But no, al’Thor opened his eyes, and there seemed to be a look of ecstasy in those depths. He turned, waving his hand, and a line of light split the air in front of him. Men around Ituralde cursed, backing up. It was one thing for a man to claim he could channel; it was another to see him do so in front of you!
“That’s a gateway,” al’Thor said as the line of light turned around, opening a large black hole in the air. “Depending on the Asha’man’s strength, a gateway can be made wide enough to drive wagons through. You can travel nearly anywhere with speed, sometimes instantly, depending on circumstances. With a few trained Asha’man, your army could dine in Caemlyn in the morning, then have lunch in Tanchico a few hours later.”
Ituralde rubbed his chin. “Well now, that’s a thing to see. A thing to see indeed.” If this man spoke truthfully, and these gateways really did work. . . . “With this I could clear the Seanchan out of Tarabon, and maybe off the land entirely!”
“No,” al’Thor snapped. “We make peace with them. From what my scouts say, it’s going to be hard enough to bring them to agreement without promising them your head. I won’t rile them furt
her. There is no time for squabbling. We have more important matters to be about.”
“Nothing is more important than my homeland,” Ituralde said. “Even if those orders are forged, I know Alsalam. He would agree with me. We won’t stand for foreign troops on the soil of Arad Doman.”
“A promise, then,” al’Thor said. “I will see the Seanchan out of Arad Doman. I promise you this. But we don’t fight them away any further than that. In exchange, you go to the Borderlands and protect against an invasion there. Hold back the Trollocs if they come, and lend me some of your officers to help secure Arad Doman. It will be easier to restore order if the people see that their own lords are working with me.”
Ituralde considered, though he knew already what his answer would be. That gateway could spirit his men away from this death trap. With Aiel on his side—with the Dragon Reborn as an ally—he really did have a chance of keeping Arad Doman secure. An honorable death was a good thing. But the ability to keep on fighting with honor . . . that was a prize far more precious.
“Agreed,” Ituralde said, holding out a hand.
Al’Thor took it. “Go break camp. You’re to be in Saldaea by nightfall.”
CHAPTER 11
The Death of Adrin
I think he should be beaten again, said Lerian, moving her fingers in the complex motions of Maiden handtalk. He is like a child, and when a child touches something dangerous, the child is beaten. If a child hurts himself because he was not taught properly to stay away from knives, then the shame is upon his parents.
The previous beating did not seem to do any good, Surial replied. He accepted it like a man, not a child, but did not change his actions.
Then we must try again, Lerian replied.
Aviendha dropped her rock into the pile by the watchpost, then turned around. She did not acknowledge the Maidens who watched the way into the camp, and they did not acknowledge her. Speaking to her while she was being punished would only heighten her shame, and her spear-sisters would not do that.
She also didn’t indicate that she understood their conversation. While nobody expected a former Maiden to forget handtalk, it was best to be unobtrusive. The handtalk belonged to the Maidens.
Aviendha selected a large stone from a second pile, then began to walk back into camp. If the Maidens continued their conversation, she could not tell, as she could no longer see their hands. But their discussion lingered with her. They were angered that Rand al’Thor had gone to meet with the general Rodel Ituralde without guards. It was not the first time he had acted so foolishly, and yet he seemed unwilling—or unable—to learn the proper way. Each time he put himself in danger without protection, he insulted the Maidens as surely as if he had slapped each one in the face.
Aviendha probably had some small toh toward her spear-sisters. Teaching Rand al’Thor of Aiel ways had been her task, and she had quite obviously failed. Unfortunately, she had a much greater toh toward the Wise Ones, even if she still didn’t know the reason. Her lesser duty to her spear-sisters would have to wait for an appropriate time.
Her arms ached from carrying rocks. They were smooth and heavy; she had been required to dig them out of the river beside the manor house. Only her time spent with Elayne—when she had been forced to bathe in water—had given her the strength to walk into that river. In that, she had not shamed herself. And at least this river was a small one—wetlanders might inaccurately call it a stream. A stream was a tiny mountain runoff in which you could dip your hands or fill a waterskin. Anything too large to step across was definitely a river.
The day was overcast, as usual, and the camp was subdued. Men who had bustled just days before—when the Aiel had arrived—were more lethargic now. The camp wasn’t by any means unkempt; Davram Bashere was too careful a commander to allow that, wetlander though he was. However, the men did move more slowly. She had heard some of them complain that the dark sky was dampening their moods. How strange wetlanders were! What did the weather have to do with one’s mood? She could understand being displeased that no raids were approaching, or that a hunt had gone poorly. But because there were clouds in the sky? Was shade so poorly appreciated here?
She shook her head, continuing on her way. She had chosen stones which would strain her muscles. To do otherwise would have been to make light of her punishment, and she wouldn’t do that—although each step pained her honor. She had to cross through the entire camp, in full sight, doing work that was useless! She would rather have been naked before them all outside of the sweat tent. She would rather have run a thousand laps, or been beaten so hard that she couldn’t walk.
She reached the side of the manor house and deposited her stone with a hidden sigh of relief. Two wetlander soldiers from Bashere’s army stood guarding the door into the manor, a counterpart to the two Maidens at the other end of Aviendha’s trek. As she stooped and picked up a large stone from a second pile by the wall, she overheard them speaking.
“Burn me, but it’s hot,” one of the men complained.
“Hot?” the other replied, glancing at the overcast sky. “You’re jesting.”
The first guard waved his hand at himself, puffing out and sweating. “How can you not feel that?”
“You must have a fever or something.”
The first guard shook his head. “I just don’t like the heat, that’s all.”
Aviendha picked up her rock and began to walk back across the green. After some contemplation, she had determined that being a wetlander required one common attribute: a fondness for complaining. During her first months in the wetlands, she had considered this shameful. Did that guard not care that he was losing face in front of his fellow by exposing his weakness?
They were all like that, even Elayne. If you listened to her talk about the aches, sicknesses and frustrations of her pregnancy, you would almost think she was approaching death! However, if complaining was something that Elayne did, then Aviendha refused to accept it as a sign of weakness. Her first-sister would not act in such a shameful way.