The Gathering Storm

The Gathering Storm Page 103

"You wish for peace," Tuon said. "Have you terms for your . . . offer?"

"It is not an offer, but a necessity," al'Thor said. He spoke with softness. All of these people spoke with such quick words, yet al'Thor's had a weight to them. He reminded her of her mother. "The Last Battle comes. Surely your people remember the prophecies. By prosecuting this war of yours, you endanger us all. My forces—everyone's forces—are needed in the struggle against the Shadow."

The Last Battle would be between the Empire and the forces of the Dark One. Everybody knew that. The prophecies clearly showed that the Empress would defeat those who served the Shadow, and then she would send the Dragon Reborn in to duel with Lighteater.

How much had he fulfilled? He didn't seem blinded yet, so that had yet to happen. The Essanik Cycle said that he would stand on his own grave and weep. Or did that prophecy refer to the dead walking, as they did already? Certainly, some of those spirits had walked across their own graves. The writings were unclear, sometimes.

This people seemed to have forgotten many of the prophecies, just as they forgot their oaths to watch for the Return. But she did not say this. Watch your words carefully. . . .

"You believe the Last Battle is close, then?" she asked.

"Close?" al'Thor asked. "It is as close as an assassin, breathing his foul breath upon your neck as he slides his knife across your skin. It is close like the last chime of midnight, after the other eleven have struck. Close? Yes, it is close. Horribly close."

Had the madness taken him already? If it had, that would make things much more difficult. She studied him, searching for signs of insanity. He seemed in control of himself.

A sea breeze blew through the canopy, ruffling the canvas and carrying with it the scent of rotten fish. Many things seemed to be rotting these days.

Those creatures, she thought. The Trollocs. What did their appearance foretell? Tylee had destroyed them, and the scouts had found no others. Looking at the intensity of this man, she hesitated. Yes, the Last Battle was close, perhaps as close as he said. That made it all the more important that she unify these lands beneath her banner.

"You must see why this is so important," the Dragon Reborn said. "Why do you fight me?"

"We are the Return," Tuon said. "The omens said it was time for us to come, and we expected to find a united kingdom, ready to praise us and lend us armies for the Last Battle. Instead, we found a fractured land that had forgotten its oaths and prepared for nothing. How can you not see that we must fight? It does not bring us pleasure to kill you, no more than it brings a parent joy to discipline a child who has gone astray."

Al'Thor seemed incredulous. "We are children to you?"

"It was a metaphor only," Tuon said.

He sat for a moment, then rubbed his chin with his hand. Did he blame her for the loss of the other one? Falendre had spoken of it.

"A metaphor," he said. "An apt one, perhaps. Yes, the land did lack unity. But I have forged it together. The solder is weak, perhaps, but it will hold long enough. If not for me, then your war of unification would be commendable. As it is, you are a distraction. We must have peace. Our alliance need last only until my life ends." He met her eyes. "I assure you that will not be overly long."

She sat at the wide table, arms folded before her. If al'Thor stretched out his arm, he would not be able to reach her. That was intentional, though the precaution was laughable, in hindsight. He would not need his hand should he decide to kill her. Best not to think of that.

"If you see the value of unification," she said, "then perhaps you should unite your lands beneath the Seanchan banner, have your people take the oaths and—" The woman standing behind al'Thor, the marath'damam, opened eyes wide as Tuon spoke.

"No," al'Thor said, interrupting Tuon.

"But surely you can see that one ruler, with—"

"No," he said, softly, yet more firmly. More dangerous. "I will not see another person chained by your foul leashes."

"Foul? They are the only way to deal with those who can channel!"

"We have survived without them for centuries."

"And you have—"

"This is not a point I will concede," al'Thor said.

Tuon's guards—Selucia included—gritted their teeth, and the guards dropped hands to sword hilts. He had interrupted her twice in a row. The Daughter of the Nine Moons. How could he be so bold?

He was the Dragon Reborn, that was how. But his words were foolishness. He would bow before her, once she was Empress. The prophecies demanded it. Surely that meant that his kingdoms would join with the Empire.

She had let the conversation slip out of her control. The marath'damam were a touchy subject to many on this side of the ocean. They likely understood the logic in leashing the women, but their traditions were difficult to relinquish. That was no doubt why they were so disturbed by talking about these things.

She needed to nudge the conversation in other directions. Into a realm that would throw the Dragon Reborn off guard. She studied him. "Is this all our conversation is to be about?" she said. "We sit across from one another and speak only of our differences?"

"What else would we talk about?" al'Thor said.

"Perhaps something we have in common."

"I doubt there is much in that area that is relevant."

"Oh?" Tuon said. "And what of Matrim Cauthon?"

Yes, that shocked him. The Dragon Reborn blinked, mouth opening slightly. "Mat?" he said. "You know Mat? How . . ."

"He kidnapped me," Tuon said. "And dragged me most of the way across Altara."

