The Fires of Heaven (The Wheel of Time #5)

The Fires of Heaven (The Wheel of Time #5) Page 176

“Hunting accident!” Uno interjected, sneering. A hawker who happened to be looking at him dropped his tray of pins and needles. “Not unless he didn't know one bloody end of a flaming boar spear from the other. Flaming southlanders and their flaming Game of Houses!”

“And Ellizelle succeeded,” Ragan took up. “She had the army dispersing the crowds, until finally there was a pitched battle and it was the army that was chased off.”

“Bloody poor excuse for soldiers,” Uno muttered. She was going to have to speak to him about his language again.

Ragan nodded agreement, but went on with what he had been saying. “They say Ellizelle took poison after that, but however she died, she was replaced by Teresia, who lasted a full ten days after her coronation, just until she had a chance to send two thousand soldiers against ten thousand folk who had gathered to hear Masema outside Jehannah. After her soldiers were routed, she abdicated to marry a rich merchant.” Nynaeve stared at him incredulously, and Uno snorted. “That is what they say,” the younger man maintained. “Of course, in this land, marrying a commoner means giving up any claim to the throne forever, and whatever Beron Goraed feels about having a pretty young wife with royal blood, I hear he was dragged from his bed by a score of Alliandre's retainers and hauled to Jheda Palace for a wedding in the small hours of the morning. Teresia went off to live on her husband's new country estate while Alliandre was being crowned, all before sunrise, and the new queen summoned Masema to the palace to tell him he would not be troubled again. Inside two weeks she was calling on him. I do not know whether she really believes what he preaches, but I know she took the throne of a land on the edge of civil war, with Whitecloaks ready to move in, and she stopped it the only way she could. That is a wise queen, and a man could be proud to serve her, even if she is a southlander.”

Nynaeve opened her mouth, and forgot what she was going to say when Uno said, in a casual tone, “There's a flaming Whitecloak following us. Don't look around, woman. You have more bloody sense than that.”

Her neck stiffened with the effort of keeping her eyes forward; prickles crawled up her back. “Take the next turn, Uno.”

“That carries us away from the main streets, and the flaming gates. We can flaming lose him in the crowds.”

“Take it!” She inhaled slowly, made her voice less shrill. “I need a sight of him.”

Uno glowered so fiercely that people stepped out of their way for ten paces ahead, but they turned down the next narrow street. She shifted her head a trifle as they made the turn, just enough to peek from the edge of her eye before the corner of a small stone tavern cut off her view. The snowy cloak with the flaring sun stood out among the thin crowd. There was no mistaking that beautiful face, the face she had been sure she would see. No other Whitecloak than Galad could have a reason to follow her, and none to follow Uno or Ragan.

Chapter 40

(Sunburst)

The Wheel Weaves

As soon as the building hid Galad, Nynaeve's eyes darted down the street ahead. Fury bubbled up, at herself as much as Galadedrid Damodred. You witless woolhead! It was a narrow way like all the rest, paved with rounded stones, lined with gray shops and houses and taverns, populated with a scattered afternoon crowd. If you hadn't come into town, he'd never have found you! Too scattered to hide anyone. You had to go see the Prophet! You had to go believing the Prophet would whisk you away before Moghedien gets here! When are you going to learn you can't depend on anyone but yourself? In an instant she made her choice. When Galad turned that corner and did not see them, he would begin looking into shops, and maybe taverns as well.

“This way.” Gathering her skirts, she darted into the nearest alley and pressed her back against the wall. No one glanced at her twice, furtive as she was, and what that had to say about the way things were in Samara she did not want to consider. Uno and Ragan were beside her before she finished setting her feet, crowding her farther down the dusty dirt alleyway, past an old splintered bucket and a rain barrel dried to the point of collapse inside its hoops. At least they were doing what she wanted. In a manner of speaking. Tense hands on long sword hilts rising above their shoulders, they were ready to protect her whether she desired it or not. Let them, you fool! Do you think you can protect yourself?

She was certainly angry enough. Galad, of all people! She should never have left the menagerie! A fool whim, and one that might ruin everything. She could no more channel here than against Masema. Just the possibility that Moghedien or Black sisters were in Samara made her dependent on two men for her safety. It was enough to screw her anger tight; she could have chewed a hole in the stone wall behind her. She knew why Aes Sedai had Warders — all but Reds, anyway. In her head, she did. In her heart, it just made her want to snarl.

Galad appeared, threading his way slowly through the folk out in the street, eyes searching. By all reason, be should have gone on by — he should have — yet almost immediately his gaze settled on the alleyway. On them. He did not even have the grace to appear pleased or surprised.

Uno and Ragan moved together as Galad turned toward the alley. The oneeyed man had his sword out in the blink of an eye, and Ragan was scarcely slower for all he paused to push her deeper into the narrow passage. They positioned themselves one behind the other; should Galad make it past Uno, he would still have Ragan to face.

Nynaeve ground her teeth. She could make all these swords unnecessary, useless; she could sense the True Source, like a light unseen over her shoulder, waiting for her embrace. She could do it. If she dared.

Galad stopped at the alley mouth, cloak thrown back, one hand resting nonchalantly on his sword hilt, a picture of springsteel grace. Except for his burnished mail, he could have been at a ball.

“I do not want to kill either of you, Shienaran,” he said calmly to Uno. Nynaeve had heard Elayne and Gawyn speak of Galad's sword skill, but for the first time she realized that he might really be as good as they said. At least, he thought he was. Two seasoned soldiers with blades bare, and he eyed them as a wolfhound would eye a pair of lesser dogs, not seeking a fight yet utterly confident he could take both. Never quite looking away from the two men, he addressed her. “Someone else might have run into a shop or an inn, but you never do what is expected. Will you let me speak with you? There is no need to make me kill these men.”

None of the passersby were stopping, but even with three men blocking her view she could see heads swiveling for a glimpse of what had drawn the Whitecloak. And plainly taking in the swords. Rumors would be hatching in all those minds and taking flight on wings that mad