What is the real reason you are willing to sacrifice your immortality….?

That question lingered with Arwen as she went about the rounds of the day, recurring to her at odd moments. What is the real

For love, she might have responded, but the calm voice of that Seanchan woman would not accept that explanation. You seem too intelligent to me to really fall for this belief of true, perfect love at first sight, worth any sacrifice, so…

Arwen shook her head, dislodging the question, but it kept returning to haunt her. What is the—

Aragorn was gone, as was her father, and Mithrandir. They had left that morning, before Arwen had emerged from her chambers; Elladan and Elrohir had been left behind to run the household and confide to her where her father and betrothed had gone. They had gone out with about half the Seanchan army, to Isengard; Elladan had told Arwen that the Seanchan had used some sort of device—when she had asked about it further, he had only shaken his head and confessed that he had never seen anything like it before. Then he and Elrohir had been called away to deal with the delegates, who were in an uproar, and Arwen was left to her own devices. She had spent much of the day alone, wandering in useless isolation throughout her gardens, her quarters, the house, hearing Keille Sar's question dogging her footsteps. Sometimes she would stop and look out over the balcony, over the grassy slope where the remainder of the Seanchan army practiced; other times she would wander down to where she had sat with Keille the night before, to gaze up at the pure, unchanging stone of Luthien's statue and think. What is the—

Not even her father had thought to ask her that question. Not even her father had thought to question the idea that she was willing to sacrifice her immortality for the sake of love. Even her father had accepted without question the idea that Arwen at least felt that Aragorn and his love was—worth—her—death.

Of course, you know Aragorn would never—would never behave in that fashion.

She knew it. Of course she did; she knew that Aragorn would never strike or harm her in any way, or their children. He would never harm her; he did not drink to excess, and as far as she knew he had never even looked at another woman since he had met her. She had no fears that he would—would be unfaithful.

Are you sure?

Yes. She was.

So then what could account for the deep feeling of unease that had risen inside her at Keille's calm-eyed disregard of the tale of their love?

Arwen perched on the edge of the fountain, drew her knees up under her and propped her chin in her hands, unmindful of how she might appear to any observer; there was no one to see her.

Aragorn loves me. I know it. She did, knew it with a confidence and an instinct stronger than words. Then why—

It is just that—he has not had time to spend with me lately, she thought forlornly. It is simply the war that places demands on him. If he had more time to spend with me, then surely this unease would vanish.

That thought led to another. How much time will he have for you once he becomes King of Gondor and of Arnor?

She attempted to push that thought aside, frowning slightly to herself as she did so.

Think. What did you tell Keille about the reason Aragorn could not go over the Sea with you?

"Because he was the heir and he had a responsibility to take the throne," she murmured aloud, unaware she spoke.

The war had laid responsibilities on him. But would those responsibilities vanish once it was over? Once Aragorn had taken his rightful place as King of Gondor and of Arnor?

Once you have forfeited your rightful place at the side of your father, to journey over the Sea?

The thought came unbidden, eradicated almost as soon as she recognized it.

Yet she did recognize it, and frowned slightly, unaware of it.

What is the—

Her thought broke off as she became aware of a rising commotion drifting up to her ears from the direction of the Seanchan encampment. Swiftly she turned, and moved with quick, light steps down the stone path around the bend in the hedge, to see what the matter was.

A flood of Seanchan soldiers were spilling throughout the encampment, and the sky was filled with stacked black masses of raken and to'raken, winging over the encampment to settle to the west of the camp, in their pens and corrals. The army had returned. Father…Aragorn, she thought, and hurried down the path to meet up with them.

Hordes of people were streaming every which way throughout the camp by the time she reached it, and for a moment she could not find the ones she sought. Then, as she stepped out of the way of a passing cavalryman, she saw them. They had dismounted a to'raken and were standing in the middle of the field, oblivious to those around them.

They looked as if they were in shock. Her father's face had a peculiar set expression the likes of which she had never seen before; Aragorn looked stunned, as if he had been struck by an incredible internal blow that had cut him deeply. In conversation with Mithrandir, they came toward her without even noticing her; she simply did not register. Quickly, Arwen stepped into their paths.

"Father—Aragorn!" she exclaimed, forcing them to halt; the two men who meant most in the world to her turned and looked at her as if they had never seen her before. Slowly recognition came back to them as she continued to speak. "Are you well? When I heard that you had gone out I was concerned about you and I….I…."

