Chapter 29: She Who Gives Shade
With a ki'ai, the war-shout focusing the warrior's efforts, the young Malkieri committed himself to the attack.
Threading the Needle, a fluid lunge, was turned away with minimal effort by his opponent, The Swallow Takes Flight brushing his blade deftly aside, a movement of grace and precision where the older man's sword-tip moved barely a hand's span before flowing into his own counter. Al'Akir spun awkwardly away from Courtier Taps His Fan, barely escaping a solid blow to his ribcage, lashing out with River of Light.
A stroke that never landed. The old man's wooden shinai clouted him on the elbow. With a grunt of pain, al'Akir ignored the pain and leapt forward. The Lion Springs. Lan sprang back, raising a palm to indicate the bout was over.
"Don't bother, boy. I've just cut your arm off" he told his son gruffly. "If you want to continue the bout, left hand only. Ten heartbeats before you'd bleed out, anyway." He frowned at al'Akir. "I know you're better than this. Son, what's with you today? No focus."
Al'Akir flushed to the roots of his hair. Raised his sword. "Again!"
Lan levelled his blade, settling into his stance. "Whenever you're ready."
Al'Akir bellowed his challenge as he came. The Boar Rushes Downhill earned him a stinging blow to his ribs from Lan. The youth leapt into Dandelion in the Wind.
Awful. Telegraphed, Lan thought, frustrated, as he ghosted aside, sweeping al'Akir's legs out from under him with Bundling Straw. His sword was at his son's chest as he fell awkwardly on the hard-packed earth of the training-square. "Dead again."
He stepped back, offering an arm to pull al'Akir to his feet. Angrily, the boy slapped his hand away in a display of petulance, heaving himself to his feet. "Again!" he demanded.
Lan performed Folding the Fan, sheathing the wooden blade in his unscabbarded belt. "No, son. We're done sparring for the day." He squatted on his hunkers, squeezing al'Akir's shoulder, fixing him with a concerned glance. "You're not yourself, today. A crown gets me a shilling that a girl is involved."
Al'Akir coloured and said nothing. That was answer enough.
Lan offered his best sympathetic smile. "Ah. That Aiel girl, Shaiel. Aviendha's daughter. No wonder you're practicing the sword with all the grace of a dancing Trolloc."
"Don't honey the medicine, Dad. Just give it to me straight" al'Akir muttered, sarcastically. "Ay. Shaiel. I know what you're going to say: Forget it. No romantic entanglements especially with a wild Aiel girl, a future Malkieri King marries for the good of the realm. I know my duty, Pa. And I'll do it. And I'm pragmatic enough to know it's love's first flush and like as not what I feel won't last. Doesn't change the fact that right now, all I can see when I close my eyes is her face."
Lan sighed and draped a heavy arm around al'Akir's shoulders. "Son, you're a good lad. I never doubted that you'd do us proud. Actually, Shaiel wouldn't be the worst match, politically. Her mother is a Wise One, which is royalty as Aiel see it, and her father… Her father was the Dragon Reborn, who the Aiel see as the Car'a'carn, the Chief of Chiefs. It'd strengthen Malkier's ties to the Taardad Aiel… No, I just dislike seeing you like this. Dejected. Cast down."
"Dad. I'm minded to tell her how I feel" al'Akir said, after a pregnant pause. "How do I go about that? I don't know much about Aiel customs."
Lan looked at his son's earnest, serious face. He was minded just how similar his lad was to him at the same age. "Hmm. Tricky one. Well. Shaiel's a Maiden of the Spear. They take that pretty seriously. It's almost a calling. A Maiden is 'wedded to the spear', you know. Taking a husband means giving up the spear, and walking away from her spear-sisters. Those are bonds as strong as blood, boy. Most won't consider it."
Al'Akir looked at the ground fatalistically, shoulders slumping. "Sounds like I'm out of luck, then."
