gesture. Had she been close enough, she could not pat the Amyrlin Seat on the shoulder where everyone could see.
Egwene straightened her back. “Lord Bryne,” she said in a tight voice, “what is it you want me to see?” She thought he half-glanced at Myrelle before answering.
“Better you see it for yourself, Mother.”
Egwene thought her head might break open. If Siuan’s clues led to anything at all, she might just skin Myrelle. If they did not, she might skin Siuan. And she might throw Gareth Bryne in for good measure.
Chapter 12
A Morning of Victory
* * *
The crooked hills and ridges surrounding the camp showed every sign of the drought and unseasonable heat. The unholy heat in truth; even the dullest scullion scrubbing pots saw the Dark One’s touch on the world. The true forest lay behind them to the west, but twisted oaks grew out of the rocky slopes, sourgums arid pines of unfamiliar shape, and trees Egwene had no names for, brown and yellow and bare-branched. Not winter-bare or brown. Starved for moisture and coolness. Dying, if the weather did not change soon. Beyond the last of the soldiers a river ran off south and west, the Reisendrelle, twenty paces wide and flanked on either side by hard-baked mud studded with stones. Swirling around rocks that might have made crossing hazardous in other days, the water rose short of the horses’ knees as they forded. Egwene felt her own problems dwindle in size. Despite her head, she offered a small prayer for Nynaeve and Elayne. Their search was as important as anything she did. More. The world would live if she failed, but they had to succeed.
They traveled southward at an easy canter, slowing when the hillside slant of the land grew too great or the horses had to climb any distance through trees and sparse scrub, but keeping to the lowland as much as possible and covering ground quickly. Bryne’s big-nosed gelding, surefooted and strong, hardly seemed to mind which way the ground tilted or whether smooth or rough, yet Daishar kept pace easily. Sometimes Siuan’s plump animal labored, though she might just have been picking up her rider’s anxiety. No amount of practice could make Siuan anything but a terrible rider, nearly throwing her arms around the mare’s neck climbing upslope, almost falling from the saddle going down, awkward as a duck afoot on the flats and not far from wide-eyed as the horse. Myrelle actually regained some of her humor watching Siuan. Her own white-footed sorrel picked her way in delicate swoops like a swallow, and Myrelle rode with an assurance and flare that made Bryne appear stolid and workmanlike.
Before they had gone very far, riders appeared atop a high ridge to the west, perhaps a hundred men in column, the rising sun glinting off breastplates and helmets and lance points. At their head streamed a long white pennant Egwene could not make out, but she knew it bore the Red Hand. She had not expected to see them so close to the Aes Sedai camp.
“Dragonsworn animals,” Myrelle muttered, watching the horsemen parallel their route. Her gloved hands tightened on her reins — with fury, not fear.
“The Band of the Red Hand puts out patrols,” Bryne said placidly. With a glance at Egwene, he added, “Lord Talmanes seems concerned about you, Mother, last I spoke to him.” He put no more emphasis on that than the other.
“You’ve spoken with him?” Every vestige of Myrelle’s serenity vanished. The anger she had to hold in with Egwene, she could safely unleash on him. She all but shook with it. “That is very close to treason, Lord Bryne. It might well be treason!” Siuan had been dividing her attention between her horse and the men on the ridge, and she did not look at Myrelle, but she stiffened. No one had tied the Band and treason together before.
They rounded a bend in the hill valley. A farm clung to a hillside, or what had been a farm once. One wall of the small stone house had collapsed, and a few charred timbers stuck up beside the soot-coated chimney like grimy fingers. The roofless barn was a blackened hollow box of stone, and scattered ash marked where sheds might once have stood. All across Altara they had seen as bad and worse, entire villages sometimes, the dead lying in the streets, food for ravens and foxes and feral dogs that fled when people came close. Stories of anarchy and murder in Tarabon and Arad Doman suddenly had flesh and bones. Many men seized any excuse to turn bandit or settle old grudges — Egwene hoped fervently it was so — but the name on every survivor’s lips was Dragonsworn, and the sisters blamed Rand as surely as if he had carried the torches himself. They would use him still if they could, though, control him if they found a way. She was not the only Aes Sedai to believe in doing what she must even when she had to hold her nose.
Myrelle’s anger affected Bryne as little as rain affected a boulder. Egwene had a sudden image of storms whirling about his head and floodwaters swirling around his knees while he just kept striding ahead. “Myrelle Sedai,” he said with the calm she should have shown, “when ten thousand men or more are shadowing my backtrail, I want to know what their intentions are. Especially this particular ten thousand or more.”
This was a dangerous topic. However happy Egwene was that they were past questions of Talmanes’ concern over her, she should have been grinding her teeth that he had mentioned her at all, but she was so startled she sat bolt upright in her saddle. “Ten thousand? Are you sure?” The Band had had little more than half that when Mat brought it to Salidar hunting her and Elayne.
