned, I will give you ten women to take my place. Twenty! The most powerful the White Tower has. I—” She broke off, moaning, and collapsed to the ground.
Melitene was sweating. She looked to Selucia, speaking quickly, nervously. “Please explain to the Empress of us all—may she live forever—that my eyes are lowered for not having trained this one properly. Suffa is amazingly stubborn, despite how quick she is to weep and offer others in her place.”
Fortuona sat for a moment, letting Melitene sweat. Eventually, she signed for Selucia to speak.
“The Empress is not displeased with you,” Selucia Voiced. “These marath’damane who call themselves Aes Sedai have all proven stubborn.”
“Please express my gratitude to the Greatest One,” Melitene said, relaxing. “If it pleases She Whose Eyes Look Upward, I can make Suffa perform. But there may be further outbursts.”
“You may continue,” Selucia Voiced.
Melitene knelt beside Suffa, speaking sharply at first, then consolingly. She was very skilled at working with former marath’damane. Of course, Fortuona considered herself good with damane as well. She enjoyed breaking marath’damane as much as her brother Halvate had enjoyed training wild grolm. She’d always found it a pity that he had been assassinated. He was the only one of her brothers who she’d ever been fond of.
Suffa finally got back onto her knees. Fortuona leaned forward, curious. Suffa bowed her head, and a line of light—brilliant and pure—cut the air in front of her. That line turned sideways along a central axis, opening a hole directly in front of Fortuona’s throne. Trees rustled beyond, and Fortuona’s breath caught as she saw a hawk with a white head streak away from the portal. An omen of great power. The normally unflappable Selucia gasped, though whether it was at the portal or the omen, Fortuona did not know.
Fortuona covered her own surprise. So it was true. Traveling wasn’t a myth or a rumor. It was real. This changed everything about the war.
Beslan walked forward, bowing to her, looking hesitant. She waved for him and Galgan to come to where they could see the forest glade through the opening. Beslan stared, mouth hanging open.
Galgan clasped his hands behind his back. He was a curious one. He’d met with assassins in the city, and had inquired about the cost for having Fortuona killed. Then, he’d had each of the men who quoted him a price executed. A very subtle maneuver—it was meant to show that she should consider him a threat, as he was not afraid of meeting with assassins. However, it was also a visible sign of loyalty. I follow you for now, the move said, but I am watching, and I am ambitious.
In many ways, his careful maneuvering was more comforting to her than Beslan’s apparently unwavering loyalty. The first, she could anticipate. The second…well, she wasn’t certain what to make of it yet. Would Matrim be equally loyal? What would it be like, to have a Prince of the Ravens whom she did not have to plot against? It seemed almost a fantasy, the type of tale told to common children to make them dream of an impossible marriage.
“This is incredible!” Beslan said. “Greatest One, with this ability…” His station made him one of the only people able to speak directly to her.
“The Empress wishes to know,” Selucia Voiced, reading Fortuona’s fingers, “if any of the captured marath’damane spoke of the weapon.”
“Tell the highest Empress—may she live forever—that they did not,” Melitene said, sounding worried. “And, if I may be so bold, I believe that they are not lying. It seems that the explosion outside the city was an isolated accident—the result of some unknown ter’angreal, used imprudently. Perhaps there is no weapon.”
It was possible. Fortuona had already begun to doubt the validity of those rumors. The explosion had happened before Fortuona had arrived in Ebou Dar, and the details were confusing. Perhaps this had all been a ploy by Suroth or her enemies.
“Captain-General,” Selucia Voiced. “The Greatest One wishes to know what you would do with a Power such as this Traveling ability.”
“That depends,” Galgan said, rubbing his chin. “What is its range? How large can she make it? Can all damane do this? Are there limitations on where a hole can be opened? If it pleases the Greatest One, I will speak with the damane and get these answers.”
“It does please the Empress,” Selucia Voiced.
“This is troubling,” Beslan said. “They could attack behind our battle lines. They could open a portal like this into the Empress’s own chambers, may she live forever. With this…everything we know about war will change.”
The members of the Deathwatch Guard shuffled—a sign of great discomfort. Only Furyk Karede did not move. If anything, his expression grew harder. Fortuona knew that he would soon be suggesting a new, rotating location of her sleeping quarters.
