A Crown of Swords (77 page)

“There are many things we must speak of, Morgase, yet I will be brief at this first talk. We Seanchan return to reclaim what was stolen from the heirs of the High King, Artur Paendrag Tanreall.” Pleasure over the kaf became a different pleasure in her voice, both expectation and certainty, and she watched Morgase’s face closely. Morgase could not take her eyes away. “What was ours, will be ours again. In truth, it always has been; a thief gains no ownership. I have begun the recovery in Tarabon. Many nobles of that land have already sworn to obey, await and serve; it will not be
long before all have. Their king—I cannot recall his name—died opposing me. Had he lived, in rebellion against the Crystal Throne and not even of the Blood, he would have been impaled. His family could not be found to be made property, but there is a new King and a new Panarch who have sworn their fealty to the Empress, may she live forever, and the Crystal Throne. The bandits will be eradicated; no longer will there be strife or hunger in Tarabon, but the people will shelter beneath the wings of the Empress. Now I begin in this Amadicia. Soon all will kneel to the Empress, may she live forever, the direct descendant of the great Artur Hawkwing.”

If the serving woman had not gone with the tray, Morgase would have put her cup back. No tremor disturbed the dark surface of the kaf, but much of what the woman spouted was meaningless to her. Empress? Seanchan? There had been wild rumors a year or more ago about Artur Hawkwing’s armies come back from across the Aryth Ocean, but only the most credulous could have believed, and she doubted that the worst gossipmonger in the markets still told the tale. Could it have been truth? In any case, what she did understand was more than enough.

“All honor the name of Artur Hawkwing, Suroth. . . .” The sharp-faced woman opened her mouth angrily, subsiding at the move of a blue-nailed finger by the High Lady. “. . . but his time is long past. Every nation here has an ancient lineage. No land will surrender to you or your Empress. If you have taken some part of Tarabon . . .” Suroth’s indrawn breath hissed, and her eyes glittered, “. . . remember that it is a troubled land, divided against itself. Amadicia will not fall easily, and many nations will ride to her aid when they learn of you.”
Could
it be true? “However many you are, you will find no easy game for your spit. We have faced great threats before, and overcome them. I advise you to make peace before you are crushed.” Morgase remembered
saidar
raging in the night, and avoided looking at the—
damane
, had she called them? By strong effort, she managed not to wet her lips.

Suroth smiled that mask’s smile again, eyes shining like polished stones. “All must make choices. Some will choose to obey, await and serve, and will rule their lands in the name of the Empress, may she live forever.”

She took a hand from her cup to gesture, a slight movement of long fingernails, and the sharp-faced woman barked, “Thera! Poses of the Swan!”

For some reason, Suroth’s mouth tightened. “Not the Swan, Alwhin, you blind fool!” she hissed, half under her breath, though her accent made understanding difficult. The frozen smile returned in an instant.

The serving woman rose from her place at the wall again, running out to the middle of the floor in an odd way, on tiptoe, with her arms swept back. Slowly, atop the flaring golden sun, symbol of the Children of the Light, she began a sort of stylized dance. Her arms unfolded to the sides like wings, then folded back. Twisting, she slid her left foot out, lowering herself over the bending knee, both arms outstretched as if appealing, until arms and body and right leg made a straight, slanted line. Her sheer white robe made the whole thing scandalous. Morgase felt her cheeks growing hot as the dance, if it could be called that, continued.

“Thera is new and not well trained yet,” Suroth murmured. “The Poses are most often done with ten or twenty
da’covale
together, men and women chosen for the clean beauty of their lines, but sometimes it is pleasant to view only one. It is very pleasant to own beautiful things, is it not?”

Morgase frowned. How could anyone own a person? Suroth had spoken earlier about “making someone property.” She knew the Old Tongue, and the word
da’covale
was not familiar to her, but thinking it out she came up with “Person Who Is Owned.” It was disgusting. Horrendous! “Incredible,” she said dryly. “Perhaps I should leave you to enjoy the . . . dance.”

“In one moment,” Suroth said, smiling at the posturing Thera. Morgase avoided looking. “All have choices to make, as I said. The old King of Tarabon chose to rebel, and died. The old Panarch was captured, yet refused the Oath. Each of us has a place where we belong, unless raised by the Empress, but those who reject their proper place can also be cast down, even to the depths. Thera has a certain grace. Strangely, Alwhin shows great promise in teaching, so I expect that before many years, Thera will learn the skill in the Poses to go with her grace.” That smile swiveled toward Morgase, that glittering gaze.

