The Path of Daggers (The Wheel of Time #8)

The Path of Daggers (The Wheel of Time #8) Page 139

Which produced another stir among the men waiting on their faces. Every second rumor in the camp was about what illness had confined the sul’dam and damane to their tents. Alwhin reacted quite openly, most improper in a so’jhin, with a furious glare. The damane flinched again, and began to shiver where she lay. Oddly, the honeyhaired da’covale flinched, as well.

Smiling, Suroth glided to where the da’covale knelt. Why would she smile at a poorly trained serving girl? She began stroking the kneeling woman’s thin braids, and a sullen pout appeared on that rosebud mouth. A former noblewoman of these lands? Suroth’s first words supported that, though obviously meant for him. “Small failures bring small costs; great failures bring painfully great costs. You will have the damane you require, Miraj. And you will teach these Asha’man they should have remained in the north. You will wipe them from the face of the earth, the Asha’man, the soldiers, all of them. To the man. Miraj. I have spoken.”

“It will be as you say, Suroth,” he replied. “They will be destroyed. To the man.” There was nothing else he could say, now. He wished, though, that she had given him an answer about whether the sul’dam and damane were still sick.

Rand reined Tai’daishar around near the crest of the bare, stony hill to watch most of his small army spilling out of other holes in the air. He held hard to the True Source, so hard it seemed to tremble in his grasp. With the Power in him, the sharp points of the Crown of Swords pricking his temples felt at once keener than ever and utterly removed, the midmorning chill both colder and beneath notice. The neverhealing wounds in his side were a dull and distant ache. Lews Therin seemed to be panting in uncertainty. Or perhaps fear. Maybe after coming so close to death the day before, he did not want so much to die anymore. But then, he did not always want to die. The only constant in the man was the desire to kill. Which just happened to include killing himself, often enough.

There’ll be killing enough for anybody, soon, Rand thought. Light, the last six days were enough to sicken a vulture. Had it only been six days? The disgust did not touch him, though. He would not let it. Lews Therin did not answer. Yes. It was a time for iron hearts. And iron stomachs, too. He bent a moment to touch the long clothwrapped package under his stirrup leather. No. Not time, yet. Maybe not at all. Uncertainty shimmered across the Void, and maybe something else. Not at all, he hoped. Uncertainty, yes, but the other had not been fear. It had not!

Half the surrounding low hills were covered with squat, gnarled olive trees, dappled by the sunlight, where lancers already rode along the rows to make sure they were clear. There was no sign of workers in those orchards, no farmhouse, no structure of any kind in sight. A few miles to the west, the hills were darker, forested. Legionmen, emerging in trotting files below Rand, formed up, trailed by a ragged square of Illianer volunteers, now enlisted into the Legion. As soon as their ranks were aligned, they marched out of the way to make room for Defenders and Companions. The ground seemed mostly clay, and boots and hooves alike skidded in the thin skim of mud. For a wonder, though, only a few clouds hung in the sky, white and clean. The sun was a pale yellow ball. And nothing flew up there larger than a sparrow.

Dashiva and Flinn were among the men holding gateways, as were Adley and Hopwil, Morr and Narishma. Some of the gateways lay out of Rand’s sight behind the folded hills. He wanted everyone through as quickly as possible, and except for a few Soldiers scanning the sky, every man in a black coat who was not already out scouting held a weave. Even Gedwyn and Rochaid, though both grimaced over it, at each other and in his direction. Rand thought them no longer used to doing anything so common as holding a gateway for others to use.

Bashere cantered up the slope, very much at ease with himself, and with his short bay. His cloak was flung back despite the morning’s coolness, not so cold as the mountains, but still wintery. He nodded casually to Anaiyella and Ailil, who gave bleak stares in return. Bashere smiled through those thick mustaches, like downcurving horns, a not entirely pleasant smile. He had as many doubts of the women as Rand did. The women knew, about Bashere’s reservations at least. Turning her head quickly from the Saldaean, Anaiyella returned to stroking her gelding’s mane; Ailil held her reins too rigidly.

That pair had not strayed far from Rand since the incident on the ridge, even having their tents pitched in earshot of his the night before. On a browngrass hillside opposite, Denharad shifted to study the two noblewomen’s retainers, arrayed together behind him, then quickly returned to watching Rand. Very likely he watched Ailil, and maybe Anaiyella as well, but he watched Rand without doubt. Rand was unsure whether they still feared to take the blame if he was killed or simply wanted to see it happen. The one thing he was certain of was that if they did want him dead, he would give them no opportunity.

Who knows a woman’s heart? Lews Therin chuckled wryly. He sounded in one of his saner moods. Most women will shrug off what a man would kill you for, and kill you for what a man would shrug off. Rand ignored him. The last gateway in Rand’s sight winked out. The Asha’man mounting their horses were too far for him to say for sure whether any still held on to saidin, but it did not matter so long as he did. Clumsy Dashiva tried to mount quickly and nearly fell off twice before successfully reaching his saddle. Most of the blackcoated men in view began riding north or south.

The rest of the nobles gathered quickly with Bashere on the slope just below Rand, the highest ranking and those with the most power in front after a little jostling here and there, where precedence remained uncertain. Tihera and Marcolin kept their horses on the fringes, on opposite sides of the mass of nobles, faces carefully blank; they might be asked for advice, but both knew the final decisions rested with others. Weiramon opened his mouth with a grand gesture, doubtless to begin another splendid peroration on the glories of following the Dragon Reborn. Sunamon and Torean, accustomed to his speeches and powerful enough to take no care around him, reined their horses together and began talking quietly. Sunamon’s face wore an unaccustomed hardness, and Torean seemed ready to squabble over a boundary line despite the red satin stripes on his coatsleeves. Squarejawed Bertome and some of the other Cairhienin were not quiet at all, laughing at each other’s jokes. Everyone had had a bellyful of Weiramon’s grand declamations. Though Semaradrid’s scowl deepened every time he looked at Ailil and Anaiyella — he did not like them remaining close to Rand, especially his countrywoman — so perhaps his sourness had more root than W