Knife of Dreams (116 page)

“Never. It sounds dangerous, though.”

“Oh, it is. Dangerous enough that it’s prohibited for Aes Sedai. In the War of the Shadow, even Darkfriends stopped using it.” She barked a bitter laugh. All she knew of balefire now was what Elayne had told her. It had come from her in the first place, yet that only made matters worse. Would all of her memories go? She did not think she had lost any recently, but how would she know if she had? She could remember bits of the founding of the White Tower, pieces of what she and Gaidal had done to help it be founded, but nothing before that. All of her earlier memories were yesterday’s smoke.

“Well, at least we’ll have Aes Sedai of our own,” Guybon said, signing another order.

“They’re all dead, except for Elayne,” she told him flatly. There was no way to gild that. Dyelin gasped, her face growing pale. One of the clerks clasped her hands to her mouth, and another knocked over his ink jar. The ink fanned across the tabletop in a black stream and began dripping onto the floor. Rather than reprimanding the man, Mistress Anford steadied herself with a hand on another clerk’s writing table. “I hope to make up for that,” Birgitte went on, “but I can’t promise anything except that we’re going to lose men today. Maybe a lot of men.”

Guybon straightened. His expression was thoughtful, his hazel eyes steady. “That will make for an interesting day,” he said finally. “But we’ll get the Daughter-Heir back, whatever the cost.” A solid man, Charlz Guybon, and brave. He had demonstrated that often enough on the walls. Too good-looking for her taste, of course.

Birgitte realized she had begun pacing back and forth across the mosaic and stopped. She knew nothing of being a general, whatever Elayne thought, but she knew that showing nerves could infect others with them. Elayne was alive. That was all that was important. Alive and moving farther away by the minute. The left-hand door opened, and one of the burly Guardsmen announced that Julanya Fote and Keraille Surtovni had returned. Guybon hesitated, looking to her, but when she said nothing, he told the man to admit them.

They were very different women, in appearance at least, though each carried a wooden walking staff. Julanya was plump and pretty, with touches of white in her dark hair, while Keraille was short and slim, with tilted green eyes and fiery red curls. Birgitte wondered whether those were their real names. These Kinswomen changed names as easily as other women changed stockings. They wore plain woolens suitable for country peddlers, which each had been in the past, and each was a keen observer, skilled at taking care of herself. They could talk their way out of most situations, but their simple belt knives were not the only blades they carried and they could surprise a strong man with what they could do with those walking staffs. Both offered curtsies. Julanya’s skirts and cloak were damp and splashed with mud around the hem.

“Ellorien, Luan and Abelle began breaking camp early this morning, my Lady,” she said. “I only stayed long enough to make sure of their direction—north—before coming to report.”

“The same is true with Aemlyn, Arathelle and Pelivar, my Lady,” Keraille added. “They’re coming for Caemlyn.”

Birgitte did not need to examine the large map spread out on the table with its markers. Depending on how muddy the roads were, how much rain they had to contend with, they could reach the city by that afternoon. “You’ve done well, both of you. Go find yourselves hot baths. Do you think they’ve had a change of heart?” she asked Dyelin once the two women had left.

“No,” the woman replied without hesitation, then sighed and shook her head. “I fear the most likely thing is that Ellorien has convinced the others to support her for the Lion Throne. They may be thinking to defeat Arymilla and take over the siege. They have half again her numbers, and double ours.” She let that hang. There was no need to say the rest. Even using Kinswomen to shift men, they would be hard pressed to hold the wall against that many.

“First we get Elayne back, then we can worry about that lot,” Birgitte said. Where were those bloody Windfinders?

No sooner did she have the thought than they were padding into the room behind Chanelle, a riotous rainbow of silks. Except for Renaile, last in line in her linens, yet a red blouse, green trousers and a deep yellow sash made her bright enough, though even Rainyn, a round-cheeked young woman with just half a dozen golden medallions dangling onto her cheek, made Renaile’s honor chain look bare. Renaile’s face wore an expression of stoic endurance.

“I do not appreciate being threatened!” Chanelle said angrily, sniffing the golden scent box on its golden chain around her neck. Her dark cheeks were flushed. “That Guardswoman said if we did not run, she would kick—! Never mind what she said, exactly. It was a threat, and I will not be—!”

