Towers of Midnight (The Wheel of Time #13)

Towers of Midnight (The Wheel of Time #13) Page 250

“We are not a clan,” an ashen man said. “I can survive better on my own. No more fighting. They beat us when we fight.”

Her father lowered the sword, its tip hitting the ground. Tava moved up beside him, worried as she watched the others walk their ways into the night. The air was still thick with smoke. The departing Aiel were shadows, melting into darkness, like swirls of dust blown on the wind. They didn’t pause to bury their dead.

Her father bowed his head and dropped the sword to the ash-covered ground.

There were tears in Aviendha’s eyes. There was no shame at crying over this tragedy. She had feared the truth, and she could no longer deny it.

Those had been Seanchan raiders, riding atop raken. The Raven Empire, the Lightmakers from her first vision, were the Seanchan—and they hadn’t existed until the middle of the current Age, when Artur Hawkwing’s armies had crossed the oceans.

She was not seeing the deep past of her people. She was seeing their future.

Her first time through the pillars, each step had taken her backward, moving her through time toward the Age of Legends. It appeared that this time, the visions had started at a distant point in the future, and were working back toward her day, each vision jumping back a generation or two.

Tears streaking her face, she took the next step.

Chapter 49

Court of the Sun

She was Ladalin, Wise One of the Taardad Aiel. How she wished that she had been able to learn to channel. That was a shameful thought, wishing for a talent one did not have, but she could not deny it.

She sat in the tent, feeling regretful. If she’d been able to work with the One Power, perhaps she could have done more to help the wounded. She could have remained young to lead her clan, and perhaps her bones would not ache so. Old age was a frustration when there was so much to do.

The tent walls rustled as the remaining clan chiefs settled down. There was only one other Wise One in the room, Mora of the Goshien Aiel. She could not channel either. The Seanchan were particularly determined when it came to killing or capturing all Aiel—male or female—who showed any talent with the One Power.

It was a sorry group gathered in the tent. A one-armed young soldier entered with a warm brazier and set it in the middle of them, then retreated. Ladalin’s mother had spoken of the days when there had still been gai’shain to do such work. Had there really been Aiel, man or Maiden, who had not been needed for the war against the Seanchan?

Ladalin reached forward to warm her hands at the brazier, fingers knotted with age. She’d held a spear as a young woman; most women did, before they married. How could a woman remain behind when the Seanchan used female soldiers and their damane with such effectiveness?

She’d heard stories about her mother and greatmother’s days, but they seemed incredible. The war was all Ladalin had ever known. Her first memories as a little girl were of the Almoth strikes. Her youth had been spent training. She had fought in the battles focused around the land that had been known as Tear.

Ladalin had married and raised children, but had focused every breath on the conflict. Aiel or Seanchan. Both knew that, eventually, only one of the two would remain.

It was looking more and more like the Aiel would be the ones forced out. That was another difference between her day and her mother’s day. Her mother had not spoken of failure; Ladalin’s lifetime was filled with milestones of withdrawal and retreat.

The others seemed absorbed in their thoughts. Three clan chiefs and two Wise Ones. They were all that remained of the Council of Twenty-Two. Highland winds seeped through the tent flaps, chilling her back. Tamaav was the last to arrive. He looked as old as she felt, his face scarred and his left eye lost in battle. He sat down on the rock. The Aiel no longer carried rugs or cushions. Only the essentials could be transported.

“The White Tower has fallen,” he said. “My scouts informed me not an hour ago. I trust their information.” He had always been a blunt man, and a good friend to her husband, who had fallen last year.

“Then with it goes our last hope,” said Takai, the youngest of the clan chiefs. He was the third chief of the Miagoma in as many years.

“Speak not so,” Ladalin said. “There is always hope.”

“They have pushed us all the way to these cursed mountains,” Takai said. “The Shiande and the Daryne are no more. That leaves only five clans, and one of those is broken and scattered. We are beaten, Ladalin.”

Tamaav sighed. She’d have lain a bridal wreath at his feet, had the years been earlier and the times different. Her clan needed a chief. Her son still thought to become the one, but with the recent Seanchan capture of Rhuidean, the clans were uncertain how to choose new leaders.

“We must retreat into the Three-fold Land,” Mora said in her soft, matronly voice. “And seek penance for our sins.”

“What sins?” Takai snapped.

“The Dragon wanted peace,” she replied.

“The Dragon left us!” Takai said. “I refuse to follow the memory of a man my greatfathers barely knew. We made no oaths to follow his foolish pact. We—”

“Peace, Takai,” Jorshem said. The last of the three clan chiefs was a small, hawk-faced man with some Andoran blood in him from his greatfather. “Only the Three-fold Land holds any hope for us, now. The war against the Ravens has been lost.”

The tent fell still.

“They said they’d hunt us,” Takai said. “When they demanded surrender, they warned us against retreat. You know that. They said they would destroy any place where three Aiel gathered.”

“We will not surrender,” Ladalin said firmly. More firmly than she felt, to be honest.

“Surrender would make us gai’shain,” Tamaav said. They used the word to mean one without honor, though that was not the way Ladalin’s mother had used it. “Ladalin. What is your advice?”

The other four looked at her. She was of the lineage of the Dragon, one of the last living. The other three lines had been killed off.

“If we become slaves to the Seanchan, the Aiel as a people will be no more,” she said. “We cannot win, so we must retreat. We will return to the Three-fold Land and build up our strength. Perhaps our children can fight where we cannot.”

Silence again. They all knew her words to be optimistic at best. After decades of war, the Aiel were a bare fraction of the n