"Not necessarily. Aiel Maidens sometimes take boyfriends. Of course, her spear-sisters will all know about it, and the hazing the poor man gets is unbelievable. And if a man was ever fool enough to treat a Maiden wrong… Doesn't bear thinking about. He'd be pushing up daisies ere the sun set.
Look, son. I'm not saying don't do it, but think seriously about what you're about. For a wetlander, courting an Aiel girl is probably the most dangerous thing imaginable. A lot of Aiel don't like wetlanders. They'll certainly test you. Make you show them you're a real man."
Lan smiled a craggy smile. "Might toughen you up, boy. I'd say if her spear-sisters like you for her, you have half a chance." He shrugged. "Who knows, son? Aiel women are .. temperamental. Fierce and fey. .. No honest man would ever claim to understand women. Least of all me. Let alone an Aiel Maiden….One thing. If she asks you to play Maiden's Kiss, politely decline!"
"Maiden's Kiss? What's that? And why shouldn't I play at it?" al'Akir asked, curiosity piqued.
Lan stood, stretching easily. "Let's put it this way. You could go there with a beard like Perrin Aybara's and come back as clean-shaven as a Seanchan High Lord. If you play well. Anyway, son, I have to go attend your mother. We have a visitor."
"Wait, Dad!" al'Akir pleaded.
"Sorry, son. Perhaps you can ask our guest about Aiel Maidens, tonight. I believe he took up with an Aiel Far Dareis Mai, upon a time."
Nynaeve looks much the same, Mat wondered, despite the passage of nearly two decades. It was because of the Slowing, he knew, the effect of using the One Power decreasing the rate of aging. Twenty years was nothing to an Aes Sedai. That still felt unfair to Mat.
The only sign of the passage of time was in her dark eyes, shaded and softened with cares. The years brought their troubles, Mat had cause to know. Seeing her thus minded him of Moraine.
She was dressed in Cairhienin silks, a cobalt blue so dark that it appeared to shade into black, slashed with sea green. Mat noted the number of horizontal bars of green with interest – at least a dozen, signifying her exalted rank. Nynaeve's hair was pinned up elaborately in a coif, and her forehead wore the ki'sain – a red dot, a Malkieri tradition symbolising a pledge to teach her children to fight the Shadow.
Seeing her for the first time in a dozen years, he was again surprised by how slight she was. Diminutive, even. Until she opened her mouth, that was. It was only her forceful manner, the conviction she knew what was best for you better than you yourself did that made her appear to loom so in his recollection.
The reading-room was a comfortable, intimate space, a wooden screen, elaborately carved with hunting scenes partitioning the room from a balcony overlooking the courtyard, which was slightly ajar to allow a gentle breeze to permeate the room. There was a small, cheerful fire glowing in a fireplace – sea coal not wood – to offset the chill. Wood was more precious than gold in barren Malkier. Nynaeve stood to greet him.
"As I live and breathe, it's really you, Maitrim Cauthon." Was that fondness in her eye? No, surely not. Nynaeve didn't do fondness.
"Nynaeve" Mat replied, awkwardly. "Um. Thanks for having me, I suppose. You are well, I hope? You look well. Very… regal." This was going badly already. "Good to see you." Mat was surprised to find that he meant it. There was a prickling in his eye and he rubbed the offending tear away.
With a swish of silk, Nynaeve glided over to him – she'd got better at that, Mat noticed. Important life skill for queens. Not as proficient as his Tuon mind you! – and to his consternation grabbed him and hugged him fiercely. Surprised, he stiffened, then hugged her back.
She released him and wrinkled her nose at him. "You need a bath. And a shave." She looked him up and down. "You're as skinny as a rake, too. Honestly, who's been feeding you? They haven't been doing a good job of it. Typical man. Just like my Lan. The lot of you would waste away left to your own devices."
"Well, I've just got out of the gaol, Nynaeve. In Seanchan. The Towers of Midnight" Mat expostulated. "Distinct lack of amenities and creature comforts."
"Well, I always said you'd end up in prison, Maitrim Cauthon" she said sternly, folding her arms across her chest in her best Wisdom pose, foot tapping. But there was a twinkle in her eye gainsaying the harsh words.
