with his thumb. Useless, he knew, but . . . Darin, his eldest son, was one of the Stone Dogs waiting as a rear guard. They would have been the last through. Suraile, his eldest daughter, had remained with the Stone Dog for whom she was thinking of giving up the spear.
His eyes met Dyrele’s, as green and beautiful as the day she had laid the wreath at his feet. And threatened to cut his throat if he did not pick it up. “We can wait.” he said softly. The wetlander had said three days, but maybe he was wrong. His thumb stabbed the red spot again. Dyrele nodded calmly; he hoped there would be no need to cry in one another’s arms once they could be alone.
A Maiden came skittering down the slope from above, hurriedly lowering her veil, and actually breathing hard. “Maeric,” Naeise said, not even waiting for him to see her, “there are spears to the east, only a few miles and running straight at us. I think they are Reyn. At least seven or eight thousand of them.”
He could see other algai’d’siswai running toward him. A young Brother to the Eagle, Cairdin, slid to a stop, speaking as soon as Maeric saw him. “I see you, Maeric. There are spears no more than five miles to the north, and wetlanders on horses. Perhaps ten thousand of each. I do not think any of us broke the crest, but some of the spears have turned toward us.”
Maeric knew before the grizzled Water Seeker named Laerad opened his mouth. “Spears coming over a hill three or four miles to the south. Eight thousand or more. Some of them saw one of the boys.” Laerad never wasted words, and he would never say which boy, who in truth could be anyone without gray hair, to Laerad.
There was no time for wasting words, Maeric knew. “Hamal!” he shouted. No time for proper courtesy to a blacksmith, either.
The big man knew something was wrong; he scrambled up the slope, likely moving faster than he had since first picking up a hammer.
Maeric handed him the stone cube. “You must press the red spot and keep pressing it, no matter what happens, no matter how long it takes for that hole to open. That is the only way out for any of you.” Hamal nodded, but Maeric did not even wait for him to say that he would. Hamal would understand. Maeric touched Dyrele’s cheek, careless of how many eyes were on them. “Shade of my heart, you must prepare to put on white.” Her hand strayed toward the hilt of her belt knife — she had been a Maiden when she made his wreath — but he shook his head-firmly. “You must live, wife, roofmistress, to hold together what remains.” Nodding, she pressed fingers to his cheek. He was astonished; she had always been very reserved in public.
Raising his veil, Maeric shoved one spear high above his head. “Moshaine!” he roared. “We dance!”
Up the slope they followed him, men and Maidens, nearly a thousand strong counting the Brotherless. Perhaps they could be counted among the sept. Up the slope and west; that way lay the nearest and the fewest. Perhaps they might buy enough time, though he did not really believe that. He wondered whether Sevanna had known of this. Ah, the world had grown very strange since Rand al’Thor came. Some things could not change, though. Laughing, he began to sing.
“Wash the spears, while the sun climbs high.
Wash the spears, while the sun falls low.
Wash the spears; who fears to die?
Wash the spears; no one I know!”
Singing, the Moshaine Shaido ran to dance their deaths.
Frowning, Graendal watched the gateway close behind the last of the Jumai Shaido. The Jumai and a great many Wise Ones. Unlike with the others, Sammael had not simply knotted this web so it would fall apart eventually. At least, she assumed he held it to the last; the closing, right on the heels of the last brown-and-gray-clad men, was too fortuitous otherwise. Laughing, Sammael tossed away the bag, still holding a few of those useless bits of stone. Her own empty sack was long since discarded. The sun sat low behind the mountains to the west, half of a glowing red ball.
“One of these days,” she said dryly, “you will be too smart for your own good. A fool box, Sammael? Suppose one of them had understood?”
“None did,” he said simply, but he kept rubbing his hands together and staring at where the gateway had been. Or maybe at something beyond. He still held the Mask of Mirrors, giving him the illusion of added height. She had dropped hers as soon as the gateway closed.
“Well, you certainly managed to put a panic into them.” Around them lay the evidence: a few low tents still standing, blankets, a cookpot, a rag doll, all sorts of rubbish lying where it had fallen. “Where did you send them? Somewhere ahead of al’Thor’s army, I suppose?”
“Some,” he said absently. “Enough.” His staring introspection vanished abruptly, and his disguise as well. The scar across his face seemed especially livid. “Enough to cause trouble, particularly with their Wise Ones channeling, but not so many that anyone will suspect me. The rest are scattered from Illian to Ghealdan. As to how or why? Maybe al’Thor did it, for his own reasons, but I certainly wouldn’t have wasted most of them if it was my work, now would I?” He laughed again; caught up in his own brilliance.
She adjusted the bodice of her dress to cover a start. Competing that way was remarkably silly — she had told herself that ten thousand times, and never listened once — remarkably silly, and now the dress felt as if it might fall off. Which had nothing to do with her start. He did not know Sevanna had taken every Shaido woman who could channel with her. Was it finally time to abandon him? If she threw herself on Demandred’s mercy . . .
As if reading her thoughts, he said, “You’re tied to me as tightly as my belt, Graendal.” A gateway opened, revealing his private rooms in Illian. “The truth doesn’t matter anymore, if it ever has. You rise with me, or fall with me. The Great Lord rewards success, and he’s never cared how it was achieved.”
“As you say,” she told him. Demandred had no mercy. And Semirhage . . . “I rise or fall with you.” Still, something would have to be worked out. The Great Lord rewarded success, but she would not be pulled down if Sammael failed. She opened a gateway to her palace in Arad Doman, to the long columned room where she could see her pets frolicking in the pool. “But what if al’Thor comes after you himself? What then?”
“Al’Thor isn’t going after anyone,” Sammael laughed. “All I have to do is wait.” Still laughing, he stepped into his gateway and let it close.
The Myrddraal moved from the deeper shadows, becoming visible. In its eyes, the gateways had left a residue — three patches of glowing mist. It could not tell one flow from another, but it could distinguish saidin from saidar by the smell. Saidin smelled like the sharp edge of a knife, the point of a thorn. Saidar smelled soft, but like something that would grow harder the harder it was pressed. No other Myrddraal could smell that difference. Shaidar Haran was like no other Myrddraal.
Picking up a discarded spear, Shaidar Haran used it to upend the bag Sammael had discarded, and then to stir the bits of stone that fell out. Much was happening outside the plan. Would these events churn chaos, or . . .
Angry black flames raced down the spear haft from Shaidar Haran’s hand, the hand of the Hand of the Shadow. In an instant the wooden haft was charred and twisted; the spearhead dropped off. The Myrddraal let the blackened stick fall and dusted soot from its palm. If Sammael served chaos, then all was well. If not . . .
A sudden ache climbed the back of its neck; a faint weakness washed along its limbs. Too long away from Shayol Ghul. That tie had to be severed somehow. With a snarl, it turned to find the edge of shadow that it needed. The day was coming. It would come.
Chapter 41
A Crown of Swords