Arwen trailed off as the males continued to stare at her without speaking. "I…." She tried again, but received no reaction. Now Aragorn spoke, coming forward and taking her in his arms.

"Arwen, I cannot speak with you now," he told her, his voice leaden and distant. "I must—there is much I must discuss with your father and with Mithrandir. Why don't you go and occupy yourself with work in your gardens? I will—I will join you later, if there is time."

Arwen backed away from him, staring at him and at her father. "Father—Aragorn—what—" she faltered. "What happened—what did you—"

"Never mind," her father interrupted her sharply. "Do as Aragorn suggested, daughter," he told her sternly, the sternness exacerbated by the hollow, stunned look in his eyes. "We—there is no time to speak with you now." As Arwen drew back further, looking at him with her own stunned expression, her father, Aragorn, and Mithrandir drew together and passed her, moving slowly and stiffly, as if they were half asleep. Arwen watched them with wide eyes as they rounded a corner and were obscured from sight, standing frozen to the spot.

They had not spoken to her, had not told her what transpired in any way, but as her men left her behind, part of their conversation drifted back to her—"Isengard," she heard, "Saruman", "Suroth," "damane" and "fallen." Something had occurred. Something momentous, and they would not—they did not—tell her. They had pushed past her as if she did not even exist….

She stayed there for what felt like a long, long time; then, seemingly of her own accord, her feet began to move. She turned and started west, to the raken pens. Toward Keille Sar.


The raken pens were chaotic when she reached them, with raken-riders landing and taking off in all directions; Arwen wove her way through them carefully, looking for Keille, feeling uncertain and nervous and out of place. Slurring Seanchan voices rose around her on all sides as she moved among them, looking around her with wide eyes. Finally she caught sight of Keille, climbing down off of the back of a raken, leaning heavily against its side. Quickly she went over to her.

"Keille?" she asked uneasily.

Keille turned sharply at her voice, as if in surprise, and her eyes widened. "Arwen?" she asked, seemingly stunned. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to—Father and Aragorn came back and they would not speak to me," she explained. "They would not tell me what was going on, so I—I thought I might find you and—are you hurt?" she asked in alarm as Keille reeled suddenly, catching herself on Iraumu, who cooed and twisted his head around to gently nip her shoulder.

"Eh. Not bad—I caught an arrow in the leg, that's all—I pulled it out," she continued, gesturing downward, and now Arwen saw that Keille's lower right leg was stained with red.

"Shouldn't—you must see the healers!" Arwen insisted.

Keille shrugged. "Yeah, but I had to take care of Iraumu first. Briande got rushed off for a conference with High Lady Suroth as soon as we hit the ground, and I had to see that Iraumu got taken care of. Just give me a moment to find an apprentice morat'raken—" She turned and scanned the mass of women milling around the raken lines. After a moment, she reached out and snagged a young girl with short black curls hurrying past. "Yisuen!"

The girl turned immediately. "Yes, morat'raken Keille!" she announced, her voice full of self-importance.

Keille handed her the reins to her raken. "Do you think you can see Iraumu into his box, fed and watered?" she asked. "I have to get to the tent of the healers to have them do something about this leg."

"Do not fear, morat'raken Keille!" the girl—Yisuen—replied smartly. "You can trust me!"

"I certainly hope so," Keille replied, then stepped away from her raken as the girl led him off. Arwen noticed that Keille was smiling as she watched the girl go. "Apprentices at that age are so cute," she told Arwen. "They're so serious, as if they think the whole fate of the Ever Victorious Army depends on them." Then she winced as she rested her weight on her leg.

"Is there any way I can assist you?" Arwen asked anxiously, noticing the quick spasm of pain that crossed the Seanchan's face.

"Yes, actually—let me lean on you while we go to the healing tents," Keille responded. "That way we'll get there faster."

With Keille leaning heavily on Arwen, they found their way to the healers' section of the camp. "Hey, Ajan," Keille called out, greeting a man who was having a cut on his face stitched by a tall, lanky-looking female. "Whatcha doin' here?"

"Hey, Keille," he said back, smiling as he caught sight of the two women; his affectionate glance at Keille made Arwen realize suddenly that this must be the sweetheart that she had talked about, in among the pikemen. "Got another cut on mah ugly face, that's what. Who's your friend?" he asked, looking at Arwen curiously.

