The Daughter of the Nine Moons arrived in the morning, with a show of ceremony—not as much as there might have been, for she was traveling under the veil, but expansive ceremony enough. Her palanquin came, carried by four muscular da'covale selected especially for the purpose, up the long and curving walk to Elrond's house; preceding her was a double file of ten Deathwatch guards, armed and grim-looking, Ogier all. Her courtiers rode before her, mounted on horses each worth the wealth that a crafter such as a smith or a glassmaker might see in a year; but they separated as they approached the house; only a few select ones, Truthspeakers and so'jhin and oathguards, would join her in Elrond's house. The rest would stay in the garrison itself, or failing that, erect pavilions on the lawn. The luggage train was several times as long as the rest of the procession itself, consisting of servants and da'covale carrying clothes and jewels and ornaments and perfumes, furnishings, tents, supplies, all the things that a court in motion might require. As lengthy as the procession was, it would have been several times longer if Riyath had come as the Daughter of the Nine Moons herself; one of the advantages to traveling under the veil was the loosening of many of the cumbersome formalities of court life. Still, as the Empress's palanquin came up the front steps to Elrond's front terrace, as it stopped there and High Lady Riyath's personal so'jhin Amatya came forward to give Riyath her hand and assist her in stepping down from the litter, Elrond bowed low before her. Elrohir, also in attendance, bowed likewise, though his face was set in the immobility that Elrond knew covered deep dislike. The Seanchan, including Briande, Arisae, and Sthenn, along with the morat'raken of the First Raken Flight all drawn up in attendance in a solid block facing the broad front steps, gave the full obeisance, of course; they knelt to the ground and touched their foreheads to the stones of the terrace.
It shocked Elrond, to see his wife and daughter behave so. He knew that it should not; as members of the Ever Victorious Army of Seanchan, they were permitted much less leeway in their behavior than he was. Despite Rivendell Garrison's distance from and relative unimportance to Seanchan, he had hosted more than a few members of the High Blood at Imladris during the thousand years since Little Tarmon Gai'don, including four times family members of the Empress herself, and twice those as high-positioned as High Lady Riyath. Because of that, he was aware that the Seanchan nobility tolerated from him—and from Galadriel as well, come to think of it, or so he recalled from the one time he had met Seanchan in her presence—what from a Seanchan would be an utterly horrifying level of disrespect, and that this tolerance was due solely to the fact that he was, as they called him, an Other. In Seanchan, Others were able, sometimes, to defy norms that humans could not break. Still, it was never more than tolerance, awarded only on an individual basis; though he had never met the noble who had demanded from him the full obeisances a Seanchan human was required to perform, he was aware that such a thing might indeed occur one day. He had wondered impersonally from time to time, what would happen when and if it did; for he knew himself to be unable at a visceral level to abase himself in the fashion required by Seanchan custom. He simply could not do it. It was not even a question of desire, it was almost a question of ability. For him to—to go down on his knees, to force himself to bow his head till it touched the earth, before anyone, let alone a human—he could not and would not be able to perform such an act, no matter what the penalty. It was simply out of the question.
Of course, he mused distantly, looking to where his wife and daughter knelt with their heads touching the stones beneath them, he would have said the same of Celebrian and Arwen as well, and yet there they knelt as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He sighed and moved his gaze back to the Daughter of the Nine Moons.
The Daughter of the Nine Moons was short, with smooth, dark skin and huge, dark eyes; her face was heart-shaped. Her head was completely shaved, as was the custom of the Empress's family; lack of hair among the Seanchan was used to indicate one's status. Her nails were all an inch long, lacquered blue, and she moved with a consummate, almost—though not quite—Elven grace. Elrond would not have called her beautiful, certainly not by Other standards—Elven standards—but she was arresting. Where she walked, all eyes followed. And indeed, he thought as she advanced across the terrace, that was part of what made her so arresting. She knew that she was the center of all eyes, wherever she went; knew it, and moved as if she expected it to be so.
