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inch, then bent slowly to wipe the last drops onto Valda’s white coat. The pain he had

ignored now flared. His left shoulder and arm burned; his thigh seemed to be on fire.

Straightening took effort. Perhaps he was nearer exhaustion than he had thought. How

long had they fought? He had thought he would feel satisfaction that his mother had been

avenged, but all he felt was emptiness. Valda’s death was not enough. Nothing except

Morgase Trakand alive again could be enough.

Suddenly he became aware of a rhythmic clapping and looked up to see the Children,

each man slapping his own armored shoulder in approval. Every man. Except Asunawa

and the Questioners. They were nowhere to be seen.

Byar hurried up carrying a small leather sack and carefully parted the slashes in Galad’s

coatsleeve. “Those will need sewing,” he muttered, “but they can wait.” Kneeling beside

Galad, he took rolled bandages from the sack and began winding them around the gashes

in his thigh. “These need sewing, too, but this will keep you from bleeding to death

before you can get it.” Others began gathering around, offering congratulations, men

afoot in front, those still mounted behind. None gave the corpse a glance except for

Kashgar, who cleaned Valda’s sword on that already bloodstained coat before sheathing

it.

“Where did Asunawa go?” Galad asked.

“He left as soon as you cut Valda the last time,” Dain replied uneasily. “He’ll be heading

for the camp to bring back Questioners.”

“He rode the other way, toward the border,” someone put in. Nassad lay just over the

border.

“The Lords Captain,” Galad said, and Trom nodded.

“No Child would let the Questioners arrest you for what happened here, Damodred.

Unless his Captain ordered it. Some of them would order it, I think.” Angry muttering

began, men denying they would stand for such a thing, but Trom quieted them,

somewhat, with raised hands. “You know it’s true,” he said loudly. “Anything else would

be mutiny.” That brought dead silence. There had never been a mutiny in the Children. It

was possible that nothing before had come as close as their own earlier display. “I’ll write

out your release from the Children, Galad. Someone may still order your arrest, but

they’ll have to find you, and you’ll have a good start. It will take half the day for

Asunawa to catch the other Lords Captain, and whoever falls in with him can’t be back

before nightfall.”

Galad shook his head angrily. Trom was right, but it was all wrong. Too much was

wrong. “Will you write releases for these other men? You know Asunawa will find a way

to accuse them, too. Will you write releases for the Children who don’t want to help the

Seanchan take our lands in the name of a man dead more than a thousand years?” Several

Taraboners exchanged glances and nodded, and so did other men, not all of them

Amadician. “What about the men who defended the Fortress of the Light? Will any

release get their chains struck off or make the Seanchan stop working them like

animals?” More angry growls; those prisoners were a sore point to all of the Children.

Arms folded across his chest, Trom studied him as though seeing him for the first time.

“What would you do, then?”

“Have the Children find someone, anyone, who is fighting the Seanchan and ally with

them. Make sure that the Children of the Light ride in the Last Battle instead of helping

the Seanchan hunt Aiel and steal our nations.”

“Anyone?” a Cairhienin named Doirellin said in a high-pitched voice. No one ever made

fun of Doirellin’s voice. Though short, he was nearly as wide as he was tall, there was

barely an ounce of fat on him, and he could put walnuts between all of his fingers and

crack them by clenching his fists. “That could mean Aes Sedai.”

“If you intend to be at Tarmon Gai’don, then you will have to fight alongside Aes Sedai,”

Galad said quietly. Young Bornhald grimaced in strong distaste, and he was not the only

one. Byar half-straightened before bending back to his task. But no one voiced dissent.

Doirellin nodded slowly, as if he had never before considered the matter.

“I don’t hold with the witches any more than any other man,” Byar said finally, without

raising his head from his work. Blood was seeping through the bandages even as he

wrapped. “But the Precepts say, to fight the raven, you may make alliance with the

serpent until the battle is done.” A ripple of nods ran through the men. The raven meant

the Shadow, but everyone knew it was also the Seanchan Imperial sigil.

“I’ll fight beside the witches,” a lanky Taraboner said, “or even these Asha’man we keep

hearing about, if they fight the Seanchan. Or at the Last Battle. And I’ll fight any man

who says I’m wrong.” He glared as though ready to begin then and there.

“It seems matters will play out as you wish, my Lord Captain Commander,” Trom said,

making a much deeper bow than he had for Valda. “To a degree, at least. Who can say

what the next hour will bring, much less tomorrow?”

Galad surprised himself by laughing. Since yesterday, he had been sure he would never

laugh again. “That’s a poor joke, Trom.”

“It is how the law is written. And Valda did make his proclamation. Besides, you had the

courage to say what many have thought while holding their tongues, myself among them.

Yours is a better plan for the Children than any I’ve heard since Pedron Niall died.”

“It’s still a poor joke.” Whatever the law said, that part had been ignored since the end of

the War of the Hundred Years.

“We’ll see what the Children have to say on the matter,” Trom replied, grinning widely,

“when you ask them to follow us to Tarmon Gai’don to fight alongside the witches.”

Men began slapping their shoulders again, harder than they had for his victory. At first it

was only a few, then more joined in, until every man including Trom was signaling

approval. Every man but Kashgar, that was. Making a deep bow, the Saldaean held out

the scabbarded heron-mark blade with both hands.

“This is yours, now, my Lord Captain Commander.”