"This is Arwen," Keille said brightly. "She's the daughter of that Other Elrond—you know, the one who owns the house? Arwen," she continued, turning back to the somewhat disconcerted Elfmaiden, "this is my sweetheart, Ajan Idwalle."

Arwen murmured something appropriate to Ajan's nod—what, she was not exactly sure.

"You should take better care of yourself; that face isn't yours alone, you know," Keille scolded him affectionately, letting go of Arwen to go and drape her arm over his shoulder. "You're gonna get too scarred up and then I'm going to dump you for a young morat'lopar." She gave him a kiss on the cheek. Arwen glanced away, suddenly and unaccountably embarrassed; she heard the healer clucking in irritation.

"Hold still or these stitches are going to be uneven," the bony woman chided.

"How about you, what are you doing here?" he asked Keille matter-of-factly.

"I got myself shot in the flaming leg, can you believe it? By some goat-kissing motherless son of a Trolloc. Briande really let me have it too."

Ajan clicked his tongue at her. "Be more careful, willya? I'd hate to have to find myself another sweetheart….and if Briande gets too mad at you, that's just what I'll have to do," he teased, to Keille's delighted laughter.

"She's not so bad, you just have to know how to handle her, that's all."

"That's it," the healer said, giving Ajan a whack on the shoulder. "All done. You know the drill by now—keep it clean, come back and see a healer in five days to get the stitches out. Now get out of the way and let me get to the morat'raken."

"All right." Ajan jumped down from the stool; then as Arwen watched in open surprise, he put his arms around Keille, kissed her, and murmured softly into her ear, "Can I see you tonight?"

Keille tipped her head back and grinned up at him. "Wouldn't miss it," she replied warmly.

He put one hand alongside Keille's face tenderly, then gave her an affectionate clout on the shoulder. "See ya then," he said cheerfully, turned, and strolled off, whistling the song Keille had been singing the night before. The bony healer now gestured at Keille.

"Come on, up onto the stool," she said wearily, dropping her needle and thread into a brass pot on the ground by her feet and taking a clean set of implements from a tray at her right hand. "Here," the healer continued, indicating Arwen. "Since you're here, you might as well be of some use. Hand me things when I ask for them," she said, and shoved the tray at Arwen, who took it by reflex. The healer paid her no heed, but turned her attention to cleaning the wound on Keille's leg.

"So why did you come looking for me?" Keille asked warmly, though she winced a little as the healer probed deeply into her wound.

Arwen had almost forgotten, but now her original purpose came back to her. "I wanted to ask you about the battle," she said slowly. "I—"

"Scissors," the healer interrupted. Arwen handed her the scissors by rote.

"I tried to speak to my father and my betrothed about it, to ask them, but they—"

"They were busy, right? Wouldn't talk to you?" Keille was grinning.

"How did you know?" she asked, looking back at the himan in open surprise.

"Just guessed. Frankly, they looked like they'd been hit pretty hard when we touched down; I don't know why….maybe they hadn't seen Seanchan fighting before," Keille replied, looking thoughtful, then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess maybe they—you don't have damane over here, do you?" she asked, looking at Arwen curiously.

"Damane? I—I don't think so; that's not a term I've ever heard before."

"That's what I thought. Huh." Keille fell silent and pondering again, until Arwen, daring greatly, spoke.

"Were you going to tell about the battle? What happened?"

"Oh, right, the battle," said Keille, coming back to herself with a start. "Well, here's what happened—you might want to sit down; this is going to be kind of long," she said, grinning, and was thwacked by the healer.

"Try not to move around so much; it's messing up the stitches," the lanky woman ordered, bending back to her work.

"Sorry. Anyway. The battle. Well," Keille began, "it all started when we passed through the ter'angreal—we have one that lets us travel great distances in a short while. We passed through, Briande and I, at the head of our raken flights, and there were the Shadowspawn spread out below us—they didn't even know we were coming, which is just the way we like it," she added, grinning. "We completely caught them off guard. So as soon as we got there, the damane went into action, with Shield and Blades of Air—normally these don't often work in battle, as the other side has damane too that are able to counter our damane, but High Lady Suroth and Ground Captain Etari felt that perhaps this land did not have damane, or not damane as good as ours, so they tried it anyway. This time," she said with pleasure, "it worked like a charm. Let me tell you, you get so used to seeing damane not work in battle you almost forget what they can do if you give them a chance…."

