Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time #11)

Knife of Dreams (The Wheel of Time #11) Page 55

The children had vanished from the street, but Faile could hear them wailing inside the tents. Abandoned dogs shivered and whined, tails tucked between their legs. People in the street were touching themselves, touching each other, Shaido and gai’shain alike. Faile clasped her hands together. Of course she was solid. She had only felt as though she were turning to mist. Of course. Hoisting her robes to avoid any more washing than she absolutely had to do, she began to walk. And then to run, careless of how much mud she splashed onto herself or anyone else. She knew there could be no running from another of those ripples. But she ran anyway, as fast as her legs could carry her.

The gai’shain tents made a broad ring around Malden’s high granite walls, and they were as varied as the tents in the outer part of the encampment, though most were small. Her own peaked tent could have slept two uncomfortably; it housed herself and three others, Alliandre, Maighdin and a former Cairhienin noblewoman named Dairaine, one of those who curried favor with Sevanna by carrying tales about the other gai’shain. That complicated matters, but there was no mending it short of killing the woman, and Faile would not countenance that. Not unless Dairaine became a real threat. They slept huddled together like puppies of necessity, glad of the shared body warmth on cold nights.

The interior of the low tent was dim when she ducked inside. Lamp oil and candles were in short supply, and not wasted on gai’shain. Only Alliandre was there, lying facedown on her blankets in her collar with a damp cloth, dipped in an herbal infusion, over her bruised bottom. At least the Wise Ones were as willing to give their healing herbs to gai’shain as to Shaido. Alliandre had done nothing wrong, but had been named as one of the five who had pleased Sevanna least yesterday. Unlike some, she had done quite well while being punished— Doirmanes had begun weeping even before he was bent over the chest—but she seemed to be among those chosen out every three or four days. Being a queen did not teach you how to serve a queen. But then, Maighdin was picked nearly as often, and she was a lady’s maid, if not a very skilled one. Faile herself had only been chosen once.

It was a measure of how Alliandre’s spirits had fallen that she made no move to cover herself, only raised up on her elbows. Still, she had combed her long hair. If she failed to do that, Faile would know the woman had reached bottom. “Did anything . . . strange . . . happen to you just now, my Lady?” she asked, fear strong in her unsteady voice.

“It did,” Faile said, standing crouched under the ridgepole. “I don’t know what it was. Meira doesn’t know what it was. I doubt any of the Wise Ones do. But it didn’t harm us.” Of course it had not harmed them. Of course not. “And it changes nothing in our plans.” Yawning, she unfastened the wide golden belt and dropped it on her blankets, then grasped her outer robe to pull it over her head.

Alliandre put her head down on her hands and began weeping quietly. “We’ll never escape. I’m going to be beaten again tonight. I know it. I’m going to be beaten every day for the rest of my life.”

With a sigh, Faile left her outer robe where it was and knelt to stroke her liege woman’s hair. There were as many responsibilities down as up. “I have those same fears now and then,” she admitted softly. “But I refuse to let them take control. I will escape. We will escape. You have to keep your courage, Alliandre. I know you’re brave. I know you’ve dealt with Masema and kept your nerve. You can keep it now, if you try.”

Aravine put her head in at the tentflap. She was a plain, plump woman, a noble Faile was sure, though she never claimed it, and despite the dimness Faile could see that she was beaming. She wore Sevanna’s belt and collar, too. “My Lady, Alvon and his son have something for you.”

“It will have to wait a few minutes,” Faile said. Alliandre had stopped crying, but she was just lying there, silent and still.

“My Lady, you won’t want to wait for this.”

Faile’s breath caught. Could it be possible? It seemed too much to hope for.

“I can keep my nerve,” Alliandre said, raising her head to gaze at Aravine. “If what Alvon has is what I hope it is, I’ll keep my nerve if Sevanna has me put to the question.”

Snatching up her belt—being seen outside without belt and collar both meant punishment almost as severe as for trying to run away— Faile hurried out of the tent. The drizzle had slackened to a misting rain, but she pulled up her cowl anyway. The rain was still cold.

Alvon was a stocky man, overtopped by his son Theril, a lanky boy. Both wore mud-stained, almost-white robes made of tentcloth. Theril, Alvon’s eldest, was only fourteen, but the Shaido had not believed it because of his height, as much as most men in Amadicia. Faile had been ready to trust Alvon from the start. He and his son were something of legends among the gai’shain. Three times they had run away, and each time it had taken the Shaido longer to bring them back. And despite increasingly fierce punishment, on the day they swore fealty they had been planning a fourth attempt to return to the rest of their family. Neither ever smiled that Faile had seen, but today, smiles wreathed Alvon’s weathered face and Theril’s skinny one alike.

“What do you have for me?” Faile asked, hastily fastening her belt around her waist. She thought her heart was going to pound its way out of her chest.

“It was my Theril, my Lady,” Alvon said. A woodcutter, he spoke with a coarse accent that made him barely intelligible. “He was just walking by, see, and there was nobody around, nobody at all, so he ducked in quick like, and . . . Show the Lady, Theril.”

Shyly, Theril reached into his wide sleeve—the robes usually had pockets sewn in there—and drew out a smooth white rod that looked like ivory, about a foot long and as slim as her wrist.

Looking around to see if anyone was watching—the street was empty save for them, for the moment at least—Faile took it quickly and pushed it up her own sleeve to tuck into the pocket there. The pocket was just deep enough to keep it from falling out, but now that she had the thing in hand, she did not want to let go of it. It felt like glass, and was distinctly cool to the touch, cooler than the morning air. Perhaps it was an angreal or a ter’angreal. That would explain why Galina wanted it. if not why she had not taken it herself. Hand buried in her sleeve, Faile gripped the rod hard. Galina was no longer a threat. Now she was salvation.

“You understand, Alvon, that Galina may be unable to take you and your son with her when she leaves,” she said. “She has only promised that to me and those captured with me. But I promise you that I will find a way to free you and everyone who has sworn to me. All the rest, too, if I can, but those above all. Under the Light and by my hope of salvation and rebirth, I swear it.” How, she had no idea short of calling on her father for an