"I'll take her away," Gawyn said. "Back to Andor."
"And will you force her to go?" Bryne asked. "As you forced your way into my camp? Will you become a bully and a footpad, remarkable only because of your ability to kill or punish those who disagree with you?"
Gawyn didn't answer.
"Whom to serve?" Bryne said, thoughtful. "Our own skill frightens us, sometimes. What is the ability to kill if one has no outlet for it? A wasted talent? The pathway to becoming a murderer? The power to protect and preserve is daunting. So you look for someone to give the skill to, someone who will use it wisely. The need to make a decision chews at you, even after you've made it. I see the question more in younger men. We old hounds, we're just happy to have a place by the hearth. If someone tells us to fight, we don't want to shake things up too much. But the young men . . . they wonder."
"Did you question, once?" Gawyn asked.
"Yes," Bryne said. "More than once. I wasn't Captain-General during the Aiel War, but I was a rank-captain. I wondered then, many times."
"How could you question your side during the Aiel war, of all things?" Gawyn said, frowning. "They came to slaughter."
"They didn't come for us," Bryne said. "They just wanted the Cairhienin. Of course, that wasn't so easy to see at first, but truth be told, some of us wondered. Laman deserved his death. Why should we die to stand in the way of it? Maybe more of us should have asked the question."
"Then what's the answer?" Gawyn asked. "Where do you put your trust? Whom do I serve?"
"I don't know," Bryne said frankly.
"Then why ask in the first place?" Gawyn snapped, pulling his horse up short.
Bryne reined in his animal, turning back. "I don't know the answer because there isn't one. At least, each person's answer is their own. When I was young, I fought for honor. Eventually, I realized that there was little honor to be found in killing, and I found that I had changed. Then I fought because I served your mother. I trusted her. When she failed me, I began to wonder again. What of all those years of service? What of the men I'd killed in her name? What did any of that mean?"
He turned and flicked his reins, moving again. Gawyn hasted Challenge to catch up.
"You wonder why I'm here, instead of in Andor?" Bryne asked. "It's because I can't let go. It's because the world is changing, and I need to be part of it. It's because once everything in Andor was taken from me, I needed a new place for my loyalty. The Pattern brought me this opportunity."
"And you chose it just because it was there?"
"No," Bryne said. "I picked it because I'm a fool." He met Gawyn's eyes. "But I stayed because it was right. That which has been broken must be made whole, and I've seen what a terrible leader can do to a kingdom. Elaida can't be allowed to pull this world down with her."
Gawyn started.
"Yes," Bryne said. "I've actually come to believe them. Fool women. But by the Light, Gawyn, they're right. What I'm doing is right. She's right."
"Who?"
Bryne shook his head, muttering. "Bloody woman."
Egwene? Gawyn wondered.
"My motives aren't important to you, son," Bryne said. "You're not one of my soldiers. But you need to make some decisions. In the days coming, you'll need to have a side and you'll need to know why you've chosen it. That's all I'll say on the matter."
He kicked his horse into a faster gait. In the distance, Gawyn could pick out another guard post. He hung back as Bryne and his soldiers approached it.
Pick a side. What if Egwene wouldn't go with him?
Bryne was right. Something was coming. You could smell it in the air, feel it in the weak sunlight that managed to shoulder its way through the clouds. You could sense it, distantly, in the north, crackling like unseen energy on that dark horizon.
War, battles, conflicts, changes. Gawyn felt as if he didn't know what the different sides were. Let alone which one to pick for himself.
CHAPTER 31
A Promise to Lews Therin
Cadsuane kept her cloak on, hood up, despite the mugginess that strained her ability to "ignore" the heat. She dared not lower the hood or remove the cloak. AlThor's words had been specific; if he saw her face, she would be executed. She wouldn't risk her life to prevent a few hours of discomfort, even if she thought al'Thor was safely back in his newly appropriated mansion. The boy often appeared where he wasn't expected or wanted.
She wasn't about to let him exile her, of course. The more power a man held, the more likely he was to be an idiot with it. Give a man one cow, and he'd care for it with concern, using its milk to feed his family. Give a man ten cows, and he was likely to think himself rich—then let all ten starve for lack of attention.
She clomped down the boardwalk, passing bannered buildings like boxes stacked atop one another. She wasn't particularly pleased to be in Bandar Eban again. She had nothing against the Domani; she just preferred cities that weren't so crowded. And with the problems in the countryside, the place was more packed than normal. Refugees continued to trickle in despite the rumors regarding al'Thor's arrival in the city. She passed a cluster of them in the alley to her left, a family, faces darkened by dirt.
Al'Thor promised food. That brought hungry mouths, none eager to return to their farms, even after they were given food. The countryside was still too chaotic, and the food here too new. The refugees couldn't be certain the grain wouldn't just spoil, as so much did recently. No, they stayed, packing the city, crowding it.