She surveyed those before her on the terrace for a moment, then held up her hands and gestured. The so'jhin beside her watched her gestures, then said, "The High Lady Riyath Rehhei Kore Paendrag bids you all to rise and be sei'taer in her sight." A rustle filled the terrace as the ranks of bowing morats rose to their feet. Riyath watched, then nodded and gestured again, turning her eyes toward her so'jhin. "Elrond, Lord of Imladris and host of Rivendell Garrison by grace of the Empress of the Nine Moons (may she live forever)," the so'jhin Amatya continued, "High Lady Riyath requests shelter under your roof for the length of her visit here. She would be greatly honored were you to comply."
Elrond had already nodded before the so'jhin finished her sentence; he knew exactly how much ability he had to refuse the request, which was to say, none. Still, he acquiesced gracefully. "The honor would be mine, not hers, to shelter such an illustrious guest. I have had rooms prepared for the High Lady and her entourage."
"They would be most appreciated," Amatya said after Riyath had finished flicking her fingers. "The hospitality of Elrond of Rivendell Garrison is known to be without equal across the length and breadth of Seanchan."
Elrond nodded; they were fine words that he had heard before, but still he was oddly and distantly pleased by it.
As the Daughter of the Nine Moons Riyath, accompanied by her so'jhin Amatya, proceeded into the house proper, however, he could not help but notice Arisae. She was gazing at Briande with an expression that chilled his blood.
The investiture ceremony of Briande Duchen Paendrag into her new status as Third Banner-General of the Ever Victorious Army occurred that night, on the terrace. Lanterns had been lit, and burned in smoky orange and yellow and blue against the cool air of the night; they did not throw their light very far into the shadows of the night around, but far enough to illuminate the files of morat'rakens drawn up. Those present at this ceremony were only morat'rakens or morat'to'rakens, along with the commanders of the units of the Fists of Heaven.
It took place on the same terrace where the Conference of the Ring had taken place, back during what the Seanchan called Little Tarmon Gai'don; the paving blocks of the courtyard had been replaced since then, and showed lighter in the center than those around it. Elrond noticed the difference as he stood, on the west edge of the terrace—towards Seanchan—and waited for the ceremony to start.
The raken-riders were drawn up in solid blocks, to form a double aisle, down which Celebrian would come to be invested. The Daughter of the Nine Moons Riyath sat beside him, placed on a regal throne which raised her head above the level of the onlookers, with her so'jhin Amatya kneeling at her feet. Celebrian advanced through the ranks, arrayed in lacquered armor, with her dual swords over her shoulders. She prostrated herself at the feet of Riyath's throne, until Amatya raised her to her feet.
"Rise," Amatya said, "and be sei'taer in our sight, most worthy servant of the Crystal Throne."
The ceremony went on for a long time; the lamps that had been lit burned down in their sockets and the smoke drifted across the terrace. Elrond watched in silence, running his eyes across the assembled morat'raken, flicking his gaze surreptitiously up at the Daughter of the Nine Moons, and glancing away before she could spot him. The Daughter's speech, as revealed through Amatya, was distant and formal; Celebrian's replies were startlingly clear and cold. Elrohir was to be seen, off to the side, standing his distance with arms folded and icy. Arwen—Arisae—stood beside and behind Celebrian, with Sthenn with her, her gray eyes glittering and the edges of her teeth barely exposed.
At last the moment came when Amatya advanced, smiling at Celebrian. She had Celebrian kneel and take off her helmet, revealing those features so loved, so cherished to Elrond. A jar of clear water was at her side. She lifted it and poured it over Celebrian's head.
"Arise, Briande Duchen Paendrag, soldier of the Empire, and know that you are now Third Banner-General in the Empire."
"I rise, and thank you, Lady Riyath, for this office and this commission," Celebrian replied, unfolding her long body gracefully and rising to her feet. "I swear that I will strive to fulfill your charge to the best of my abilities, and to always be a loyal officer to the Empire of Seanchan."