"Or on the gallows." Mat offered helpfully, an innocent expression on his face. "You said that too."
"You could also use some clean clothes, Mat" she said peremptorily, ignoring him. Turning, she clapped her hands, summoning her housekeeper, a stout woman buried in a confection of white linen and lace. "Find my chamberlain please, Asara, and have him select some clothing for Master Cauthon. Good Two Rivers wool."
"And a hat" Mat interrupted. "A good hat. Most important item of a man's wardrobe, Shatayan Asara. Whatever you do, don't forget the hat. I've lost mine and I feel quite naked without it."
"An image we could all have done quite without" Nynaeve responded dryly. "As Master Cauthon says," Nynaeve told good Mistress Asara. "Tell the chamberlain to purchase a good Tairen hat of felt, with a broad brim. Then take it out into the stableyard and find a nice dusty patch. Then throw it on the ground and trample on it a while, dust it off, then bring it directly to Master Cauthon."
"You can scoff all you want, Nynaeve, but a good hat has been lived in a while. It has character." Mat protested. "The scuffs and scrapes of a life well-lived!"
"It has things living in it, you mean" Nynaeve suggested glibly.
That was quite uncalled for, Mat thought. He turned to address the Queen's handmaiden. "While you're at it, Shatayan Asara, please ask him to pick out a selection of sturdy leather boots to try for size." He favoured her with a bow and his best smile. It was important to keep the Shatayan happy, he knew. He'd learnt that the last time he'd been in the Borderlands, in Fal Dara.
The maid only sniffed in reply. Shatayans were haughtier than most queens, and they oversaw a royal household with a rod of iron. He turned back to Nynaeve, and then he noticed for the first time the suggestion of a bump around the Queen of Malkier's navel. That would explain a lot. Such as Nynaeve being nice to him! "Nynaeve… Are you..?"
"Am I what, Mat?" Nynaeve replied dangerously, reflexively reaching to tug a braid that no longer hung there. "Pregnant? Is that the word you're looking for? No, Mat. I just decided recently that I really love cake and decided to eat some morning, noon, and night. Yes, I'm with child."
"No. Yes. What I meant to say was that's great, Nynaeve. Congratulations to you and Lan." Mat recovered, smoothly he thought. Being married to Tuon had given him cause to practice. "How is old long, tall and ugly, anyway? he continued breezily.
"I'm doing just fine, sheepherder. Thanks for asking."
A voice like grit and sand. Of course. Lan would pick that moment to enter the room right behind him. Speak of Caisen Hob, and he appears. Mat turned round like a startled tom-cat.
Lan was reassuringly Lan. All gristle and scars, all seven foot of him, Lan disdained the trappings of royalty, plainly dressed in good broadcloth braes and a quilted linen arming-jacket. He still moved with that spooky deliberation that marked a Warder. A casual grace. Light on his feet as a weasel dancing to hypnotise its prey.
Lan was flushed, and there was perspiration on his brow, and Mat guessed he'd come here from the training-yard. His long hair was swordblade grey now, held back by the leather braid of a hadori, but his eyes were keen, radiating control and focus, the ageless blue of Malkier's winter sky. He looked every inch the warrior he was. "Hello, Mat."
He offered a hand, and the two men clasped forearms in the warrior's grip, measuring their strength. "I have followed your career with interest, Matrim Cauthon. Not bad for a shepherd from the Two Rivers." Appraising eyes hardened. "Forgive the bluntness, Mat, but I have to ask what you are doing here? Lan Mandragoran and Mat Cauthon may be old friends who can reminisce about old times over a flagon of ale, but the King of Malkier must know what business the Raven Prince of Seanchan has with Malkier."
Mat met Lan's eyes and nodded seriously. Straight to business it was, then. "I understand, Lan. Duty is heavier than a mountain, death lighter than a feather." He sighed. "Very well. Sit down, al'Lan Mandragoran. You too, el'Nynaeve al'Meara. It is not a pretty tale, but it needs telling."