And so Keille continued, regaling her with the battle in best soldier fashion, spurred on perhaps to greater flights of fancy by her attentive and admiring audience. Arwen was rapt as she listened to Keille, though she had no idea what damane were herself. This was much different from the great battle-epics she had heard in the past, like those that told of the Last Alliance and their final battle against Sauron; those songs were sung with beautiful turns of phrase and melody that stirred her soul and inspired her. This was something completely different. Although she was clearly enjoying herself, and as a result telling the story in a very dramatic fashion, Keille utilized no exalted speeches or ornate words, just a blunt, straightforward, raken-eye view of what had transpired, told in a rough but essentially warm way. And the effect could not have been more moving if the Seanchan had planned it. As she spoke, Arwen could feel the sun on her shoulders, the dip and sway of Iraumu underneath her, see the Orcs down below scurrying in fear, hear the crashes and cries as the damane went into action; she felt Keille's exhilaration and excitement, her worry over her sweetheart—distant and pushed to one side, but there—she heard Keille's sharp cry at the arrow that pierced her leg, felt her pain and anger that was quickly subsumed under duty, and shared with the short human her sense of pride in her army and triumph as Isengard fell; at the fall of Isengard, Arwen actually jumped and asked her with wide eyes, "Did Isengard really—is it really gone?"

"Oh yeah," Keille said with emphasis and launched into a description. "After we had pushed the Shadowspawn back and trapped them against the citadel with our damane, there wasn't a lot left of them. High Lady Suroth gave the order to surround the citadel and break the doors—she wanted to see if there was anything useful inside it—but she was met on the steps by a man in white—"

Arwen saw how it must have been: Saruman—for that was who the White Wizard was, even if Keille did not know it—standing on the steps, his plans in ruins about him, facing down the collected Seanchan army.

"Suroth ordered her to'raken to land," Keille continued with enthusiasm. "She dismounted as soon as it touched the ground—we were in the air, circling, keeping watch for any forces that might be regrouping to come at us again, so I had a good view of the whole thing—Suroth dismounted, and the Others on the to'raken—that would be your father, and Aragorn, and that strange human Gandalf—followed her. She walked right up to him, where he stood on the steps, and called out in a loud, ringing voice, 'Are you Saruman, also known as the White Wizard and master of Isengard?' And he answered—it was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop, the entire army was holding its breath—he answered in the softest, humblest voice you could imagine, 'Yes, that is my name. I apologize if I have offended or injured you in some way, as I see that I must have, to enrage you so—' And Suroth cut him off. It looked like the Others in back were trying to speak to her, but she didn't pay 'em any attention; she simply announced, 'Saruman, also known as the White Wizard and the master of Isengard, I am High Lady Suroth of the Blood of Paendrag Hawkwing. I hereby place you under arrest by order of the Crystal Throne of Seanchan as a suspected Darkfriend and aider and abetter of the Dark One's forces. As such a crime is punishable by death within the Empire, I must inform you if you do not cooperate I will not hesitate to order your death—you will either come quietly, or you will come in pieces, but you will accompany us back to Rivendell Garrison.'

"Well, I'll tell you," Keille went on, "that Other Elrond—your father, I'm sorry—did not look happy when he heard that, and he started to say something, but neither High Lady Suroth nor that Saruman paid him any mind. Saruman was staring at the High Lady really hard, like he was trying to do that street-show trick where they put you in a trance and have you do things. After a while he spoke—and when he spoke, oh, I'll tell you—melted honey could not have sounded any sweeter than his voice! He said smoothly to the High Lady, 'But there must have been some mistake. I do not, nor ever have supported the forces of darkness within this land; I only seek to protect what is mine. Rather than fighting me, you should join me so that together we can defend ourselves against our enemies—' oh, I can't remember all of what he said, but it was a lot, and it was more the way he was saying it than what he was saying, but he made you feel like he was talking the truth, I'll tell you. It was like a langor was falling over the whole army; we didn't want to do anything so much as listen to that beautiful voice talk."