Riyath smiled and flashed her fingers again; Celebrian had delivered that speech looking at her, though it was her so'jhin who had delivered her words. Amatya said, loudly, "If anyone here present has any objection to make to this new appointment, let that man or woman come forth now and reveal it."
For a long moment, there was silence. Then, and it shouldn't have surprised Elrond, but it did, Arisae stepped forward.
The moment the words were out of Amatya's mouth, Briande knew what was coming, in a sudden flash of insight. She'd known Arisae would move, but until that second it hadn't occurred to her how fast—she'd underestimated the speed of youth, how she had—
I should have known, she thought as Arisae stepped forward under the light of the moon and the torches; her daughter moved with total confidence, the light glimmering silver on her helm and sword, and turned to face Amatya, and Briande knew at once the gist of what she would say. Hadn't she been there too, at the investiture, over two hundred years ago? Hadn't she planted the seeds there, that had led to that downfall? How had she not thought her daughter would do the same with her? For Arisae turned to face the crowd, held up her arms, and shouted, "High Lady Riyath, I challenge the investiture of Briande Duchen Paendrag!"
A loud gasp rose up from the throats of the assembled; heads jerked up from their solemn obeisance to stare at what was transpiring on the plaza. Amatya had gone still and was watching Arisae as if trying to decide what to do; the face of the High Lady Riyath herself was utterly expressionless. Elrond's face was white with horror, Briande saw distantly; she realized her knuckles hurt and that her hand was clamped on her sword hilt, but Arisae continued her speech, calling aloud without a look at her mother.
"I charge, High Lady Riyath and those of the crowd assembled, that Banner-General Briande Duchen Paendrag is a traitor to the throne of the Empress of the Nine Moons! I charge that she has been plotting for the past hundred years to cause the downfall of this dynasty and take her place! I charge—"
"You lie!" Briande's cry rang out across the terrace, making the stones of Rivendell Garrison echo, and bringing Arisae's attention directly to her. She knew at that moment what she had to do. Perhaps her daughter knew as well, she saw, for Arisae turned to face her, and her gray eyes were gleaming with a frightening eager light. Briande started forward, each step heavy with iron and purpose, and pivoted to turn and face High Lady Riyath. "How dare you spread such lies about your commanding officer," she accused, looking over at Arisae. Back to Riyath; she dropped to her knees and touched her forehead to the pavement. "High Lady," she said, her voice suffused with earnestness, "I have never plotted the downfall of the dynasty. I am a loyal subject to the Empress of the Nine Moons (may she live forever) and the fact that I am being accused now by one so jealous of my position does not eliminate that fact! My record of service to the throne speaks for itself! Is this the record of a traitor?" Riyath's dark eyes glimmered. She could have been thinking anything behind them. "My loyalty has always been to the Empire of Seanchan and the Crystal Throne! I swear! I will prove it by my life! By my life! It is Arisae Moribet Paendrag's jealousy alone that leads her to concoct this ridiculous—"
Riyath's fingers flashed. Amatya said only, "Enough." She gazed at both of them. "Trial has been asked for, Briande Duchen Paendrag; stand sei'taer and answer."
Briande rose, feeling that this all had to be a nightmare somehow, knowing, even as she did, what her only answer had to be. "I do, High Lady of the Blood."
Riyath looked at the two of them, and her fingers twitched. Amatya said quietly, "Let a weapon be fetched for Arisae."
Elrond watched in desperation as Sthenn stepped forward, carrying Arwen's weapon, as the morat'raken were cleared back from the platform on which Riyath stood, as the braziers and lamps were moved out of the way. His eyes could not leave the pale, so-beautiful face of she who had been his wife; Celebrian could have been carved from marble as she stood there in the moonlight, watching his daughter. His daughter? No, not his daughter now….he saw no trace of Arwen in the features of the Seanchan der'morat'raken who swung her sword, testing the weight, the balance, and gave a terrifying smile to Celebrian. He wished with all his heart that he could do something to avert the proceedings, but could not; he did not dare to look at Elrohir beside him, though he knew Elrohir must be as shocked as he was. He yearned to look away, to deny the spectacle of his wife—no wife—and his daughter—no daughter—facing to kill one another, and failed.
