Chapter 9: Broken Oaths
Once through the gateway, Kiara unpicked the weave. She could feel someone tugging at the tent flap, trying to get in. She pulled her dress over her head and slipped into her blankets in her shift.
"Kiara Lisette!" Tel Janin's voice sounded outside. "Are you awake? Release the warding."
Kiara messed her hair up a little and sat up, releasing the warding. Her second-in-command lifted the tent flap and entered. "The Shadowsworn in Adanza show no sign of preparing to attack, and their watch is lax. A surprise attack now would hit them hard," he counselled.
"No, Tel Janin," Kiara said firmly. "First of all, at night adversaries come to an unspoken agreement to stop fighting and rest. I'm not saying Shadowsworn always keep this truce, but we should, as much as circumstances allow. The warding around the camp will tell us if they send Draghkar. The second reason is more practical. We all need rest, soldier or Aes Sedai. No surprise attack."
Tel Janin stared at her long and hard before nodding. "Your arguments are sound," he said grudgingly. "Rest well." He left.
Not five hours after midnight, a loud wailing sound from the ter'angreal in the centre of the camp woke everyone. Balefire. They had been attacked in the wee hours of the morning with balefire.
Kiara jumped from her pallet as if it had stung her, hastily yanking on a dress with small, overlapping plates of Power-wrought gold and silver on the bodice and narrow divided skirts. She rummaged among her belongings and slipped two black rods slightly longer than her palm out. She put one up either sleeve. In case she was shielded from the Power later on.
"Kiara Sedai!" an Aiel, horrified at the violence, cried out. "The … balefire was the largest we have seen so far. It must have been created by a link between many powerful … Dreadlords."
Nodding tersely, Kiara channelled some Spirit into the balefire-absorbing ter'angreal, which seemed to be failing. Drawing saidar through Cyrelaide, she tried to fix it. Balefire could be blocked, but if too many Dreadlords were linked … there was no knowing how powerful the balefire could be.
Her saidar-enhanced hearing caught the sound of feet, paws and hooves approaching. A few seconds later, Trollocs, Myrddraal, Darkhounds and mounted Friends of the Dark charged into their camp.
Abandoning the ter'angreal—it had been overloaded to the point that it could no longer serve as protection—, Kiara turned on the Shadowspawn. A small but concentrated and powerful Maelstrom took a Myrddraal down from its horse. A vicious twist with a weave of Air broke its neck. It lay on the ground, writhing as its fellows trampled it.
Tel Janin appeared, Callandor a shining thing too bright to look at in his hands. She drew on the Power until Cyrelaide glowed like its counterpart and wove Fire. Every Shadowspawn within a twenty-metre radius of her burst into flame. She began cutting down others with razor-edged weaves of Air.
Suddenly, a shield of Spirit forced itself in between her and saidar. She whirled, whacking the Dreadlord looming over her from behind in the face with Cyrelaide. The shield vanished as the pretty honey-haired woman stumbled back, clutching a bleeding nose. With a single ruthless stroke Kiara slammed a weave of Spirit similar to a shield but sharper between the woman and the Power before she had time to recover. The Dreadlord was now severed and relatively harmless.
Kiara wove tight bonds of Air around the traitor and tied them off, leaving the Dreadlord's legs free so she could run if needed. But she would do no fighting. If anything, the linked Dreadlord's attempted attack had told her one thing—the channelers on the other side were moving in. Linked.
A young captain of her troops was cornered by no less than eight Trollocs, each with its scimitar raised for the strike. Highly destructive attacks like balefire and Maelstroms were out of the question—they might harm the man as well. Instead, Kiara wove Water, drying the blood in each Trolloc's veins.
Without the flow of blood, the Trollocs dropped their weapons and clutched at their throats. Within seconds all eight lay dead upon the ground. Kiara turned on some Dreadlords, the light emanating from Cyrelaide getting brighter and brighter as she drew more of saidar. The wondering stare from the captain she had saved went unnoticed.
Kiara knew she could not hold out for long against the Dreadlords if they were linked, even with Cyrelaide. The feel of the Power being used in tremendous amounts was everywhere. Channelling furiously, she backed towards Tel Janin.
"Prepare for a link," she whispered as soon as she was close. The light faded from Callandor. At his nod, Kiara initiated a link. Without further ado she lashed out with both halves of the One Power, severing several Dreadlords at one go.
Then she realised that a particular Myrddraal was linked to about eighty Trollocs. She wove a Razor Wind and it flew apart into little pieces, torn asunder by rapidly revolving weaves of Air. The disciplined Trollocs in the area immediately dropped, howling and dying right and left.
A Myrddraal barked orders in the Trolloc tongue. Some of the Trollocs heard, and formed a ragged line. They were regaining formations. Kiara channelled Earth, and the ground split apart. The assembled Trollocs fell into a deep chasm with piercing cries. Without another thought Kiara shut the split before any of those on her side stumbled and fell in. Blood leaked from a crack in the ground. She thought she felt the flow of saidin from Tel Janin ebb a little. He was tiring, and she would tire soon as well. He staggered a little and looked surprised when she released him from the link.
