Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time #11)

Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time #11) Page 123

“Luan and Abelle were . . . noncommittal,” Dyelin continued, frowning at the halberdier. “They may be swaying toward you.” She hardly sounded as though she believed it, however. “I reminded Luan that he helped me arrest Naean and Elenia, back in the beginning, but that may have done no more good than it did with Pelivar.”

“So they may all be waiting for Arymilla to win,” Birgitte said grimly. “If you survive, they’ll declare for you against her. If you don’t, one of them will make her own claim. Ellorien has the next best right after you, doesn’t she?” Dyelin scowled, but she offered no denials.

“And Ellorien?” Elayne asked quietly. She was sure she knew the answer there already. Her mother had had Ellorien flogged. That had been under Rahvin’s influence, but few seemed to believe that. Few seemed to believe Gaebril had even been Rahvin.

Dyelin grimaced. “The woman’s head is stone! She’d announce a claim in my name if she thought it would do any good. At least she has enough sense to see it won’t.” Elayne noted that she made no mention of any claims in Ellorien’s own name. “In any case. I left Keraille Surtovni and Julanya Fote to watch them. I doubt they’ll move, but if they do, we’ll know straightaway.” Three Kinswomen who needed to form a circle to Travel were watching the Borderlanders for the same reason.

No good news at all, then, no matter what face Dyelin tried to put on it. Elayne had hoped the threat of the Borderlanders would drive some of the Houses to support her. At least one reason I let them cross Anclor still holds, she thought grimly. Even if she failed to gain the throne, she had done that service for Andor. Unless whoever did take the throne bungled matters completely. She could see Arymilla doing just that. Well, Arymilla was not going to wear the Rose Crown, and that was that. One way or another, she had to be stopped.

“So it’s six, six and six,” Catalyn said, frowning and thumbing the long signet ring on her left hand. She looked thoughtful, unusual for her. Her usual style was to speak her mind with no consideration whatsoever. “Even if Candraed joins us, we are short often.” Was she wondering whether she had tied Haevin to a hopeless cause? Unfortunately, she had not tied her House so tightly the knots could not be undone.

“I was certain Luan would join us,” Conail muttered. “And Abelle and Pelivar.” He took a deep swallow of wine. “Once we beat Arymilla, they’ll come. You mark me on it.”

“But what are they thinking?” Branlet demanded. “Are they trying to start a war with three sides?” His voice went from treble to bass halfway through that, and his face flooded with red. He buried his face in his goblet, but grimaced. Apparently he liked goat’s milk as little as she did.

“It’s the Borderlanders.” Perival’s voice was a boy’s piping, but he sounded sure of himself. “They’re holding back because whoever wins here, the Borderlanders still have to be dealt with.” He picked up the bear, hefting it as if its weight would give him answers. “What I don’t understand is why they’re invading us in the first place. We’re so far from the Borderlands. And why haven’t they marched on and attacked Caemlyn? They could sweep Arymilla aside, and I doubt we could keep them out as easily as we do her. So why are they here?”

Smiling, Conail clapped him on the shoulder. “Now that will be a battle to see, when we face the Borderlanders. Northan’s Eagles and Mantear’s Anvil will do Andor proud that day, eh?” Perival nodded, but he did not look happy at the prospect. Conail certainly did.

Elayne exchanged glances with Dyelin and Birgitte, both of whom looked amazed. Elayne felt astonished herself. The other two women knew, of course, but little Perival had come near touching a secret that had to be kept. Others might puzzle out eventually that the Borderlanders had been meant to push Houses into joining her, but it must not be confirmed.

“Luan and the others sent to Arymilla asking for a truce until the Borderlanders were turned back,” Dyelin said after a moment. “She asked time to consider. As near as I can calculate, it was then that she began increasing her efforts at the walls. She tells them she’s still considering.”

“Aside from anything else,” Catalyn said heatedly, “that shows why Arymilla doesn’t deserve the throne. She puts her own ambition above Andor’s safety. Luan and the others must be fools not to see it.”

“Not fools,” Dyelin replied. “Just men and women who think they see the future better than they do.”

What if she and Dyelin were the ones who were not seeing the future clearly, Elayne wondered. To save Andor, she would have thrown her support to Dyelin. Not gladly, but to save Andor’s blood, she would have. Dyelin would have the support of ten Houses, more than ten. Even Danine Candraed might finally decide to stir herself in support of Dyelin. Except that Dyelin did not want to be queen. She believed that Elayne was the one to wear the Rose Crown. So did Elayne. But what if they were wrong? Not the first time that question had come to her, but now, staring at the map with all of its ill tidings, she could not shake free of it.

That evening, after a dinner memorable only for the surprise of tiny strawberries, she sat in the large sitting room of her apartments, reading. Trying to read. The leather-bound book was a history of Andor, as was most of her reading of late. It was necessary to read as many as possible to gain any real version of truth, cross-checking one against another. For one thing, a book first published during any monarch’s reign never mentioned any of her missteps, or those of her immediate predecessors if they were of her own House. You had to read books written while Trakand held the throne to learn of Mantear’s mistakes, and books written under Mantear to learn of Norwelyn’s errors. Others’ mistakes could teach her how not to make the same herself. Her mother had made that almost her first lesson.

She could not concentrate, however. She often found herself staring at a page without seeing a word, thinking of her sister, or starting to say something to Aviendha before remembering that she was not there. She felt very lonely, which was ridiculous. Sephanie stood in a corner against the possibility she wanted anything. Eight Guardswomen were standing outside the door to the apartments, and one of them, Yurith Azeri, was an excellent conversationalist, an educated woman though silent on her past. But none of them was Aviendha.

When Vandene glided into the room followed by Kirstian and Zarya, it seemed a relief. The two white-clad women stopped by the doorway, expressions meek. Untouched by the Oath Rod, pale Kirstian, hands folded at her waist, appeared just into her middle years; Zarya, with her tilted eyes and hooked nose, well short of them. She held something