Amatya was speaking now, as the two of them faced each other, cool and perfect in the moonlight; but he could not hear what she was saying, could not see anything other than the glimmering silver light that reflected off their blades. The two of them waited as Amatya stood between them, both poised in perfect aspects of potentiality. Silent. Waiting.
Then Amatya stepped back. Her hand flashed down.
For a long moment, nothing happened. There was no movement from either of them. They stood, just as they were, statues. Each paused. Each poised. Each determined to wait the other out. Elrond could not imagine what Celebrian must be feeling at this moment. Silence. Stillness.
Then, after a time, it seemed an age—motion.
Looking back on it later, he could not tell who had moved first, was it his daughter or his wife, though he would guess that it must have been Arwen; knowing Celebrian as he did, he could not imagine—even with the Death of Ten Thousand Tears as incentive—that she could bring herself to strike the first blow at her daughter. But he would not reason thus until later. At that moment, all he saw was a flash of silver. Two flashes, two gleaming streaks, as two slender, curving swords sprang up to meet one another and metal rang with metal through the night air.
The watching morat'raken were silent with the silence of awe. Amatya and Riyath were silent with the silence of judgement. He, and his son, were silent with the silence of disbelief. The two women locked, blade to blade, struggled a moment, then one of the two forms—appearing the same, in torchlight and armor—thrust the other back. She stumbled. The first form followed, slashing downwards, only to be blocked with the clang of steel on steel. Sparks jumped from the shining crescent-moon of blade, and the attacker reeled back, the attacked pursuing. Riyath's dark face was expressionless as she watched.
Around the circle of terrace, Briande and Arisae went, striking, retreating, advancing, moving with a speed and fluidity beyond the reach of humans; they fought almost bonelessly, moving in a continuous flurry of motion and agility, flowing like water from slash to parry to thrust to slash again and again, from form to form. Elrond knew enough about Seanchan fighting to recognize some of the forms they used—Leaping Tiger, Pruning the Hedges, River Undercuts Mountain—but they were moving so fast he doubted a human could have followed it. They moved almost like—once, a very long time ago, he had seen two Myrddraal, captured by the Seanchan and carried in the entourage of one of the Blood, for what purpose he could not remember; had seen them, and felt the glance of the Eyeless. They had moved with the same boneless motion his wife and daughter moved with now.
The combatants locked blades again, and turned, and he saw Celebrian's face, a flash of bared teeth and blue eyes and blonde hair; there was nothing maternal in it now. She was fighting for her life. She set her stance, her shoulders bracing and pushing with her legs, and then there was a flurry of movement, and now it was Arwen's face in the moonlight, her gray eyes locked with intent, her black hair escaped and wild around her face. Again, the two of them moved, as the Seanchan morat'raken watched in silent shock, as Riyath looked on, emotionless, as Sthenn grinned nastily in the background. Elrond could not look away. He dared not. Either way, the outcome for him would be nothing short of disastrous.
Clash and clash and clash; glints of light and two dark figures strove across the cracked stones of the terrace. The Seanchan watched in silence. It was hard to tell which was which; they moved in and out of the moonlight, the torchlight, and seemed to Elrond's not inexperienced eyes to be evenly matched, with nothing to choose between them. The air rang with ringing metal, and the heavy breathing and occasional snarled curses of the combatants.
"Do something!" Elrohir hissed beside him, staring at him with his mother's wide blue eyes, but Elrond could think of nothing to do, could only stand there helplessly as his wife and his daughter strove with one another. Desperately he tried to formulate a plan, a strategy, some idea, but nothing came to mind; there was nothing he could do, not while the Daughter of the Nine Moons herself sat there; the two-feather general Kallar Derrin beside her, the commander of Rivendell Garrison.