A very significant gaze, but why? Something to do with the dancer? Her name, mentioned so often, as if to highlight it. But what . . . ? Morgase’s head whipped around, and she stared at the woman, up on her toes and slowly pivoting in one spot with her hands flat together and arms stretched up as high as they would go. “I don’t believe it,” she gasped. “I won’t!”

“Thera,” Suroth said, “what was your name before you became my property? What title did you hold?”

Thera froze in her up-stretched posture, quivering, shooting a look half panic, half terror at sharp-faced Alwhin, a look of pure terror at Suroth. “Thera was called Amathera, if it pleases the High Lady,” she said breathily. “Thera was the Panarch of Tarabon, if it pleases the High Lady.”

The cup dropped from Morgase’s hand, smashing to bits on the floor, spraying the black kaf. It had to be a lie. She had never met Amathera, but she had heard a description, once. No. Many women of the right age could have large dark eyes and a petulant mouth. Pura had never been Aes Sedai, and this woman. . . . “Pose!” Alwhin snapped, and Thera flowed on without so much as one more glance at Suroth or anyone. Whoever she was, clearly the foremost thought in her head now was an urgent desire not to make a mistake. Morgase concentrated on not vomiting.

Suroth stepped very close, face cold as midwinter. “All confront choices,” she said quietly. Her voice could have marked steel. “Some of my prisoners say that you spent time in the White Tower. By law, no
marath’damane
may escape the leash, but I pledge to you that you, who named me to my eyes and called lie on my word, you will not face
that
fate.” The emphasis made quite clear that her pledge covered no other possible fate. The smile that never reached her eyes returned. “I hope that you will choose to swear the oath, Morgase, and rule Andor in the name of the Empress, may she live forever.” For the first time, Morgase was absolutely certain the woman lied. “I will speak to you again tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, if I have time.”

Turning away, Suroth glided past the lone dancer to the high-backed chair. As she sat, spreading her robe gracefully, Alwhin barked again. She did not seem to have any other voice. “All! Poses of the Swan!” The young men and women kneeling against the wall leaped forward to join Thera, joining her movements exactly in a line before Suroth’s chair. Only the
lopar’s
gaze still acknowledged Morgase’s existence. She did not believe she had ever been dismissed so thoroughly in her life. Gathering her dignity with her skirts, she left.

She did not go far alone of course. Those red-and-black armored soldiers stood in the anteroom like statues with red-and-black tasseled spears, faces impassive in their lacquered helmets, hard eyes seeming to stare from behind the mandibles of monstrous insects. One, not much taller than she, fell in at her shoulder without a word and escorted her back to her rooms, where two Taraboners with swords flanked her door, these in steel breastplates, but still painted in horizontal stripes. They bowed low, hands on their knees, and she thought it was for her until her escort spoke for the first time.

“Honor met,” he said in a harsh, dry voice, and the Taraboners straightened, never glancing at her until he said, “Watch her well. She has not
given the Oath.” Dark eyes flickered toward her above steel veils, but their short bows of assent were for the Seanchan.

She tried not to hurry inside, but once the door was closed behind her, she leaned against it attempting to settle her whirling thoughts. Seanchan and
damane
, Empresses and oaths and people owned. Lini and Breane stood in the middle of the room looking at her.

“What did you learn?” Lini asked patiently, in much the tone in which she had questioned the child Morgase about a book read.

“Nightmares and madness,” Morgase sighed. Suddenly she stood up straight, looking around the room anxiously. “Where is—? Where are the men?”

Breane answered the unasked question in a dryly mocking tone. “Tallanvor went to see what he could find out.” Her fists planted themselves on her hips, and her face became deadly serious. “Lamgwin went with him, and Master Gill. What did
you
find out? Who are these . . .
Seanchan
?” She said the name awkwardly, frowning around it. “We heard that much for ourselves.” She affected not to notice Lini’s biting stare. “What are we to do now, Morgase?”