There was a rap upon the door, and an armoured Malkieri soldier pushed himself inside, breathless, doffing his helm respectfully as he addressed his liege lord. "My King. There are a man and a woman at the gate, demanding an audience."
The armsman paused, hesitating as he chose his words with the utmost care. Swallowed. "Sire, the man claims to be Rand al'Thor. The Dragon Reborn. We would have sent him on his way, but he .. he made a dead bush bloom. I swear to you, lord, I'm not making it up!"
"Unbelievable, Mat!" Nynaeve raged. "You brought that woman here? Do you even know what position you've put me in? Do you even care?
And it's not just me, Lan and our children, it's my country you've put at risk. We don't even have diplomatic relations with Seanchan, as it stands, because of our association with the Aiel they skirmish with. They refuse our embassies! They're looking for any excuse for trouble. And you've just given Seanchan a legitimate reason to go to war with us! A war we cannot hope to win."
Mat stepped forward, standing nose to nose with the furious Queen, pointing his finger at her angrily. "Look. First off, 'that woman' is my wife. And technically, I didn't bring her here. Rand did. Secondly, she is still Empress of Seanchan…"
Nynaeve laughed jaggedly, turning away and commenced pacing to and fro. "Don't give me that flannel! The instant Tuon channelled, her credibility vanished into thin air. You know as well as I that makes Mordred Paendrag Emperor. I can't be seen to be harbouring her. I'm sorry Mat, you both have to leave here. I just don't get it, Mat. Why did you come here and put us – my family – in jeopardy...?"
She pointed to the clear sky outside, shivering abruptly and rubbing her forearms.. "You know that I can Listen to the Wind. My Talent. I know there's a storm coming, Mat – and it's not the weather. Something dark that is going to sweep us all away."
Mat met her angry eyes. "I feel it too, Nynaeve. In my bones. Min Foretold something. I didn't listen. Tried to ignore it. It's bigger than me and Tuon. Bigger than Malkier and Seanchan, maybe. If there's a storm coming, we'll face it together, as we always have. When the Dark rises, we Two Rivers folk stick together. Always have. Always will."
He saw Lan nodding fractionally in approbation, before catching a scalding glare from Nynaeve that made him take a sudden interest in a detail of the wooden scrimshaw. The silence stretched.
"What is it?" Nynaeve barked in exasperation. This last was directed in response to a tentative rap on the door. "Yes, come in!" Nynaeve laughed, a trifle wildly to Mat's mind. "Why not? The more the merrier! You'd think I was running a Baerlon bawdy-house rather than a flaming country!"
It was Tuon and Rand. Mat only had eyes for his spouse, an agonised glance that took in her dishevelled appearance, the scraps of linen that bound her wrists. Her unfocused, haunted gaze. This was not the Tuon he remembered. Spiritless, listless. Her brown eyes downcast. Bruised. Two strides and his arms were locked around her, clutching her to him. "Ah, Tuon, what have they done to you?"
She was rigid in his embrace, as if unable to draw comfort from it. Gently, he took her head in his hands, the fuzz of her short hair bristling against his palms. With a visible effort, she tilted her head up to meet his concerned gaze. She looked.. lost. With an effort, she dragged the words out, her delivery slurred. "They stilled me, Knotai."
Mat rounded on Nynaeve. "That's why I came here, Nynaeve!" he snarled. "Because as far as I know, you are the only person that can heal Stilling. Because you're the only Aes Sedai except Bode that I would trust with something like this. Please. Heal her, and we'll be on our way. I swear it. I'm begging you."
Nynaeve stopped pacing, her face conflicted. "Light, Mat. I'm not heartless" she said eventually. "I'll help her, if I can." She looked at Tuon grimly. "Not for her sake. Too many women have suffered the leash because of her. But for yours." She paused. "But afterwards, the pair of you must leave. I'll arrange a Gateway to take you wherever you need to go. Anywhere outside of Malkier and the Two Rivers…."