“Elayne has been captured by Darkfriend Aes Sedai,” Birgitte cut in. “I need you to make a gateway for the men who are going to rescue her.” A murmur rose among the other Windfinders. Chanelle gestured sharply, but only Renaile fell silent. The others just lowered their voices to whispers, to her obvious displeasure. By the medallions crowding their honor chains, several of them matched Chanelle’s rank.

“Why did you summon all of us for one gateway?” she demanded. “I keep the bargain, you can see. I brought everyone as you ordered. But why do you need more than one?”

“Because you’re all going to form a circle and make a gateway big enough to take thousands of men and horses.” That was one reason.

Chanelle stiffened, and she was not alone. Kurin, her face like a black stone, practically quivered with outrage, and Rysael, normally a very dignified woman, did quiver. Senine, with her weathered face and old marks indicating she once had worn more than six earrings, and fatter ones, fingered the jeweled dagger thrust behind her green sash.

“Soldiers?” Chanelle said indignantly. “That is forbidden! Our bargain says we will take no part in your war. Zaida din Parede Black Wing commanded it so, and now that she is Mistress of the Ships, that command carries even greater weight. Use the Kinswomen. Use the Aes Sedai.”

Birgitte stepped close to the dark woman, looking her straight in the eyes. The Kin were useless for this. None of them had ever used the Power as a weapon. They might not even know how. “The other Aes Sedai are dead,” she said softly. Someone behind her moaned, one of the clerks. “What is your bargain worth if Elayne is lost? Arymilla certainly won’t honor it.” Keeping her voice steady saying that took effort. It wanted to shake with anger, shake with fear. She needed these women, but she could not let them know why or Elayne
would
be lost. “What will Zaida say if you ruin her bargain with Elayne?”

Chanelle’s tattooed hand half-lifted the piercework scent box to her nose again, then let it fall among her many jeweled necklaces. From what Birgitte knew of Zaida din Parede, she would be more than displeased with anyone who wrecked that bargain, and it was beyond doubtful that Chanelle wished to face the woman’s anger, yet she only looked pensive. “Very well,” she said after a moment. “For transport only, though. It is
agreed?” She kissed the fingertips of her right hand, prepared to seal the bargain.

“You only need do what you want,” Birgitte said, turning away. “Guybon, it’s time. They must have her to the gate by now.”

Guybon buckled on his sword, took up his helmet and steel-backed gauntlets, and followed her and Dyelin out of the Map Room trailed by the Windfinders, with Chanelle loudly insisting that they would provide a gateway only. Birgitte whispered instructions to Guybon before leaving him striding toward the front of the palace while she hurried to the Queen’s Stableyard where she found a hammer-nosed dun gelding wearing her saddle and waiting, the reins held by a young groom with her hair in a braid not much different from her own. She also found all hundred and twenty-one Guardswomen armored and mounted. Climbing into the dun’s saddle, she motioned them to follow her. The sun was a golden ball clear of the horizon in a sky with only a few high white clouds. At least they would not have rain to contend with, too. Even a wagon might have been able to slip away in some of the heavy rainstorms Caemlyn had seen lately.

A thick snake of men ten and twelve abreast spanned the Queen’s Plaza, now, stretching out of sight in both directions, horsemen in helmets and breastplates alternating with men in every sort of helmet imaginable carrying shouldered halberds, most wearing mail shirts or jerkins sewn with steel discs and only rarely a breastplate, each group large or small headed by the banner of its House. Or the banner of a mercenary company. The sell-swords would have too many watchers to try slacking off today. Minus the crossbowmen and archers, there would be close on twelve thousand men in that column, two-thirds of them mounted. How many would be dead before noon? She pushed that thought out of her mind. She needed every one of them to convince the Sea Folk. Any man who died today could die as easily on the wall tomorrow. Every man of them had come to Caemlyn prepared to die for Elayne.

At the head of the column were better than a thousand Guardsmen, helmets and breastplates gleaming in the sun, steel-tipped lances slanted precisely, the first of them waiting behind the banner of Andor, the rearing White Lion on a field of scarlet, and Elayne’s banner, the Golden Lily on blue, at the edge of one of Caemlyn’s many parks. It had been a park, anyway, but oaks hundreds of years old had been cut down and hauled away along with all the other trees and the flowering bushes, their roots dug out to clear a smooth space a hundred paces wide. The graveled paths and grassy ground had long since been trampled to mud by hooves and boots.
Three other parks around the palace had received the same treatment, to make places for weaving gateways.