Cadsuane shook her head, continuing down the boardwalk, those wretched clogs clattering against the wood. The city was famous for these long, sturdy walkways, which allowed foot traffic to avoid the mud of the streets. Cobbles would have fixed that, but the Domani often prided themselves on being different from the rest of the world. Indigestibly spicy food with dreadful eating utensils. A capital filled with frivolous banners, set on a huge port. Scandalous dresses on the women; long, thin mustaches on the men and an almost Sea Folk-like fondness for earrings.
Hundreds of those banners flapped in the wind as Cadsuane passed, and she gritted her teeth against the temptation to pull off her hood and feel the wind on her face. Light-cursed ocean air. Normally, Bandar Eban was chilly and rainy. Rarely had she felt it this warm. The humidity was dreadful either way. Rational people stayed inland!
She made her way down several streets, crossing through the mud at intersections. That was the irredeemable flaw of boardwalks, in her opinion. The locals knew which streets to cut across and which ones were deep in mud, but Cadsuane had to just tramp across wherever she could. That's why she'd hunted out these clogs, built after the Tairen style, to go over her shoes. It had been surprisingly hard to find a merchant selling them; the Domani obviously had little interest in them, and most people she passed either went barefoot in the mud or knew where to cross and keep from soiling their shoes.
Halfway down to the docks, she finally reached her destination. The fine banner flapping out front proclaimed the inn's name as The Wind's Favor, beating against an inlaid wood front. Cadsuane made her way inside and took off the clogs in the muddy entryway before stepping up into the inn proper. There, finally, she allowed herself to lower her hood. If al'Thor randomly happened to visit this particular inn, then he'd just have to hang her.
The inn's common room was decorated more like a king's dining hall than a tavern. White tablecloths coated the tables, and the varnished wooden floor was mopped to a shine. The walls were hung with tasteful still-life paintings—a bowl of fruit on the wall behind the bar, a vase of flowers on the wall opposite it. The bottles on the ledge behind the bar were almost all wine, very few bottles of brandy or other liquors.
The slender innkeeper, Quillin Tasil, was a tall, oval-faced Andoran man. Thinning on top with dark, short hair at the sides of his head, he wore a full beard, trimmed short, which was almost all gray. His fine lavender coat had white ruffled cuffs peeking out from the sleeves, but he wore an innkeeper's apron over the front. He generally had had good information, but was also willing to look into inquiries for her among his associates. A very useful man indeed.
He smiled at Cadsuane as she entered, wiping his hands on a towel. He gestured her toward a table, then went back to the bar to fetch some wine. Cadsuane settled herself as two men on the other side of the room began to argue loudly. The other patrons—only four, two women at a table on the far side, two more men at the bar—paid the argument no heed. One couldn't spend much time in Arad Doman without learning to ignore the frequent flares in temper. Domani men were as hotheaded as volcanoes, and most people agreed that Domani women were the reason. These two men did not turn to a duel, as would have been common in Ebou Dar. Instead, they shouted for a few moments, then began to agree with each other, then insisted on buying one another wine. Fights were common; bloodshed infrequent. Injuries were bad for business.
Quillin approached, bearing a cup of wine—it would be one of his finest vintages. She never requested such from him, but never complained either.
"Mistress Shore," he said with his affable voice, "I wish I'd known earlier that you were back in town! The first I heard of it was your letter!"
Cadsuane took the offered cup. "I am not accustomed to giving reports on my whereabouts to every acquaintance, Master Tasil."
"Of course not, of course not," he said, and seemed completely unof-fended at her sharp response. She'd never been able to get a rise out of him. That had always made her curious.
"The inn seems to be doing well," she said politely, causing him to turn and look over his few patrons. They seemed uncomfortable to be sitting at immaculate tables atop a gleaming floor. Cadsuane wasn't certain if it was the intimidating cleanliness that kept people away from The Wind's Favor, or if it was Quillin's insistence on never hiring gleemen or musicians to perform. He claimed they spoiled the atmosphere. As she watched, he noticed that a new patron entered, tracking in mud. She could see Quillin's fingers itching to go scrub the floor.
"You there," Quillin called to the man. "Scrape your shoes before coming in, if you please."
The man froze, frowning, but went back to do as instructed. Quillin sighed and moved over to sit at her table. "Frankly, Mistress Shore, it gets a little too busy here lately for my tastes. Can't keep track of all my patrons sometimes! People go without drink, waiting for me to get to them."
"You could hire help," she noted. "A serving girl or two."
"What? And let them have all the fun?" He said it in all seriousness.
Cadsuane took a sip of her wine. An excellent vintage indeed, perhaps expensive enough that an inn—no matter how splendid—shouldn't have had it readily available behind the bar. She sighed. Quillin's Do-mani wife was one of the most accomplished silk merchants in the city; many Sea Folk vessels sought her out personally to trade with her. Quillin had kept accounts for his wife's business for some twenty years before he had retired, both of them wealthy.
And what did he do with it? Open an inn. It had apparently always been a dream of his. Cadsuane had learned long ago to stop questioning the odd penchants of people with too much free time.