"It makes sense," Arwen murmured thoughtfully. "Father has always said that Saruman's greatest weapon has always been his voice; he can make you believe that the sky is green, is what he told me. How did you counter it?"

Keille smiled. "Well, I'll tell you, I don't know how long he went on for; I kind of lost track of time. I did notice that your father and Gandalf in particular seemed to be trying to get to High Lady Suroth, but they couldn't make it past the so'jhin, and really, it didn't seem to matter. All I wanted to do was listen to him. But after a while, Der'Sul'dam Katrell came back—she and a company of other sul'dam had been chasing down straggling Shadowspawn. She came back with her damane, and stopped as soon as she got close enough to hear that voice. She listened for about one second, I'll tell you, looked around some, and then I saw her eyes narrow, and she shouted, 'Sul'dam! That man is using Compulsion! Stop him!'

"The minute she shouted that, it was like someone threw a brick at a trap-worm nest! The entire army burst into commotion. The High Lady jumped back as if she'd seen a snake. I'll tell you, I almost fell off Iraumu! The idea that someone had been using tainted saidin on me—" Keille shuddered, and the healer ordered her curtly,

"Stand still, or this is going to take longer."

"Sorry." Keille turned back to Arwen, who frowned, confused.

"Compulsion?"

"Yeah, it's a trick of the One Power that some damane can do—these damane are among the most prized by the Empress. They weave flows in such a way as to ensure that their target performs their will and not his or her own. So I've heard, the target even thinks it's his or her own idea! The Empress doesn't use them often, and not unless it's necessary, but still—it gives me the creeps just talking about it! Anyway, as soon as our sul'dam had identified what he was doing, they could counter it," she continued, "and they wove flows of Air to stop his mouth, and to bind his arms to his sides, and when they had trussed him up in Air like a dakka bird, the power was gone, and we all felt like ourselves again. High Lady Suroth was furious that she had been touched with the One Power—and let me tell you, it was a hundred times worse because he was a man. That power he was wielding wasn't saidar, it was tainted saidin, and that's enough to give anyone the creeps," she added parenthetically but with sincere emotion. "And there was more to it than that too…" She fell uncharacteristically silent, and a strange, disturbed look settled over her features.

"What?" Arwen prompted, wanting to find out what it was that made her look like that.

Keille looked back at her now. "If he was wielding saidin," she said quietly, "and he was if he was using Compulsion, then he is a man who can channel. Men who can channel—it was channeling men who Broke the World, you know. Because of the taint. The taint upon saidin. It drove them mad, even as it rotted their bodies, and in their insanity, they used their control of the One Power to do terrible things. And Suroth knew it."

"What did she do?"

Keille shrugged, her eyes open wide. "There's only one thing to do, with a man who can channel. Has to be done, lest channeling men Break the World again, in their madness. They can't be allowed to live. It's as simple as that." Seeing Arwen's expression, she softened slightly. "I know it sounds horrible, but believe me, the alternative would be even more horrible still. The world barely survived men channeling once, and even then, millions of lives were lost and the entire world was thrown into chaos for hundreds of years. We can't even take the chance of that ever happening again, no matter what. It's gotta be done," she said, shrugging, and patted Arwen's arm. "So anyway," she continued, "this is what happened. That—that—White Wizard or whatever his name was lay trussed at her feet, like a dakka bird awaiting slaughter. He was struggling, but not much—you can't move much in bonds of Air; it's as if the air itself turns to stone around you—you can even kill someone that way, or so my sister tells me; you use the damane to crush them to death with Air, or if it's the Vise of Winds—it's forbidden to spill the blood of Paendrag, so the Vise of Winds is one way of executing traitors and other criminals of the High Blood. Suroth walked right up to him and looked down at him as he lay there. She looked down at him, then spoke—she declaimed. 'Now hear all and attend,' she called, and let me tell you, though she didn't shout I think she spoke loud enough that they heard her back in Seanchan. 'This man, Saruman, also known as the White Wizard, and the Master of Isengard, has been found by Supreme Der'Sul'dam Eilei Katrell to be using Compulsion—a talent of the One Power. He is therefore a man who can channel.' She stopped there for a moment, letting us all hear what she had said and letting it sink in, and—whoa, I've never heard anything quite like the silence that followed. 'By the law of the Crystal Throne of Seanchan,' she continued after we'd all had a nice long spell to contemplate what she had said earlier, 'men who can channel must be executed on sight, before the taint has a chance to drive them mad, lest in their insanity they Break the World again.' She glanced back down at him as she spoke and he had gone completely still by this time. So the High Lady continued, 'His life was already in danger, if he had been shown to be aiding and abetting the forces of the Dark One. Now, however, it clearly stands forfeit. Is there any present who wishes to challenge this sentence?'