A longer pause. "Mat. Trying to Heal Tuon…. I might not be able to. Because I'm with child. It affects my control of the Power. And the Healing weave is complicated and power-intensive. I might burn myself out trying" she admitted.
Lan's craggy face became bleak, etched with an expression Mat had never seen before. Fear. She held a palm up to Lan, forestalling his protests. "Peace, husband. Please understand. I must do this. It is who I am. A Healer. It is how I fight the Shadow. A part of it, anyhow."
There were tears in Lan's eyes now, frustration and fear warring with pride. He bowed to her. "Tai'shar Manetheren" he whispered to his wife.
"No, my love" Nynaeve corrected him gently. "I belong to you, now, and Malkier is the mother that will welcome me home when my time comes."
She turned to Tuon. "Come forward, Tuon, and let me look at you."
Obediently, Tuon came forward, smoothing her smock anxiously. Fear of marath'damane was ingrained in her psyche. Now she was putting herself in the care of one. A pregnant marath'damane that might not be able to control the Power she wielded. Light!
No, Tuon corrected herself. This woman deserved better than her fear and inculcated prejudice. She was willing to risk her own life – even that of her unborn child – to help an enemy for a friend. She raised her eyes to the Malkieri queen. "You remind me of her" she said quietly to Nynaeve. "This woman I once met."
Nynaeve assessed her coolly. "Who?" she inquired.
"A marath.. The former Amyrlin, Egwene al'Vere. I couldn't stand her" Tuon stated baldly. Nynaeve raised an eyebrow. Mat winced, trying to catch Tuon's eye. You're going to talk yourself out of getting Healed, if you're not careful, Mat fretted desperately.
Of course, Tuon likely didn't know that she was setting about insulting the memory of Nynaeve's deceased childhood friend.
"She, too, was haughty and arrogant. We spoke for all of a minute, a negotiation to ensure that we fought the Shadow together and not each other. And near ended concluding matters pulling out each other's hair like a couple of tavern wenches..."
Nynaeve's eyebrow could not have climbed any higher and her foot was tapping. Definitely a bad sign, Mat despaired. There were certain women who plain should not be allowed in the same room as each other. "…After, I came to realise," Tuon continued, "she was the woman who made perhaps the greatest contribution to defeating the Shadow. I didn't like her, but I have come to respect her the most of all."
"Hmm.." Nynaeve looked back at Tuon sceptically. "Then why have you not freed your damane if you respected Egwene so much?"
"Because I only began to understand recently." Tuon admitted. "It was easier not to think about the ramifications of her sacrifice before. Until.."
"Hah." Nynaeve muttered. "Until you had first-hand experience of life wearing the collar!"
"Yes." Tuon admitted. "Until I wore the leash. But I'm not a hypocrite. Hate me for what I've done if you will, but I believed in what I was doing at the time. At first, I thought they were right to collar me. But then I started to think about what she did. Now, I don't think marath.. those with the gift of channelling .. should be collared."
Nynaeve favoured Tuon with a cynical look. "This is you practicing your re-election speech? Plotting your comeback? Regaining the Crystal Throne?"
"No" Tuon said, starkly, surprised to find herself opening up to the hostile Malkieri queen. Wanting to explain herself. It was the first conversation of note she'd had with a marath'damane save that with Egwene.
"They'd never accept a marath'damane as Empress. I just want to find somewhere quiet to live out my days with Mat. Truth to tell, I never really wanted to be Empress in the first place. I just saw it as my duty, because I was the fittest candidate, and because I was born into the right family. That's how it works. I don't even want my son to fall, because as flawed as he is, he is the only person who stands a chance of keeping my country whole."
Nynaeve looked right back at her. "I don't know if you're telling the truth, or if you're just a very accomplished liar, Tuon. I'd like to think there's something about you, and Mat, for all his faults, is a decent judge of character. …
You do understand, Tuon, if this Healing works, you're going to be able to channel. In fact, since you've already begun, you're going to need to learn, or you will sicken and die. You could do a lot worse than emulate Egwene al'Vere. She was my friend – did you already know that when you made that pretty little speech?
