Darkgarbed servants, the first Cairhienin Rand had seen in the palace, rushed out with worked golden bowls and white linen cloths as he swung a leg over the high pommel and slid from his saddle. Others came to take reins. He took the excuse of bathing his face and hands in cool water to leave Aviendha to climb down by herself. Trying to help her down might have ended with them both flat on the paving stones.
Unprompted, Sulin chose out twenty Maidens besides herself to accompany him within. On the one hand, he was glad she did not want to keep every last spear around him. On the other hand, he wished Enaila, Lamelle and Somara were not among the twenty. The considering looks they gave him — especially Lamelle, a lean, strongjawed woman with dark red hair, nearly twenty years older than he — made him grind his teeth while trying to smile reassuringly. Somehow Aviendha must have managed to speak to them, and to Sulin, behind his back. I may not be able to do anything about the Maidens, he thought grimly as he tossed a linen towel back to one of the serving men, but burn me if there isn't one Aiel woman who'll learn I'm the Car'a'carn!
The other High Lords greeted him at the foot of the broad gray stairs that led up from the courtyard, all in colorful silk coats and satin stripes and silverworked boots. It was plain that none were aware Meilan had gone to meet him until after the fact. Potatofaced Torean, oddly languid for such a lumpy man, sniffed anxiously at a scented handkerchief. Gueyam, oiled beard making his head seem even balder, clenched fists the size of small hams and glared at Meilan even as he bowed to Rand. Simaan's sharp nose seemed to quiver in outrage; Maraconn, with blue eyes rare in Tear, compressed his thin lips until they almost disappeared; and while Hearne's narrow face was all smiles, he tugged unconsciously at one earlobe as he did when furious. Only bladeslender Aracome showed no outward emotion, but then he almost always kept his anger well banked until ready to let it burst into flame.
It was too good an opportunity to miss. Silently thanking Moiraine for her, lessons — it was easier to trip a fool than to knock him down, she said — Rand clasped Torean's pudgy hand warmly and clapped Gueyam on the point of a thick shoulder, returned Hearne's smile with one warm enough for a close companion and nodded silently to Aracome with a seemingly significant glance. Simaan and Maraconn he all but ignored after one look as flat and cool as a deep winter pond for each.
That was all it needed for the moment, beyond watching their eyes shift and faces tighten in thought. They had played Daes Dae'mar, the Game of Houses, their entire lives, and being among Cairhienin, who could read volumes in a raised eyebrow or a cough, had only heightened their sensitivity. Each man knew Rand had no reason to be friendly toward him, but each had to wonder if his own greeting was only to cover something real with someone else. Simaan and Maraconn appeared the most worried, yet the others eyed those two perhaps the most suspiciously of all. Perhaps his coolness had been the true cover. Or maybe that was what they were meant to think.
For himself, Rand thought that Moiraine would be proud of him, and so would Thom Merrilin. Even if none of these seven was actively plotting against him at the moment — something he did not think even Mat would bet on — men in their positions could do much to disrupt his plans without being seen to, and they would do so from habit if for no other reason. Or they would have. He had them off balance now. If he could keep them that way, they would be too busy watching each other, and too afraid of being watched in turn, to trouble him. They might even obey for once without finding a hundred reasons why things should be done differently from what he wanted. Well, that might be asking too much.
His satisfaction slipped when he saw Asmodean's sardonic grin. Worse was Aviendha's wondering stare. She had been in the Stone of Tear; she knew who these men were, and why he had sent them here. I do what I must, he thought sourly, and wished it did not sound as if he were trying to excuse himself.
“Inside,” he said, more sharply than he intended, and the seven High Lords jumped as if suddenly recalling who and what he was.
They wanted to crowd around him as he climbed the stairs, but except for Meilan to show the way, the Maidens simply made a solid circle around him, and the High Lords brought up the rear with Asmodean and the lesser lords. Aviendha stuck close by... of course, and Sulin was on his other side, Somara and Lamelle and Enaila right behind him. They could have reached out and touched his back without stretching. He gave Aviendha an accusing look, and she arched her eyebrows at him so questioningly that he almost believed she had nothing to do with it. Almost.
The corridors of the palace were empty except for darkliveried servants who bowed almost chest to knees or curtsied just as deeply as he passed, but when he entered the Grand Hall of the Sun he discovered that the Cairhienin nobility had not been excluded from the palace entirely.
“The Dragon Reborn comes,” intoned a whitehaired man just inside the huge gilded doors worked with the Rising Sun. His red coat embroidered with sixpointed stars in blue, a little large on him after his time in Cairhien, marked him for an upper servant of Meilan's House. “All hail the Lord Dragon Rand al'Thor. All glory to the Lord Dragon.”
A quick roar filled the chamber to its anglevaulted ceiling, fifty paces up. “Hail the Lord Dragon Rand al'Thor! All glory to the Lord Dragon! The Light illumine the Lord Dragon!” The silence that followed seemed twice as still by comparison.
Between massive square columns of marble thick streaked with blue so deep it was almost black stood more Tairens than Rand expected, ranks of Lords and Ladies of the Land dressed in their finest, in peaked velvet hats and coats with puffy, striped sleeves, in colorful gowns and lace ruffs and closefitting caps intricately embroidered or sewn with pearls or small gems.
To their rear were the Cairhienin, darkly garbed except for slashes of color across the breast of gown or kneelength coat. The more stripes in House colors, the higher the rank of the wearer, but men and women with color from neck to waist or lower stood behind Tairens clearly of minor Houses, with yellow embroidery instead of threadofgold and wool instead of silk. No few of the Cairhienin men had shaved and powdered the front of their heads; all of the younger men had.
The Tairens looked expectant, if uneasy; the Cairhienin faces could have been chiseled from ice. There was no way to say who had cheered and who not, but Rand suspected most of those cries had come from the front rows.
“A good many wished to serve you here,” Meilan murmured as they made their way up the bluetiled floor with its great golden mosaic of the Rising Sun. A ripple of silent c