"Not a single person moved. I think—I might have seen some shifting among the Others present, but they were silent too. For my part, let me tell you, as far as I'm concerned? There was no question. We had all felt him use Compulsion on us," she said with wide eyes. "We all knew he could channel. So Suroth drew her sword and called, 'Since there are no objections, I, High Lady Suroth and commander of the Seanchan Expeditionary Force, now carry out this sentence,' and she stepped forward, and THWACK, that was the end of him. Good riddance, too—the last thing this world needs is men who can channel," Keille remarked, shivering, and then she looked with frank curiosity at Arwen. "And afterwards, his body disappeared! Can you believe it? I'd never seen anything like it before in my life, I tell you. Maybe it had something to do with the taint; that's my only guess. Hey, what do I know about the One Power anyway?"

Arwen was silent, thinking for a long moment; she scarcely knew what to think. At last she looked up. "Then what?" she asked.

"Well, after he had been executed, the sul'dam and the Fists of Heaven did a quick search of the tower to determine if there was anything of value in there; they came out with a something, I'm not sure what, wrapped in cloth, but that was it. Once they had cleared the tower, Suroth ordered the damane to destroy it."

"Could they?" Arwen asked, her eyes wide. "I had always heard that Isengard was indestructible—"

"Well, I'll tell you what they did," said Keille. "You know that women who can channel tend to be strongest in Air or Water; these are female powers, whereas Earth and Fire are male powers. Right?"

Arwen did not know, but she nodded anyway, unwilling to stop the flow of words.

"So this is what they did: they wove Air and Water and Spirit, and transformed all the water in the stones of the fortress instantly to steam. You might think you need Fire to do that," she continued, "but my sister who's a sul'dam explained it to me; if you do it right, you can just make the water transform, and while there is heat, it is merely a byproduct. The technique was actually discovered about two hundred years ago for use in mining. Anyway, they turned all the water in the stones of the fortress to steam at the same moment, and the whole tower just collapsed. It was really incredible," she continued with enthusiasm. "You should have seen it—"

And as she continued to describe it, Arwen almost could see it—she could see the sun, warm and bright and hot, beating down on the masses of dull and bronze and metallic armor below, the sky filled with darting raken, circling lazily on updrafts and air currents. She saw High Lady Suroth, standing at the base of the square, blocky form of the black Tower of Isengard, saw her turn, her sword still red and unsheathed from the execution of Saruman; she heard the voice of the Lady of the Blood ringing across the entire gathered assemblage. She could hear the clanking, groaning and foot-treads of the watching army as those in front pressed back to a safe distance; she could see the two ranks of sul'dam come forward, each with her own damane, the sul'dam's dresses bright against the damane drab. She watched as the dual ranks of sul'dam spread out, stopping before they were too close, surrounding the tower in a solid ring of red and blue and dark gray, with hints of silver that were the damane's collar and leash, heard the command of Der'Sul'dam Eilei Katrell: "First-rank damane! Shield of Air! Tie it off!"

"Yes, Der'Sul'dam!" came the answer back from many throats, and the air between the ring of damane and the Tower shimmered, growing thicker, denser somehow, as if a light haze overlay the area.

Then Der'Sul'dam Katrell spoke again: "All damane! Spreading Water! Now!"

And then?

Silence. Nothing more, and nothing less. A hush over the gathering, as all eyes turned in that gleaming, sun-lit morn, to the circle of women, all of them motionless, staring at the huge, blocky shape that was Isengard.

Silence. At first. But not for long. Soon, low, groaning cracks began to be heard over the assemblage, as the stones of the Tower protested the work of the sul'dam and damane. They grew sharper and sharper, louder and louder, as the watching army observed.

Suddenly a fissure appeared, running from the ground up the side of the tower, splitting open with the sharp crack of a branch breaking, only a hundred times louder. Another one, and then a third joined it, and then with a low crackling, a fine network of little, hairline fractures spread its way out over the surface.