He was still turning over plans in his mind when a shout rang out. Arisae's foot slipped out from under her, and she fell with a heavy crash against the low railing around the terrace, her arms flung out, her gray eyes wide and staring up at Briande. Briande's face was in shadow; she slid closer, her sword raised above her head, preparing to strike.
"Mother!" Arwen cried in the voice of a child. Briande's blade wavered in its stance; she hesitated for a tiny fraction of a second; and then Briande's weapon fell from her hands as Arisae Moribet Paendrag rolled to her knees and drove her own steel right through Briande's body.
It burned. It felt icy, cold like fire; that was her first impression; that and the look of savage triumph in Arisae's eyes. Arwen's face filled her vision—her gray eyes wide against her smooth, flawless skin. Her teeth glimmered in a smile. She was close enough that she could have reached out and laid her cheek against her mother's as she had when she was a baby. Then Briande's world jarred, and she realized that she had fallen to her knees; a rush of air past her told her that Arisae had risen.
"Mother!!" Elrohir cried. Elrond scarcely heard him. His heart had stopped beating. Almost without his own volition, he crossed the open courtyard to his wife's side. No, no, please, not this, not her, not now….
He dropped to his knees beside her sprawled form, and with shaking hands lifted her up. Her blood stained his fine robes, but he paid it no attention. Her face was rapidly graying, and her eyes were rolling back in her head. "Celebrian," he whispered to her, speaking Sindar. "Celebrian, my wife, please, do you hear me? Do you hear me?" She coughed, a bright spray of blood red on her lips. Her breathing was shallow and too fast. "My wife, please," he repeated, over and over, shaking her, feeling the weakness of her limbs, the softness of her muscle tone. In some distant world he was aware of the eyes of the Daughter of the Nine Moons, of the morat'raken, of the court; aware of them and he damned them all. "Celebrian, Celebrian, please, please, answer me," he implored her. "Answer me."
He could hear Arwen, behind him; she had risen and was declaiming, "You see, High Lady Riyath, that I have proven the truth of my accusations! First General of the Air Briande Duchen Paendrag was a traitor to the throne of Seanchan! She was plotting to destroy and undermine the Crystal Throne! She sought to bring about the death and destruction of the Empress! I have proof that she was secretly funding the Fai Angan resistance! It was First General Briande who was behind the Crystal Tower Plot to murder the Empress's sister! First General Briande who engineered the N'Kon uprising! It was none other than she whom I have defeated here who sold the secrets of soe'feia Truthspeaker Eleui to the Sh'boan of the Sharan Empire, all the way across the Aryth Ocean and the Westlands! Briande who contracted with the Aiel to murder the Empress's peace envoy! Briande who—" Elrond was aware of her words washing dimly over him, but had no thought to spare for them, chafing Celebrian's wrists over and over again and murmuring softly to her, begging her to stay with him, telling her that he had lost so much, he couldn't bear to lose her too, not now, not here.
"She's lying," Briande muttered, coughing up more blood.
"My wife…?" His heart leapt into his throat; he clasped her close. "Celebrian—"
"She's lying." One of Celebrian's arms crept, shaking, around his neck; she struggled feebly and almost collapsed. "She's lying." Her breath was coming in short spurts. "I never did that. I never did any of that." Coughing, choking, she threw her weight on him; her entire body was trembling so badly she could barely support herself. Clutching him for balance, she managed to make it as far as her knees. "Get me out of here," she said, clutching him and coughing again. "Get me out of here."
Celebrian hung on his neck like deadweight, but somehow he managed to bear her to her feet; she clutched him like a drowning woman, for she could not support herself. Arisae's litany went on and on in the background, but Elrond could no longer make any sense of it; nor did he try, bending all his effort to help his wife rise. Celebrian took a step, then another one, and stumbled, almost dragging him down with her; he lifted her with an effort, and carried her toward the back of the terrace, into the house, as Arisae continued her denunciation. None of the so'jhin or guards tried to stop him.
Why should they? Elrond reflected with the bitterness of despair. Celebrian is already dead. My wife is already dead.