Winter's Heart (The Wheel of Time #9)

Winter's Heart (The Wheel of Time #9) Page 144

Aviendha woke with a start, stretching for her knife lying atop the small table on her side of the bed. Before her hand touched the dark horn hilt, she let it fall. “Something woke me,” she muttered. “I thought a Shaido was — Look at the sun! Why did you let me sleep so late?” she demanded, scrambling from the bed. “Just because I’m allowed to stay with you — ” the words were muffled for an instant as she jerked her sleep-wrinkled shift off over her head “ — does not mean Monaelle won’t switch me if she thinks I am being lazy. Do you mean to lie there all day?”

With a groan, Elayne climbed out of the bed. Essande was already waiting at the door to the dressing room; she never waked Elayne unless Elayne remembered to order it. Elayne surrendered herself to the white-haired woman’s almost silent ministrations while Aviendha dressed herself, but her sister made up for Essande’s quiet with a laughing string of comments along the line of how having someone else put your clothes on you must feel like being a baby again and how Elayne might forget how to put on her own clothes and need somebody to dress her. She had done very much the same every morning since they had begun to share the same bed. Aviendha found it very funny. Elayne did not say a word, except to answer her tirewoman’s suggestions on what she should wear, until the last mother-of-pearl button was done up and she stood examining herself in the stand-mirror.

“Essande,” she said then, casually, “are Aviendha’s clothes ready?” The fine blue wool with a little silver embroidery would do well enough for what she faced today.

Essande brightened. “All Lady Aviendha’s pretty silks and laces, my Lady? Oh, yes. All brushed and cleaned and ironed and put away.” She gestured to the wardrobes lining one wall.

Elayne smiled over her shoulder at her sister. Aviendha stared at the wardrobes as though they contained vipers, then gulped and hastily finished winding the dark folded kerchief around her head.

When Elayne had dismissed Essande, she said, “Just in case you need them.”

“Very well,” Aviendha muttered, putting on her silver necklace. “No more jokes about the woman dressing you.”

“Good. Or I’ll tell her to start dressing you. Now, that would be amusing.”

Grumbling under her breath about people who could not take a joke, Aviendha plainly did not agree. Elayne half expected her to demand that all the clothes she had acquired be discarded. She was a little surprised Aviendha had not seen to it already.

For Aviendha, the breakfast laid out in the sitting room consisted of cured ham with raisins, eggs cooked with dried plums, dried fish prepared with pine nuts, fresh bread slathered with butter, and tea made syrupy with honey. Well, not actually syrupy, but it seemed so. Elayne got no butter on her bread, very little honey in her tea, and instead of the rest, a hot porridge of grains and herbs that was supposed to be especially healthy. She did not feel with child, no matter what Min had told Aviendha, but Min had told Birgitte, too, once the three of them began getting drunk. Between her Warder, Dyelin, and Reene Harfor, she now found herself limited to a diet “suitable for a woman in her condition.” If she sent to the kitchens for a treat, somehow it never arrived, and if she slipped down there herself, the cooks gave her such glum disapproving stares that she slipped back out again with nothing.

She did not really mourn the spiced wine and sweets and the other things she was no longer allowed — not that much, anyway, except when Aviendha was gobbling tarts or puddings — but everyone in the Palace knew she was pregnant. And of course, that meant they knew how she had gotten that way, if not with whom. The men were not too bad, beyond the fact that they knew, and she knew they knew, but the women did not bother to hide knowing. Whether they accepted or deprecated the situation, half looked at her as though she were a hoyden and the other half with speculation. Forcing herself to swallow the porridge — it was not that bad, really, but she dearly would have loved some of the ham Aviendha was slicing, or a little of the egg with plums — spooning lumpy porridge into her mouth, she almost looked forward to the start of birthing sickness, so she could share the queasy belly with Birgitte.

The first visitor to enter her apartments that morning beside Essande was the leading candidate among the Palace women for the father of her barely quickened child.

“My Queen,” Captain Mellar said, sweeping off his plumed hat in a flourishing bow. “The Chief Clerk awaits Your Majesty’s pleasure.” The captain’s dark, unblinking eyes said he would never have dreams of the men he killed, and the lace-edged sash across his chest and the lace at his neck and wrists only made him look harder. Wiping grease from her chin with a linen napkin, Aviendha watched him with no expression on her face. The two Guardswomen standing one on either side of the doors grimaced faintly. Mellar already had a reputation for pinching Guardswomen’s bottoms, the prettier ones’ at least, not to mention disparaging their abilities in the city’s taverns. The second was far worse, in the Guardswomen’s eyes.

“I am not a queen, yet, Captain,” Elayne said briskly. She always tried to keep as much to the point as possible with the man. “How is recruiting for my bodyguard coming along?”

“Only thirty-two, so far, my Lady.” Still holding his hat, the hatchet-faced man rested both hands on his sword hilt, his lounging posture hardly suitable for the presence of one he had called his queen. Nor was his grin. “Lady Birgitte has exacting standards. Not many women can match them. Give me ten days, and I can find a hundred men who’ll better them and hold you as dear in their hearts as I do.”

“I think not, Captain Mellar.” It was an effort to keep a chill out of her voice. He had to have heard the rumors concerning himself and her. Could he think that just because she had not denied them, she might actually find him . . . attractive? Pushing away the half-empty porridge bowl, she suppressed a shudder. Thirty-two, so far? The numbers were growing quickly. Some of the Hunters for the Horn who had been demanding rank had decided that serving in Elayne’s bodyguard carried a certain flair. She conceded that the women could not all be on duty day and night, but no matter what Birgitte said, the goal of a hundred seemed excessive. The woman dug in her heels now at any suggestion of fewer, though. “Please tell the Chief Clerk he can come in,” she told him. He swept her another elaborate bow.

She rose to follow him, and as he pulled one of the lion-carved doors open, she laid a hand on his arm and smiled. “Thank you again for saving my life, Captain,” she said, this time