Fortuona thought for a moment, staring at that rent in the air. That rent in reality itself. Then, contrary to tradition, she stood up on her dais. Fortunately, Beslan was there, one she could address directly—and let the others hear her commands.
“Reports say,” Fortuona announced, “that there are still hundreds of marath’damane in the place called the White Tower. They are the key to recapturing Seanchan, the key to holding this land, and the key to preparing for the Last Battle. The Dragon Reborn will serve the Crystal Throne.
“We have been provided with a way to strike. Let it be said to the Captain-General that he should gather his finest soldiers. I want each and every damane we control to be brought back to the city. We will train them in this method of Traveling. And then we will go, in force, to the White Tower. Before, we struck them with a pinprick. Now, we will let them know the full weight of our sword. All of the marath’damane must be leashed.”
She sat back down, letting the room fall still. It was rare that the Empress made such announcements personally. But this was a time for boldness.
“You should not allow word of this to spread,” Selucia said to her, voice firm. She was now speaking in her role as Truthspeaker. Yes, another would have to be chosen to be Fortuona’s Voice. “You would be a fool to let the enemy know for certain we have this Traveling.”
Fortuona took a deep breath. Yes, that was true. She would make certain each in this room was held to secrecy. But once the White Tower was captured, they would talk of her proclamation, and would read the omens of her victory upon the skies and world around them.
We will need to strike soon, Selucia signed.
Yes, Fortuona signed back. Our previous attack will have them gathering arms.
Our next move will have to be decisive, then, Selucia signed. But think. Delivering thousands of soldiers into the White Tower through a hidden basement room. Striking with the force of a thousand hammers against a thousand anvils!
Fortuona nodded.
The White Tower was doomed.
“Don’t know that there’s much more to say, Perrin,” Thom said, leaning back in his chair, tabac smoke curling out of his long-stemmed pipe. It was a warm night, and they didn’t have a fire in the hearth. Just a few candles on the table, with some bread, cheeses and a pitcher of ale.
Perrin puffed on his own pipe. Only he, Thom and Mat were in the room. Gaul and Grady waited out in the common room. Mat had cursed Perrin for bringing those two—an Aiel and an Asha’man were rather conspicuous. But Perrin felt safer with those two than with an entire company of soldiers.
He’d shared his story with Mat and Thom first, speaking of Malden, the Prophet, Alliandre, and Galad. Then they had filled him in on their experiences. It stunned Perrin, how much had happened to the three of them since their parting.
“Empress of the Seanchan, eh?” Perrin said, watching the smoke twist above him in the dim room.
“Daughter of the Nine Moons,” Mat said. “It’s different.”
“And you’re married.” Perrin grinned. “Matrim Cauthon. Married.”
“You didn’t have to share that part, you know,” Mat said to Thom.
“Oh, I assure you, I did indeed.”
“For a gleeman, you seem to leave out most of the heroic parts of the things I do,” Mat said. “At least you mentioned the hat.”
Perrin smiled, contented. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed sitting with friends to spend the evening chatting. A carved wooden sign hung outside the window, dripping with rainwater. It depicted faces wearing strange hats and exaggerated smiles. The Happy Throng. There was probably a story behind the name.
The three of them were in a private dining chamber, paid for by Mat. They’d brought in three of the inn’s large hearth chairs. They didn’t fit the table, but they were comfortable. Mat leaned back, putting his feet up on the table. He took up a hunk of ewe’s milk cheese and bit off a piece, then balanced the rest on his chair arm.
“You know, Mat,” Perrin said, “your wife is probably going to expect you to be taught table manners.”
“Oh, I’ve been taught,” Mat said. “I just never learned.”
“I’d like to meet her,” Perrin said.
“She’s something interesting,” Thom replied.
“Interesting,” Mat said. “Yeah.” He looked wistful. “Anyway, you’ve heard the lot of it now, Perrin. That bloody Brown brought us here. Haven’t seen her in over two weeks, now.”
“Can I see the note?” Perrin asked.
Mat patted a few pockets, then fished out a small white piece of paper, folded closed and sealed with red wax. He tossed it onto the table. The corners were bent, the paper smudged, but it hadn’t been opened. Matrim Cauthon was a man of his word, at least when you could pry an oath out of him.
Perrin lifted the note. It smelled faintly of perfume. He turned it over, then held it up to a candle.
“Doesn’t work,” Mat said.