“No, I do not deny it,” Harnesh muttered.
“Then you should rejoice,” Galad said, “for the way is clear. We must fight at the Last Battle. Our leadership there may show the way of Light to many who have spurned us. But if it does not, we will fight regardless, for it is our duty. Do you deny this, Lord Captain?”
“Again, no. But the witches, my Lord Captain Commander?”
Galad shook his head. “I can think of no way around it. We need allies. Look about you, Lord Harnesh. How many Children do we have? Even with recent recruits, we are under twenty thousand. Our fortress has been taken. We are without succor or allegiance, and the great nations of the world revile us. No, don’t deny it! You know that it is true.”
Galad met the eyes of those around him, and one by one they nodded.
“The Questioners are at fault,” Harnesh muttered.
“Part of the blame is theirs,” Galad agreed. “But it is also because those who would do evil look with disgust and resentment upon those who stand for what is right.”
The others nodded.
“We must tread carefully,” Galad said. “In the past, the boldness—and perhaps overeagerness—of the Children has alienated those who should have been our allies. My mother always said that a victory of diplomacy did not come when everyone got what they wanted—that made everyone assume they’d gotten the better of her, which encouraged more extravagant demands. The trick is not to satisfy everyone, but to leave everyone feeling they reached the best possible result. They must be satisfied enough to do as you wish, yet dissatisfied enough to know that you bested them.”
“And what does this have to do with us?” Golever said from behind. “We follow no queen or king.”
“Yes,” Galad said, “and that frightens monarchs. I grew up in the court of Andor. I know how my mother regarded the Children. In every dealing with them, she either grew frustrated or decided that she had to suppress them absolutely. We cannot afford either reaction! The monarchs of these lands must respect us, not hate us.”
“Darkfriends,” Harnesh muttered.
“My mother was no Darkfriend,” Galad said quietly.
Harnesh flushed. “Excepting her, of course.”
“You speak like a Questioner,” Galad said. “Suspecting everyone who opposes us of being a Darkfriend. Many of them are influenced by the Shadow, but I doubt that it is conscious. That is where the Hand of the Light went wrong. The Questioners often could not tell the difference between a hardened Darkfriend, a person who was being influenced by Darkfriends, and a person who simply disagreed with the Children.”
“So what do we do?” Vordarian asked. “We bow to the whims of monarchs?”
“I don’t yet know what to do,” Galad confessed. “I will think on it. The right course will come to me. We cannot become lapdogs to kings and queens. And yet, think of what we could achieve inside of a nation’s boundaries if we could act without needing an entire legion to intimidate that nation’s ruler.”
The others nodded at this, thoughtful.
“My Lord Captain Commander!” a voice called.
Galad turned to see Byar on his white stallion cantering toward them. The horse had belonged to Asunawa; Galad had refused it, preferring his own bay. Galad pulled his group to a halt as the gaunt-faced Byar neared, his white tabard pristine. Byar wasn’t the most likable of men in the camp, but he had proven to be loyal.
Byar was not, however, supposed to be in the camp.
“I set you watching Jehannah Road, Child Byar,” Galad said firmly. “That duty was not to end for a good four hours yet.”
Byar saluted as he pulled up. “My Lord Captain Commander. We captured a suspicious group of travelers on the road. What would you have us do with them?”
“You captured them?” Galad asked. “I sent you to watch the road, not take prisoners.”
“My Lord Captain Commander,” Byar said. “How are we to know the character of those passing unless we speak with them? You wanted us to watch for Darkfriends.”
Galad sighed. “I wanted you to watch for troop movements or merchants we could approach, Child Byar.”
“These Darkfriends have supplies,” Byar said. “I think they might be merchants.”
Galad sighed. Nobody could deny Byar’s dedication—he’d ridden with Galad to face Valda when it could have meant the end of his career. And yet there was such a thing as being too zealous.
The thin officer looked troubled. Well, Galad’s instructions hadn’t been precise enough. He would have to remember that in the future, particularly with Byar. “Peace,” Galad said, “you did no wrong, Child Byar. How many of these prisoners are there?”
“Dozens, my Lord Captain Commander.” Byar looked relieved. “Come.”
He turned his mount to lead the way. Already, cook fires were springing up in the pits, the scent of burning tinder rising in the air. Galad caught slices of conversation as he rode past the soldiers. What would the Seanchan do with those Children who had remained behind? Was it really the Dragon Reborn who had conquered Illian and Tear, or some false Dragon? There was talk of a gigantic stone from the sky having struck the earth far to the north in Andor, destroying an entire city and leaving a crater.
The talk among the men revealed their worries. They should have understood that worry served no useful function. None could know the weaving of the Wheel.
Byar’s captives turned out to be a group of people with a surprisingly large number of heavily laden carts, perhaps a hundred or more. The people clustered together around their carts, regarding the Children with hostility. Galad frowned, doing a quick inspection.