Galad sighed. He hoped this nonsense would fade away before they reached the camp.

Returning there was foolish enough without adding in a claim of that sort. Most likely

they would be pulled down and thrown in chains if not beaten to death even without it.

But he had to go. It was the right thing to do.

Daylight began to grow on this cool spring morning, though the sun had yet to show even

a sliver above the horizon, and Rodel Ituralde raised his gold-banded looking glass to

study the village below the hill where he sat his roan gelding, deep in the heart of

Tarabon. He did hate waiting for enough light to see. Careful of a glint off the lens, he

held the end of the long tube on his thumb and shaded it with a cupped hand. At this

hour, sentries were at their least watchful, relieved that the darkness where an enemy

might sneak close was departing, yet since crossing from Almoth Plain he had heard tales

of Aiel raids inside Tarabon. Were he a sentry with Aiel perhaps about, he would grow

extra eyes. Peculiar that the country was not milling like a kicked antheap over those

Aiel. Peculiar, and perhaps ominous. There were plenty of armed men to be found,

Seanchan and Taraboners sworn to them, and hordes of Seanchan building farms and

even villages, but reaching this far had been almost too easy. Today, the easiness ended.

Behind him among the trees, horses stamped impatiently. The hundred Domani with him

were quiet, except for an occasional creak of saddle leather as a man shifted his seat, but

he could feel their tension. He wished he had twice as many. Five times. In the beginning,

it had seemed a gesture of good faith that he himself would ride with a force mainly

composed of Taraboners. He was no longer certain that had been the right decision. It

was too late for recriminations, in any event.

Halfway between Elmora and the Amadician border, Serana sat in a flat grassy valley

among forested hills, with at least a mile to the trees in any direction save his, and a

small, reed-fringed lake fed by two wide streams lay between him and the village. Not a

place that could be surprised by daylight. It had been sizable before the Seanchan came, a

stopping point for the merchant trains heading east, with over a dozen inns and nearly as

many streets. Village folk were already getting about their day’s tasks, women balancing

baskets on their heads as they glided down the village streets and others starting the fires

under laundry kettles behind their houses, men striding along toward their work-places,

sometimes pausing to exchange a few words. A normal morning, with children already

running and playing, rolling hoops and tossing beanbags among the throng. The clang of

a smithy rose, dim with the distance. The smoke from breakfast fires was fading at the

chimneys.

As far as he could see, no one in Serana gave a second glance to the three pairs of sentries

with bright stripes painted across their breastplates, walking their horses back and forth

perhaps a quarter of a mile out. The lake, considerably wider than the village, shielded

the fourth side effectively. It seemed the sentries were an accepted matter of every day,

and so was the Seanchan camp that had swollen Serana to more than twice its former

size.

Ituralde shook his head slightly. He would not have placed the camp cheek-by-jowl with

the village that way. The rooftops of Serana were all tile, red or green or blue, but the

buildings themselves were wooden; a fire in the town could spread all too easily into the

camp, where canvas store-tents the size of large houses far outnumbered the smaller tents

where men slept, and great stacks of barrels and casks and crates covered twice as much

ground as all the tents combined. Keeping lightfingered villagers out would be all but

impossible. Every town had a few tickbirds who picked up anything they thought they

could get away with, and even somewhat more honest men might be tempted by the

proximity. The location did mean a shorter distance to haul water from the lake, and a

shorter distance for soldiers to walk to reach the ale and wine in the village when off-

duty, but it suggested a commander who kept slack discipline.

Slack discipline or not, there was activity in the camp, too. Soldiers’ hours made farmers’

hours seem restful. Men were checking the animals on the long horselines, bannermen

checking soldiers standing in ranks, hundreds of laborers loading or unloading wagons,

grooms harnessing teams. Every day, trains of wagons came down the road into this

camp from east and west, and others departed. He admired the Seanchan efficiency at

making sure their soldiers had what they needed when and where it was needed.

Dragonsworn here in Tarabon, most sour-faced men who believed their dream snuffed

out by the Seanchan, had been willing to tell what they knew if not to ride with him. That

camp contained everything from boots to swords, arrows to horseshoes to water-flasks,

enough to outfit thousands of men from the ground up. They would feel its loss.

He lowered the looking glass to brush a buzzing green fly away from his face. Two

replaced it almost at once. Tarabon teemed with flies. Did they always come so early

here? They would just have begun hatching at home by the time he reached Arad Doman

again. If he did. No; no ill thoughts. When he did. Tamsin would be displeased,

otherwise, and it was seldom wise to displease her too far.

Most of the men down there were hired workmen, not soldiers, and only a hundred or so

of those Seanchan. Still, a company of three hundred Taraboners in stripe-painted armor

had ridden in at noon the day before, more than doubling their numbers and requiring him

to change his plans. Another party of Taraboners, as large, had entered the camp at

sunset, just in time to eat and bed down wherever they could lay their blankets. Candles

and lamp oil were luxuries for soldiers. There was one of those leashed women, a

damane, in the camp, too. He wished he could have waited until she left—they must have

been taking her elsewhere; what use for a damane at a supply camp?—but today was the

appointed day, and he could not afford to give the Taraboners reason to claim he was

holding back. Some would snatch at any reason to go their own way. He knew they

would not follow him much longer, yet he needed to hold as many as he could for a few

days more.