"Sul'dam! Full strength from your damane!" shouted Katrell.

Another moment, two. The tiny fissures grew both wider and deeper, multiplying with unbelievable quickness. The crackling sound grew louder and louder, and the deep groans and sharp snapping grew faster and quicker. A shudder, a second one, and then, slowly and majestically, the Tower of Isengard began to fall.

It fell straight down, Arwen saw this clearly, throwing up a wave of smoke and debris—this struck the Shield of Air and roiled harmlessly inside that barrier. It fell straight down, with a thunderous noise as if the world were coming to an end, sending up shockwaves through the ground to be felt clearly by the watching Seanchan army. The updraft from the collapse buoyed the wings of the raken and to'raken; they bobbed like corks in the turbulent air, the lighter raken more than the heavier to'raken. And when the dust settled, drawn on flows of Air from scores of waiting damane, when the air cleared, when the raken and to'raken resumed their lazy, circling flight, what had been Isengard…was no more.

The whole process, Keille said, from the initial contact to the execution of Saruman to the fall of Isengard, had taken less than a day.

"And now," Keille finished simply, "on to Mordor."

With that deceptively unassuming sentence, the raken-rider fell silent. And Arwen returned, slowly, to the world around her—the noise of the Seanchan healer tents, the masses of Seanchan milling in all directions, the rays of the late afternoon sun, slanting in. What had been Isengard…was no more.

For a long moment, she did not speak, too absorbed in her thoughts, trying to sort out her own feelings. Isengard…the threat that Isengard represented…removed. In less than the space of a day. Gone. The massive armies of Isengard? Destroyed. Saruman the White, of the silver tongue? Executed under the laws of the Crystal Throne, as a man who could channel. The Tower of Isengard? Crumbled to dust. And now, she had heard Keille say, this unassuming little morat'raken who represented the merest fraction of the immeasurably vast and diverse Seanchan army, this plain-mannered mortal who was so incredibly young compared to herself and her father, this morat'raken who was only one of thousands like her, girls from the streets and towns and farms of Seanchan, trained under the Crystal Throne and shaped into soldiers in the Seanchan army, who was one part of the vast Ever Victorious Army composed of men and women from all walks of life, from all over the strange and distant land of Seanchan itself, on to Mordor.

No doubt, in her tone. No uncertainty, hesitation, or fear. Not even the slightest suggestion that they might not succeed in their task. Just—on to Mordor.

She stirred now, voiced those thoughts as Keille sat in her own silence. "You—do not fear? That you might—that you might not succeed?"

Keille blinked and looked back at her, her expression somewhat confused. "Why wouldn't we succeed?" she asked, in the same way that she might have said, Why wouldn't it hit the ground? if Arwen had suggested that a dropped stone might not fall. "It is not called the Ever Victorious Army for no reason," she continued gently, as if explaining a fact that Arwen had suddenly, unaccountably forgotten. "We have never lost a war. Battles, yes; wars, no. Whenever we lose a battle—and even when we win—our leaders examine their plans. They determine what went wrong, and what went right, and in this way refine their strategy, so that they know what to do and what not to do for next time. Our Empress's generals—may she live forever—have been doing this for almost a thousand years now. They have gotten very, very good at it." She smiled at Arwen reassuringly. "Have no fear. We don't lose."

Arwen's brows contracted slightly. The calm confidence in Keille's tone took her by surprise. She had heard nothing like it before, from those around her. The few times she had heard her father or her brothers speak of Mordor—which they only did when they thought she was not around; they did not speak of Sauron to her because they did not want to worry her—there was nothing like this. She had heard concern, even alarm, and something else—something so deeply hidden that they might not even be aware of it. An undertone, a feeling that no matter what they might try, they would not succeed, for Sauron was unbeatable. That undercurrent was always there. While discussing alliances, while discussing tactics, even when they had first received the raken with the information about the Seanchan army, it had been there. The feeling that all their efforts were doomed to failure before they even started. Mordor would triumph, in the end, despite anything they might attempt. No matter what they told her, in an attempt to console her or to ease her worry, no matter what their words said, their eyes had said differently. For the past thousand years, the tale of doom was the only tale that she had ever sensed in their hearts.