Guybon and Dyelin were already there, along with all the lords and ladies who had answered Elayne’s call, from young Perival Mantear to Brannin Martan and his wife, all mounted. Perival wore helmet and breastplate like every other male present. Brannin’s were plain and dull and slightly dented where the armorer’s hammer had failed its task, tools of his trade as surely as the plain-hilted sword scabbarded at his side. Perival’s were as gilded as Conail’s and Branlet’s, worked with the silver Anvil of Mantear where theirs were lacquered with Northan’s Black Eagles and Gilyard’s Red Leopards. Pretty armor, for being seen in. Birgitte hoped the women had sense enough to keep those boys out of any fighting. Looking at some of those women’s faces, grim and determined, she hoped they had sense enough to stay clear themselves. At least none was wearing a sword. The simple truth was, a woman had to be more skilled than a man to face him with a sword. Stronger arms made too much difference, otherwise. Much better to use a bow.

The Windfinders were grimacing as they shifted their bare feet uneasily on ground still muddy from yesterday’s downpour. Wet, they were more than accustomed to, but not mud.

“This man will not tell me where the gateway is to reach,” Chanelle said furiously, pointing to Guybon as Birgitte dismounted. “I want to be done so I can wash my feet.”

“My Lady!” a woman’s voice called from back down the street. “My Lady Birgitte!” Reene Harfor came running up the line of Guardsmen, her red skirts held high, exposing her stockinged legs to the knee. Birgitte did not think she had ever seen the woman so much as trot. Mistress Harfor was one of those women who always did everything perfectly. Every time they met she made Birgitte conscious of every last mistake she herself had ever made. Two men in red-and-white livery were running behind her, carrying a litter between them. When they came closer, Birgitte saw that it held a lanky, helmetless Guardsman with an arrow piercing his right arm and another jutting from his right thigh. Blood trickled down both shafts, so he left a thin trail of drops on the paving stones. “He insisted on being brought to you or Captain Guybon immediately, my Lady,” Mistress Harfor said breathlessly, fanning herself with one hand.

The young Guardsman struggled to sit up until Birgitte pressed him back down. “Three or four companies of mercenaries are attacking the Far
Madding Gate, my Lady,” he said, pain wracking his face and tinging his voice. “From inside the city, I mean. They placed archers to shoot anyone who tried to wave the signal flags for help, but I managed to get away, and my horse lasted just long enough.”

Birgitte growled an oath. Cordwyn, Gomaisen and Bakuvun would be among them, she was ready to wager. She should have pressed Elayne to put them out of the city as soon as they made their demands. She did not realize she had spoken aloud until the wounded Guardsman spoke up.

“No, my Lady. Leastwise, not Bakuvun. Him and a dozen or so of his men dropped by to toss . . . uh, to pass the time, and the lieutenant figures they’re the only reason we’ve managed to hold on. If they are still holding. They were using battering rams on the tower doors when I looked back. But there’s more, my Lady. There’s men massing in Low Caemlyn outside the gates. Ten thousand, maybe twice that. Hard to tell, the way those streets twist.”

Birgitte winced. Ten thousand men would be enough to carry an assault from the outside whether or not the mercenaries were held off unless she sent everything, and she could not. What in the Light was she to do? Burn her, she could plan a raid to rescue someone from a fortress or scout in country held by the enemy with confidence that she knew what she was doing, but this was a battle, with the fate of Caemlyn and maybe the throne in the balance. Still, she had it to do. “Mistress Harfor, take this man back to the palace and see his wounds tended, please.” There was no point in asking the Windfinders for Healing. They had already made it clear that was taking part in the war, in their view. “Dyelin, leave me all of the horse and a thousand halberdmen. You take the rest and all of the crossbowmen and archers available. And every man you can scrape together who can hold a sword. If the gate is still holding when the Kinswomen get you there, make sure it continues to hold. If it’s fallen, take it back. And hold that bloody wall till I can get there.”