"Time for negotiations, I think," she muttered softly. She made a gateway, stepped through and let it close before Tel Janin could react. Then she realised she had stepped into a nightmare.
She had emerged into the throne room in the palace of Adanza, behind some curtains to the side of the royal seat. Asmodean sat on the throne. Rather uneasily, he thought. At his side, but plainly his equal, was a tall woman dressed all in black Kiara felt was familiar. The woman could channel. Hurriedly she masked her own ability to do so. It would not do to be detected by one of the Forsaken.
Kiara looked on. Worst of all was the willowy woman with a lovely heart-shaped face, wearing a thin, clinging gown of barely opaque silk, on Asmodean's knee. At least that was what she thought was the worst, before the woman was dragged in.
The woman was able to channel with average abilities, but was shielded. There were wings of grey in her hair, though most of it was still dark. She was Aes Sedai. Her head hung down, and her hair hid her face completely. She was tossed unceremoniously onto her knees by the two Myrddraal that had dragged her in.
Then she raised her head, and Kiara had to suppress a gasp of shock and anger. The woman was Asmodean's mother. No, Joar Addam's mother. No man would do that to his own parent. Though she was aging, Joar Addam's mother was still a stunningly beautiful woman. But her face held the brokenness of someone who had received the attentions of a Halfman. It had to be that.
"I came to beg," she said hoarsely. "Twice you have thrown me out. Now you will hear me speak."
"You will command the Chosen?" the black-clad woman asked with obvious contempt.
Joar Addam's mother went on as if she had not heard, "My son is Joar Addam Nessosin, and he is dead. Asmodean has killed him. And Asmodean is Forsaken. A traitor and worse than a beast."
Kiara saw the colour flood Asmodean's face. He was angry. Suddenly she could not feel his mother's ability to channel anymore, but the black-clad Forsaken woman had not lifted a finger. The realisation struck her with horrible clarity. He had severed his own mother. He was that far gone.
"Take her," he told the Myrddraal with distaste, "and do what you will." The two Myrddraal took up Joar Addam's mother's arms again and dragged her out. She screamed every step of the way. And kept screaming until distance drowned her voice out. But Kiara was sure she had kept screaming even then.
A wave of anger hit her like a block of ice to her face. Throwing aside the mask, she drew as much saidar as she could through Cyrelaide. The black-clad Forsaken looked up in surprise. She was Nemene. Semirhage.
The glow of saidar appeared around Semirhage. Kiara tried to sever the Forsaken, but the weave lost its sharp edge just before it hit home, and Semirhage was merely shielded. A weave of Air slammed her to the wall. Kiara held both weaves and rounded on Asmodean. He was staring at her as if she were the Dark One. She shielded him, too. She would put nothing past him. Nothing, now. The willowy flipskirt was hurled from his lap with Air. She landed a few feet away and lay there sobbing hysterically.
"I cannot believe that I trusted you," Kiara said in a voice filled with cold anger. "You launched a surprise attack on my camp when I spared you from one. You dandle a flipskirt on your knee when I was fighting for my life and the lives of countless others. And worst of all, you severed your own mother and gave her to Myrddraal.
"Do you know how many promises you have shattered? How many broken oaths lie at your feet? Forget the attack—this is war. Let's talk about your mother. You have sworn an oath on your thirteenth naming day, like everyone else, you would never lift a finger to harm your parents. You broke it. Destroyed it."
"The Great Lord breaks all the oaths we have taken," he muttered with a pleading look at her and a warning glance towards Semirhage. So he was afraid. It was no excuse.
"What about your promise to pay me an entire lifetime? What of your promise not to harm innocent people? You gave them after you swore to the Shadow." Kiara glared at Semirhage, then knocked the woman out with a form of Healing that made someone sleep for a few hours. She concentrated on Asmodean.
"Don't you know who that is?" Asmodean raised his voice immediately. "Semirhage. I have to put up some kind of pretence in front of her."
Kiara could have done it with the Power, but this man was not worth the effort. She crossed the room and struck him across the face with her hand, then dusted her hands off as if she had touched something filthy.
"The next time I see you," she told him, "I will use balefire. And I won't miss, mark my words."
Asmodean's hand closed firmly around her arm. "Kiara," he said tightly, "you have to try and understand my position."
Without warning she whirled, free hand holding the small black rod. She pressed a protruding part, and a blade appeared from one end, solidifying from its liquid form stored in the hilt. The blade slashed his hand deeply, then went to his throat. He did not let go.
"Does a human being seek to understand something below her?" she responded to his question acidly. Her blade pressed so hard against his flesh that it drew blood. And still he did not let go. "And let go."
"Use the Power on me, or that weapon, but I will not let go just because you wish me to," he told her. His voice was hard and flinty.
Kiara was ready to explode. Taking the blade from his throat, she turned it point-down and drove it into the back of Asmodean's forearm. With a yell he let go, trying to pull the blade from his flesh. She Travelled, only letting go of the weave shielding him when she was well away.