No matter. We grew up together. She was everything you say, and more. Thank you for comparing me to her. There could not be a greater compliment. Now, shall we begin?" she said briskly.
Tuon nodded wordlessly, and Nynaeve stepped forward, jaw set in determination, and took hold of Tuon's shoulders, drawing a deep breath, seeking the Void. Calm. Visualise the blackthorn bud. Feed your emotions into it. Novice exercises, yet the Void fluttered, harmonics of her heartbeat, and that of the daughter in her belly. It was hard to keep the image of the flower bud constant.
Saidar seized her, flaring wildly, and Nynaeve concentrated as hard as she ever had in her life, trying not to be swept away. It's not going to work. I'm going to still myself. If I'm lucky, and don't end up killing my baby, myself, and Tuon! She rejected the thought. I'm a Healer of the Yellow Ajah. I was born to do this! Before her nerve failed her, she felt for the short within Tuon, Delving her gently with Spirit.
The other woman was a torment of emotional pain, malnourished too. The break was an awful thing. A ragged wound beneath her fingers. Whoever had done the severing had hacked at Tuon's connection to saidar like a man sawing at a gamy piece of meat with a blunt knife. Deliberate cruelty!
It made Nynaeve angry. Enraged! Lent her the focus she needed. The Malkieri queen seized a hundred infinitesimal threads of the Power. Fire. Spirit. Water. Air. Earth. Common Healing used but Spirit, Water and Air. What she was doing was like weaving a dozen tapestries at once, compared to crudely suturing a cut.
Saidar surged, but she navigated the flows, weaving as dextrously as she ever had, laying the ends of the weave upon the edges of the wound. The roughness of the wound actually helped the Healing take.
Another flare of the Power, and she nearly lost control. There was deep emotion within the Void. Something that had never happened before. Love for Lan, and for the daughter that grew within her. She felt that somehow, inexplicably, the child dimly understood her mother's struggle, was lending her strength.
No, not strength. Awareness. Nynaeve felt far more attuned, even as she combated the dangerous tidal forces of saidar, both to the child and to Tuon, and the weave fell into place with a feeling of perfection, of rightness, of righteousness. She Delved Tuon again, knowing what she would find. A restored connection within the Seanchan woman, a conduit for the One Power.
What she found shocked her. Tuon was strong. It couldn't be! Before her stilling, her strength had been inconsequential. Nynaeve had felt that as she sought to repair the damage. As weak as Morgase. Far too weak to test for the shawl. Now…. She was as strong as Vandene. Strong enough to open a Gateway, if she had the Talent!
Nynaeve released the Power. Opened her eyes. Drew a shuddering breath of pure, unadulterated relief. Lan was by her side in a flash, concern in her eyes. "Are you well?" he asked her anxiously.
Her grin was answer enough. "I'm great" she told him sunnily. "As for you, Tuon" she turned to her charge. "you're as good as new. Better, even. You can feel it, right?"
Tuon seized Nynaeve in a hug, wreathed in a beafitic smile. "Oh, thankyou" she breathed.
"Err. You're welcome" Nynaeve said briskly, extricating herself as delicately as possible. "About what I said earlier. Definitely, you need to find someone to teach you to channel safely. Or you'll throw away all my hard work."
"But" Tuon said hesitantly, "I'm not that strong in the Power. The sul'dam said I was too weak to make a worthwhile damane."
"Well… you are now. For some reason, the Healing has made you stronger than before. I have no idea why. That's never happened before."
"How strong?" Tuon asked sharply.
Nynaeve's laughter was unfeigned. "Ah. That's the Empress of Seanchan asking the question. The use of power is an addiction, isn't it? You will be strong indeed. Not as strong as me, mind, but stronger than most Aes Sedai. In potential, at least."
Tuon nodded soberly. "Strong enough to make a difference, then. To do some good."
Nynaeve gave her an enigmatic look. "And that, perhaps, is the woman that Mat sees. Don't you forget it."