Bryne merely shrugged. “I gather recruits as I go, and so does he. Not as many, but some men have notions about serving Aes Sedai.” More people than not would have been distinctly uneasy, saying that to three sisters; he said it with a wry smile. “Besides, it seems the Band has a certain reputation from the fighting in Cairhien. The tale is, Shen an Calhar never loses, whatever the odds.” That was what drove men to join, here as back in Altara, the thought that two armies must mean a battle. Trying to stand aside might end as hard as choosing the wrong side; at best there would be no pickings for neutrals. “I’ve had a few deserters to my ranks from Talmanes’ newlings. Some seem to think the Band’s luck is tied up in Mat Cauthon and can’t be there without him.”
Something close to a sneer twisted Myrelle’s lips. “These fool Murandians’ fears are certainly useful, but I did not think you were a fool, too. Talmanes follows us because he fears we might turn against his precious Lord Dragon, but if he truly intended to attack, don’t you think he would have by now? These Dragonsworn can be dealt with once more important matters are done. Communicating with him, however . . .!” Giving herself a shake, she managed to regain her serenity. On the surface, at least. Her tone could still have scorched wood. “You mark me, Lord Bryne . . . ”
Egwene let Myrelle’s words pass her by. Bryne had looked at her when he mentioned Mat. The sisters thought they knew the situation with the Band, and Mat, and did not think on it much, but Bryne apparently did. Tilting her head so the brim of her hat obscured her face, she studied him from the corner of her eye. He was oath-bound to build the army and lead it until Elaida was brought down, but why had he sworn? Surely he could have found some lesser oath, and it surely would have been accepted by sisters who only thought to use all those soldiers as a Foolday mask to frighten Elaida. Having him on their side was comforting; even the other Aes Sedai seemed to feel that. Like her father, he was the sort of man who made you believe there was no cause for panic whatever the situation. Having him oppose her, she realized suddenly, might be as bad as having the Hall against her, and never mind the army. The one approving comment Siuan had ever had of him was that he was formidable, even if she did try to change her remark immediately to mean something else. Any man Siuan Sanche thought formidable was one to be mindful of.
They splashed across a tiny stream, a rivulet that barely wet the horses’ hooves. A bedraggled crow, feeding on a fish that had stranded itself in water too shallow to swim, fluttered its tattered wings on the edge of flight, then settled back to its meal.
Siuan also was studying Bryne — the mare made much easier going when she forgot to saw at the reins or dig her heels in at just the wrong moment. Egwene had asked her
about Lord Bryne’s motives, but Siuan’s own tangled connection to the man left her little except acid when it came to him. She either hated Gareth Bryne to his bootsoles or loved him, and imagining Siuan in love was like imagining that crow swimming.
The ridgeline where the Band’s soldiers had been showed only cockeyed lines of dead conifers now. She had not noticed them going. Mat had a reputation as a soldier? Crows swimming did not come close. She had believed he commanded only because of Rand, and that had been hard enough to swallow. Believing because you think you know is dangerous, she reminded herself, eyeing Bryne.
“ . . . should be flogged!” Myrelle’s voice still burned. “I warn you, if I hear that you’ve met with this Dragonsworn again . . .!”
Rain washing over that boulder as far as Bryne was concerned, or so it seemed. He rode easily, occasionally murmuring “Yes, Myrelle Sedai” or “No, Myrelle Sedai” without any hint of distress and without lessening the watch he kept on the countryside. No doubt he had seen the soldiers leave. However he mustered the patience — Egwene was sure fear was no part of it — she was in no mood to listen to that.
“Be quiet, Myrelle! No one is going to do anything to Lord Bryne.” Rubbing her temple, she thought of asking one of the sisters back in the camp for Healing. Neither Siuan nor Myrelle had much ability there. Not that Healing would do any good if it was just lack of sleep and worry. Not that she wanted whispers spreading that the strain was growing too great for her. Besides, there were other ways to deal with headaches than Healing, although not here.
Myrelle’s mouth tightened only for an instant. With a toss of her head, she turned her face away, color in her cheeks, and Bryne suddenly appeared absorbed in examining a red-winged hawk wheeling off to their left. Even a brave man could know when to be discreet. Folding its wings, the hawk plummeted toward unseen prey behind a stand of bedraggled leatherleafs. Egwene felt that way, swooping on targets she could not see, hoping she had chosen the right one, hoping there was a target there.
She drew breath, wishing it were steadier. “Just the same, Lord Bryne, I think it’s best you don’t meet Talmanes again. Surely you know as much of his intentions as you need by this time.” Light send Talmanes had not said too much already. A pity she could not send Siuan or Leane to caution him, if he would take it, but given feelings among the sisters, she might as well risk going to see Rand.
Bryne bowed in his saddle. “As you command, Mother.” There was no mockery in his tone; there never was. He had obviously learned to school his voice around Aes Sedai. Siuan hung back, frowning at him. Perhaps she could dig out where his loyalties lay. For all her animosity, she spent a great deal of time in his company, much more than she absolutely had to.
With an effort, Egwene kept her hands on Daishar’s reins, away from her head. “How much further, Lord Bryne?” Keeping impatience from her voice was more difficult.