“That’s quite a caravan,” Bornhald said softly at his side. “Merchants?”
“No,” Galad said softly. “That’s travel furniture—notice the pegs on the sides, so they can be carried in pieces. Sacks of barley for horses. Those are farrier’s tools wrapped in canvas at the back of that cart to the right. See the hammers peeking out?”
“Light!” Bornhald whispered. He saw it too. These were the camp followers of an army of substantial size. But where were the soldiers?
“Be ready to separate them,” Galad told Bornhald, dismounting. He walked up to the lead cart. The man driving it had a thick figure and a ruddy face, with hair that had been arranged in a very poor attempt at hiding his increasing baldness. He nervously worked a brown felt hat in his hands, a pair of gloves tucked into the belt of his stout jacket. Galad could see no weapons on him.
Beside the cart stood two others, much younger. One was a bulky, muscular type with the look of a fighter—but not a soldier—who could be some trouble. A pretty woman clutched his arm, biting her lower lip.
The man in the cart gave a start upon seeing Galad. Ah, Galad thought, so he knows enough to recognize Morgase’s stepson.
“So, travelers,” Galad said carefully. “My man says you told him that you are merchants?”
“Yes, good Lord,” said the driver.
“I know little of this area. Are you familiar with it?”
“Not much, sir,” the driver said, wringing that hat in his hands. “We are actually far from home ourselves. I am Basel Gill, of Caemlyn. I have come south seeking business with a merchant in Ebou Dar. But these Seanchan invaders have left me unable to do my trade.”
He seemed very nervous. At least he hadn’t lied about where he was from. “And what was this merchant’s name?” Galad asked.
“Why, Falin Deborsha, my Lord,” Gill said. “Are you familiar with Ebou Dar?”
“I have been there,” Galad said calmly. “This is quite a caravan you have. Interesting collection of wares.”
“We have heard that there are armies mobilizing here in the south, my Lord. I purchased many of these supplies from a mercenary troop who was disbanding, and thought I could sell them down here. Perhaps your own army has need of camp furniture? We have tents, mobile smithy equipment, everything that soldiers could use.”
Clever, Galad thought. Galad might have accepted the lie, but the “merchant” had too many cooks, washwomen, and farriers with him, and not nearly enough guards for so valuable a caravan.
“I see,” Galad said. “Well, it happens that I do have need of supplies. Particularly food.”
“Alas, my Lord,” the man said. “Our food cannot be spared. Anything else I will sell, but the food I have promised by messenger to someone in Lugard.”
“I will pay more.”
“I made a promise, my good Lord,” the man said. “I could not break it, regardless of the price.”
“I see.” Galad waved to Bornhald. The soldier gave commands, and Children in white tabards moved forward, weapons out.
“What…what are you doing?” Gill asked.
“Separating your people,” Galad said. “We’ll talk to each of them alone and see if their stories match. I worry that you might have been…unforthcoming with us. After all, what it seems like to me is that you are the camp followers of a large army. If that is the case, then I would very much like to know whose army it is, not to mention where it is.”
Gill’s forehead started to sweat as Galad’s soldiers efficiently separated the captives. Galad waited for a time watching Gill. Eventually Bornhald and Byar came jogging up to him, hands on their swords.
“My Lord Captain Commander,” Bornhald said urgently.
Galad turned away from Gill. “Yes?”
“We may have a situation here,” Bornhald said. His face was flushed with anger. Beside him, Byar’s eyes were wide, almost frenzied. “Some of the prisoners have talked. It’s as you feared. A large army is nearby. They’ve skirmished with Aiel—those fellows over there in the white robes are actually Aiel themselves.”
“And?”
Byar spat to the side. “Have you ever heard of a man called Perrin Goldeneyes?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Yes,” Bornhald said. “He killed my father.”
Chapter 5
Writings
Gawyn hastened down the hallways of the White Tower, booted feet thumping on a deep blue rug atop crimson and white floor tiles. Mirrored stand-lamps reflected light, each like a sentry along the way.
Sleete walked quickly beside him. Despite the lamps’ illumination, Sleete’s face seemed half-shrouded in shadow. Perhaps it was the two-day stubble on his jaw—an oddity for a Warder—or the long hair, clean but unshorn. Or maybe it was his features. Uneven, like an unfinished drawing, with sharp lines, a cleft in his chin, a hook to his once-broken nose, cheekbones that jutted out.
He had the lithe motions of a Warder, but with a more primal feel than most. Rather than the huntsman moving through the woods, he was the silent, shadow-bound predator that prey never saw until the teeth were flashing.
They reached an intersection where several of Chubain’s guards stood watch down one of the halls. They had swords at their sides and wore white tabards emblazoned with the Flame of Tar Valon. One held up a hand.