Morgase brushed between the women, crossing to the nearest window. Not as narrow as those in the audience chamber, it looked down twenty feet or more to the stone paving of the courtyard. A dispirited column of bareheaded, disheveled men, some with bloodstained bandages, shambled across the courtyard under the watchful gaze of Taraboners carrying spears. Several Seanchan stood atop a nearby tower, peering into the distance between the crenellations. One wore a helmet decorated with three slender plumes. A woman appeared in a window across the court, the lightning-embroidered red panel plain on her breast, frowning down at the Whitecloak prisoners. Those stumbling men looked stunned, unable to believe what had happened.

What were they to do? A decision Morgase dreaded. It seemed that she had not made so much as a decision on fruit for breakfast in months without it leading to disaster. A choice, Suroth had said. Aid these Seanchan in taking Andor, or. . . . One last service she could do for Andor. The tail end of the column appeared, followed by more Taraboners, who were joined by their countrymen they passed. A twenty-foot fall, and Suroth lost her lever. Maybe it was the coward’s way out, but she had already proved herself that. Still, the Queen of Andor should not die so.

Under her breath, she spoke the irrevocable words that had been used only twice before in the thousand-year history of Andor. “Under the Light,
I relinquish the High Seat of House Trakand to Elayne Trakand. Under the Light, I renounce the Rose Crown and abdicate the Lion Throne to Elayne, High Seat of House Trakand. Under the Light, I submit myself to the will of Elayne of Andor, her obedient subject.” None of that made Elayne Queen, true, but it cleared the way.

“What are you smiling at?” Lini asked.

Morgase turned slowly. “I was thinking of Elayne.” She did not think her old nurse had been close enough to hear what no one really needed to.

Lini’s eyes widened, though, and her breath caught. “You come away from there now!” she snapped, and suiting actions to words, seized her arm and physically pulled her from the window.

“Lini, you forget yourself! You stopped being my nurse a long—!” Morgase drew a deep breath and softened her tone. Meeting those frightened eyes was not easy; nothing frightened Lini. “What I do is for the best, believe me,” she told her gently. “There’s no other way—”

“No other way?” Breane broke in angrily, gripping her skirts till her hands shook. Clearly she would rather have had them wrapped around Morgase’s throat. “What fool nonsense are you spouting now? What if these Seanchan think we killed you?” Morgase compressed her lips; had she become so transparent?

“Shut up, woman!” Lini never got angry, either, or raised her voice, but she did both now, her withered cheeks red. She raised a bony hand. “You hold your mouth, or I’ll slap you sillier than you are!”

“Slap her if you want to slap someone!” Breane shouted back so fiercely that spittle flew. “
Queen
Morgase! She will send you and me and my Lamgwin to the gallows, and her precious Tallanvor too, because she lacks the belly of a
mouse
!”

The door opened to admit Tallanvor and put an abrupt end to it. No one was about to shout in front of him. Lini pretended to examine Morgase’s sleeve as though it might need mending as Master Gill and Lamgwin followed Tallanvor in. Breane put on a bright smile and smoothed her skirts. The men noticed nothing, of course.

Morgase noticed a great deal. For one thing, Tallanvor had a sword belted on, and so did Master Gill, and even Lamgwin, though his was a short-sword. She had always had the feeling he was more comfortable with his fists than any other weapons. Before she could ask how, the skinny little man who brought up the rear closed the door carefully behind him.

“Majesty,” Sebban Balwer said, “forgive the intrusion.” Even his bow and his smile seemed dry and precise, but as his eyes flicked from her to
the other women, Morgase decided that whether the other men noticed the atmosphere in the room or not, Pedron Niall’s onetime secretary did.

“I am surprised to see you, Master Balwer,” she said. “I heard there was some unpleasantness with Eamon Valda.” What she had heard was that Valda had said if he laid eyes on Balwer, he would kick him over one of the Fortress walls. Balwer’s smile tightened; he knew what Valda had said.

“He has a plan to take us all out of here,” Tallanvor broke in. “Today. Now.” He gave her a look not that of subject to queen. “We are accepting his offer.”

“How?” she said slowly, forcing her legs to remain straight. What help could this prissy little stick of a man offer? Escape. She wanted very much to sit down, but she was not going to, not with Tallanvor looking at her in that fashion. Of course, she was not his Queen, now, but he did not know that. Another question occurred. “Why? Master Balwer, I’ll not shun any true offer of help, but why would you risk yourself? These Seanchan will make you regret it, should they find out.”