The Dragon Reborn gaped, then shut his mouth. "I remember now," he said softly. "I saw you. With him. I did not connect you to that face. Mat . . . what have you been doing?"

You saw us? Tuon thought skeptically. So the madness had manifested itself. Would that make him easier to manipulate, or more difficult? Probably the latter, unfortunately.

"Well," al'Thor finally said, "I trust that Mat had his reasons. He always does. And they seem so logical to him at the time. . . ."

So, Matrim did know the Dragon Reborn; he would be an excellent resource to her. Perhaps that was why he had been brought to her, so she would have a means of learning about the Dragon Reborn. She would have to recover him before he could help her in that area.

Matrim would not like that, but he would have to see reason. He was First Prince of the Ravens. He needed to be raised to the High Blood, shave his head and learn the proper way of living. That all seemed a shame to her—for reasons she could not explain to herself.

She couldn't help asking after him a little more. Partly because the topic appeared to unbalance al'Thor, and partly because she was curious. "What type of man is he, this Matrim Cauthon? I must admit, I found him to be something of an indolent scoundrel, too quick to find excuses to avoid oaths he'd taken."

"Don't speak of him that way!" Surprisingly, the words came from the marath'damane standing beside al'Thor's chair.

"Nynaeve ..." al'Thor began.

"Don't hush me, Rand al'Thor," the woman said, folding her arms. "He's your friend too." The woman looked back at Tuon, meeting her eyes. Meeting them. A marath'damane\

She continued, "Matrim Cauthon is one of the finest men you will ever know, Your Highness, and I won't listen to ill speech of him. What's right is right."

"Nynaeve is right," al'Thor said reluctantly. "He is a good man. Mat may seem a little rough at times, but he is as solid a friend as one could hope for. Though he does grumble about what his conscience makes him do."

"He saved my life," the marath'damane said. "Rescued me at great cost and personal danger when no other thought to come for me." Her eyes were afire with anger. "Yes, he drinks and gambles far too much. But don't speak of him as if you know him, because you don't. His heart is golden, under it all. If you've hurt him. . . ."

"Hurt him?" Tuon said. "He kidnapped me\"

"If he did so, then there was cause," Rand al'Thor said.

Such loyalty! Once again, she was forced to reassess her view of Matrim Cauthon.

"But this is irrelevant." al'Thor said, standing up suddenly. One of the Deathwatch Guards drew his sword. Al'Thor glared at the guard, and Karede quickly motioned at the man, who replaced his sword, ashamed, his eyes lowered.

Al'Thor placed his hand on the table, palm down. He leaned forward, trapping Tuon's eyes with his own. Who could look away from those intense gray eyes, like steel? "None of this matters. Mat doesn't matter. Our similarities and our differences do not matter. All that matters is need. And I need yon."

He leaned forward further, looming. His form didn't change, but he suddenly seemed a hundred feet tall. He spoke in that same calm, piercing voice, but there was a threat to it now. An edge.

"You must call off your attacks," he said, nearly a whisper. "You must sign a treaty with me. These are not requests. They are my will."

Tuon found herself longing, suddenly, to obey him. To please him. A treaty. A treaty would be excellent, it would give her a chance to stabilize her hold on the lands here. She could plan how to restore order back in Seanchan. She could recruit and train. So many possibilities opened to her, as if her mind were suddenly determined to see every advantage of the alliance and none of the flaws.

She reached for those flaws, scrambling to see the problems in uniting herself with this man. But they became liquid in her mind and slipped away. She couldn't snatch them up and form objections. The pavilion grew silent, the breeze falling still.

What was happening to her? She felt short of breath, as though a weight constricted her chest. She felt as if she couldn't help but bend before the will of this man!

His expression was grim. Despite the afternoon light, his face was shadowed, far more so than everything else beneath the pavilion. He held her eyes still, and her breaths came quick and short. In the corners of her vision, she thought she saw something around him. A dark haze, a halo of blackness, emanating from him. It warped the air like a great heat. Her throat constricted, and words were forming. Yes. Yes. I will do as you ask. Yes. I must. I must.

"No," she said, the word barely a whisper.

His expression grew darker, and she saw fury in the way he pressed his hand down, fingers trembling with the force. The way he clenched his jaw. The way his eyes opened wider. Such intensity.

"I need—" he began.

"No," she repeated, confidence growing. "You will bow before me, Rand al'Thor. It will not happen the other way around." Such darkness! How could one man contain it? He seemed to throw a shadow the size of a mountain.

She could not ally with this creature. That seething hatred, it terrified her, and terror was an emotion with which she was unfamiliar. This man could not be allowed freedom to do as he wished. He had to be contained.

He watched her for a moment longer. "Very well," he said. His voice was ice.

He spun, stalking away from the pavilion, not looking back. His entourage followed; they all, including the marath'damane with the braid, looked disturbed. As if they themselves weren't certain what—or who— they followed in this man.