Rand swirled the goblet, staring down into the dark red wine. Sammael in Illian, and other Forsaken the Light alone knew where. Seanchan waiting across the Aryth Ocean, and men here ready to leap for their own advantage and profit whatever it cost the world. “Peace is far off yet,” he said softly. “It will be blood and death for some time to come.”
“It always is,” Bashere replied quietly, and Rand did not know which statement he was speaking to. Perhaps both.
Tucking his harp under his arm, Asmodean drifted away from Mat and Aviendha. He enjoyed playing, but not for a pair who did not listen, much less appreciate. He was not sure what had happened that morning, and not sure he wanted to be sure. Too many Aiel had expressed surprise at seeing him, had claimed they had seen him dead; he did not want details. There was a long gash down the wall in front of him. He knew what made that sharp edge, that surface as slick as ice, smoother than any hand could have polished in a hundred years.
Idly — but with a shiver, too — he wondered whether being reborn in this fashion made him a new man. He did not think so. Immortality was gone. That was a gift of the Great Lord; he used that name in his head, whatever al'Thor demanded on his tongue. That was proof enough that he was himself. Immortality gone — he knew it must be imagination, yet sometimes he thought he could feel time dragging at him, pulling him toward a grave he had never thought to meet — and drawing the little of saidin he could was like drinking sewage. He was hardly sorry Lanfear was dead. Rahvin neither, but Lanfear especially, for what she had done to him. He would laugh when each of the others died, too, and most for the last. It was not that he had been reborn as a new man at all, but he would cling to that tuft of grass on the cliff's brink as long as he could. The roots would give way eventually, the long fall would come, but until then he was still alive.
He pulled open a small door, intending to find his way to the pantry. There should be some decent wine. One step, and he stopped, the blood draining from his face.
“You? No!” The word still hung in the air when death took him.
Morgase blotted sweat from her face, then tucked the handkerchief back up her sleeve and readjusted her somewhat ragged straw hat. At least she had managed to acquire a decent riding dress, though even fine gray wool was still uncomfortable in this heat. Actually, Tallanvor had acquired it. Letting her horse walk, she eyed the tall young man, riding up ahead through the trees. Basel Gill's roundness emphasized how tail and fit Tallanvor was. He had handed the dress to her saying it suited her better than the itchy thing she had fled the palace in, looking down at her, never blinking, never speaking a word of respect. Of course, she herself had decided it was not safe for anyone to know who she was, especially after discovering Gareth Bryne gone from Kore Springs; why did the man have to be off chasing barnburners when she needed him? No matter; she would do as well without him. But there was something disturbing in Tallanvor's eyes when he called her simply Morgase.
Sighing, she glanced back over her shoulder. Hulking Lamgwin rode watching the forest, Breane at his side watching him as much as anything else. Her army had not grown a whit since Caemlyn. Too many had heard of nobles exiled for no cause and unjust laws in the capital to do more than scoff at the most casual mention of stirring a hand in support of their rightful ruler. She doubted that even knowing who spoke to them would have made a difference. So here she rode through Altara, keeping to forest as much as possible because there seemed to be parties of armed men everywhere, rode through the forest with a scarfaced street tough, a besotted refugee Cairhienin noblewoman, a stout innkeeper who could hardly keep from kneeling whenever she glanced at him, and a young soldier who sometimes looked at her as though she had on one of those dresses she had worn for Gaebril. And Lini, of course. There was no forgetting Lini.
As if thinking of her had been a summons, the old nurse heeled her horse closer. “Better to keep your eyes ahead,” she said quietly. “A young lion charges quickest, and when you least expect it.”
“You think Tallanvor is dangerous?” Morgase said sharply, and Lini gave her a sidelong, considering look.
“Only the way any man can be dangerous. A fine figure of man, don't you think? More than tall enough. Strong hands, I should think. 'There's no point letting honey age too long before you eat it.”
“Lini,” Morgase said warningly. The old woman had been going on this way too often of late. Tallanvor was a handsome man, his hands did look strong, and he had a wellturned calf, but he was young, and she was his queen. The last thing she needed was to start looking at him as a man instead of her subject and soldier. She was about to tell Lini that — and that the woman had lost her wits if she thought she was going to take up with any man ten years her junior; he had to be that — but Tallanvor and Gill were turning back. “You hold your tongue, Lini. If you put foolish ideas into that young man's head, I will leave you somewhere.” Lini's snort would have earned the highest noble in Andor time in a cell to meditate. If she still had her throne, it would.
“Are you sure you want to do this, girl? It's too late to change your mind after you've jumped off the cliff.”
“I will find my allies where I can find them,” Morgase told her stiffly.
Tallanvor reined up, sitting tall in his saddle. Sweat rolled down his face, but he seemed to ignore the heat. Master Gill tugged at the neck of his disccovered jerkin as though he wished he could have it off.
“The wood gives way to farms just ahead,” Tallanvor said, “but it isn't likely anyone will recognize you here.” Morgase met his gaze levelly; day by day it was becoming increasingly hard to look away when he was looking at her. “Another ten miles should take us to Cormaed. If that fellow in Sehar was not lying, there will be a ferry, and we can be on the Amadicia side before dark. Are you certain you want to do this, Morgase?”
The way he said her name... No. She was letting Lini's ridiculous fancies take hold of her. It was the accursed heat. “I have made up my mind, young Tallanvor,” she said coolly, “and I do not expect you to question me when I have done so.”
She heeled her mount hard, letting the horse's leap forward break their gazes apart, letting it shove past him. He could catch up to her. She would find her allies where she found them. She would have her throne back, and woe to Gaebril or any man who thought he cou