It was only when her father spoke of Aragorn that Arwen had felt this mood starting to lift. As she considered it now—and she had not seen it this way at first, not until she had heard Keille's tale of the battle of Isengard and what the Seanchan could do—it seemed that her father had fixed on Aragorn as estel, the only hope to stand against the Shadow, with intense determination—a determination that somehow suddenly appeared vaguely irrational. She was certain that it was only her father's belief in Aragorn's importance that had allowed him at all to be reconciled to her choice.

At the time, of course, the belief that Aragorn was the only hope had seemed perfectly natural. Looking at it now, in the cold, clear-eyed light of what she had just heard, Arwen was not so sure. As she thought about it now, it did seem rather far-fetched.

In fact, she realized with a start, it seemed more than that; it seemed out and out ridiculous.

She pushed that thought out of her head with the violence of a woman backing away from the edge of a precipice. The idea that she could consider anything her father thought or did in that fashion rocked her to the core; it shook her more deeply than Keille's cold-eyed appraisal of the tale of her and Aragorn's love had the previous evening, and in a manner far more fundamental to her being. Under last night's moon, her world had been fractured into pieces; under the sun of this day, the pieces were suddenly falling back together, in ways that they had not fit at first, and the new shapes they were making were deeply disturbing. The image of her father, the wise, grave, kind and warm figure who had dominated her childhood, who knew all that there was to know, and always spoke nothing but the purest wisdom, suddenly stood out in a harsh, unforgiving new light.

The new thoughts were coming now, faster and faster, and Arwen would have given anything to be able to shut them out. He thought Middle-Earth was doomed without Aragorn, the cold voice of interior truth spoke now. He honestly thought that there was no way to win. You know he did. And why? Because they had barely been able to push Sauron back before, with the Last Alliance. So how did he and Gandalf plan to defeat Sauron this time? By doing what they had done last time, only with greatly diminished resources and power. Not by searching for a new strategy to fit these new circumstances. Simply by doing the same thing over again only less well—calling everybody together at the last minute and throwing their forces anyhow against the Shadow. The Seanchan are only Men, mortals, and they've been steadily building and improving their army for the past thousand years, you heard Keille. But Father and Gandalf, immortal, both of them, could not see their way clear to doing anything except what they had done before.

Stop. Stop. I don't want to think this.

But the interior cold voice did not heed. Why did Father believe so quickly, so readily in Aragorn? Why did he crown Aragorn "Estel?" Because Aragorn was a relic from the past. The Last of the Dunedain. Isildur's Heir. The long-lost descendant of Father's brother Elros. Not because of any intrinsic qualities of worth that Aragorn possessed. He could have been anyone. He could have been that Man of Minas Tirith that you have heard Father speak of so disdainfully, and it wouldn't have mattered. As long as he came with the proper pedigree, Father would have hailed him as the new hope. You know it.

And is that why you loved him, Arwen? Is that why Father let you love him?

"No," she murmured under her breath, unaware of Keille looking at her sharply. "No."

Yes. She desperately wanted to turn her eyes away, but she could not. Yes, to some extent, yes.

Father claims Aragorn is the new hope, that cold, unmerciful, truthful voice went on. He sees Aragorn as the new hope because he is really the old hope, a relic from the past, the Last Alliance, and it is impossible for Father to believe that Sauron may be defeated without recourse to the past. You know he believes this. And it is not true.

It is not true.

The Seanchan had proved it not to be true. There was another way—perhaps even more than one way—and Father had not seen it. Had not even looked for it.

Perhaps—another new thought, one more in an avalanche—

Perhaps he could not.

And what of Aragorn?

She raised her hands to her head now, desperate to shut out the thoughts, hearing distantly, vaguely in another world, Keille's voice speaking words of concern. But it was a hopeless attempt. What of Aragorn? What of his fire, his strength, his courage? Are those qualities that he truly possesses? Or do you see those things in him because Father sees those things in him, because of his pedigree?

And underneath that, underlying everything she had thought before, came that awful, unanswerable question. What is the real reason that you're choosing to sacrifice your immortality?

She could not stand it. Not for another moment.

Driven by the urge to flee, she thrust herself to her feet. Keille cried out after her in alarm, but Arwen did not hear her. She turned tipsily, almost drunkenly, in the direction of her gardens; she ran, gracelessly, fleeing the Seanchan, the encampment; trying to flee her thoughts.

But those thoughts ran with her, and would not leave her be.