The Path of Daggers (22 page)

It was Alise herself who brought Nynaeve her horse. And straightened the blue-plumed hat as Nynaeve put a foot in the stirrup. Nynaeve turned the plump mare north with Lan riding Mandarb at her side and a look of utter mortification on her face. Why she did not just set Alise down, Elayne did not understand. To hear Nynaeve tell it, she had been putting women older than herself in their place since she was little more than a girl. And she was Aes Sedai, now, after all; that should carry mountains of weight with any Kinswoman.

As the column began to wend its way toward the hills, Elayne looked at Aviendha and Birgitte. Aviendha simply stood there with her arms folded beneath her breasts; she had the woman-wrapped-in-her-own-hair
angreal
clutched in one hand. Birgitte took Lioness’s reins from Elayne, adding them to those of her own horse and Aviendha’s, then walked over to a small boulder twenty paces away and sat down.

“You two must,” Elayne began, then coughed when Aviendha’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Sending Aviendha out of danger was impossible without shaming her. Perhaps impossible altogether. “I want you to go with the others,” she told Birgitte. “And take Lioness. Aviendha and I can take turns riding her gelding. I’d like a walk before bedtime.”

“If you ever treat a man half as well as you do that horse,” Birgitte said dryly, “he’ll be yours for life. I think I’ll just sit awhile; I’ve ridden long enough today. I’m not at your beck and call all the time. We can play that game in front of the sisters and the other Warders, to spare your blushes, but you and I know better.” Despite the mocking words, what Elayne felt from her was affection. No; stronger than affection. Her own eyes stung suddenly. Her death would hurt Birgitte to the bone—the Warder bond made that certain—but it was friendship that made her stay now.

“I am thankful to have two friends such as you,” she said simply. Birgitte grinned at her as if she had said something silly.

Aviendha, however, blushed furiously and stared at Birgitte, wide-eyed and flustered, as though the Warder’s presence were to blame for her fiery cheeks. Hurriedly she shifted her gaze to the people still short of the first hill, perhaps half a mile distant. “Best to wait until they are out of sight,” she said, “but you cannot wait too long. Once you have started the unweaving, the flows begin to grow . . . slick . . . after a time. Letting one slip free before it is out of the weave is the same as letting go of the weave; it will fall into whatever it wishes, then. But you must not hurry, either. Each thread must be pulled free as far as it will go. The more that come loose, the easier others will be to see, but you must always pick the thread that is easiest to see.” Smiling warmly, she pressed her fingers firmly against Elayne’s cheek. “You will do well, if you are careful.”

It did not sound that difficult. She just had to be careful. It seemed to take a long time for the last woman to vanish over the hill, the slender noble bent under the bulk of her dresses. The sun barely appeared to settle any at all, but it seemed like hours. What did Aviendha mean precisely by “slick”? She could not explain beyond variations on the word; they became difficult to hold, that was all.

Elayne found out as soon as she began again. “Slick” was what you would get if you coated a live eel with grease. She gritted her teeth just holding on to that first thread, and that was on top of trying to pull it free. All that stopped her from gasping in relief when the thread of Air began whipping about, finally loose, was that there were more to go. If they became much more “slick,” she was not sure she could manage it. Aviendha watched closely, but did not say another word, though she always had an encouraging smile when Elayne needed one. Elayne could not see Birgitte—she did not dare look away from her work—yet she could feel her, a small knot of rock-solid confidence in her own head, enough confidence to fill her.

Sweat slid down her face, down her back and belly, until she began to feel “slick” herself. A bath tonight would be
most
welcome. No, she could not think of that. All attention on the weaves. They
were
getting harder to handle, quivering in her grip as soon as she touched one, but they still came free, and every time one thread began to lash about, another seemed to leap out of the mass, to suddenly be clearly perceptible where there had only been solid
saidar
before. To her eye the gateway resembled some monstrous, distorted hundred-heads on the bottom of a pond, surrounded by flailing tendrils, every one thickly haired with threads of the Power that grew and writhed and vanished only to be replaced by new. The opening visible to anyone flexed along its edges, changing shape and even size continuously. Her legs began to tremble; strain stung her eyes as much as sweat did. She did not know how much longer she could go on. Gritting her teeth, she fought. One thread at a time. One thread at a time.

A thousand miles away, less than a hundred paces away through the shuddering gateway, dozens of soldiers swept around the white farm buildings, short men carrying crossbows, in brown breastplates and painted helmets that looked like the heads of huge insects. Behind them came a woman with red panels bearing silver lightning on her skirts, a bracelet on her wrist linked by a silvery leash to the collar around the neck of a woman in gray, and then another
sul’dam
and her
damane
, then another pair. One of the
sul’dam
pointed at the gateway, and the glow of
saidar
abruptly enveloped her
damane
.

“Get down!” Elayne screamed, falling backward, out of sight of the farmyard, and silver-blue lightning shot through the gateway with a roar that filled her ears, forking savagely in every direction. Her hair lifted, every strand trying to stand on its own, and thunderous fountains of earth erupted wherever one of the forks struck. Dirt and pebbles rained down on her.

Hearing returned suddenly, and a man’s voice from the other side of the opening, a slurred, drawling accent that made her skin crawl as much as the words. “. . . must take them alive, you fools!”

Abruptly one of the soldiers was leaping into the meadow right in front of her. Birgitte’s arrow punched through the clenched fist embossed on his leather breastplate. A second Seanchan soldier stumbled over the first as he fell, and Aviendha’s belt knife stabbed into his throat before he could recover. Arrows flew from Birgitte’s bow like hail; with one boot on the horses’ reins, she grinned grimly as she shot. The trembling horses tossed their heads and danced as if they would jerk free and run, but Birgitte simply stood and shot as fast as she could draw. Shouts from beyond the gateway said Birgitte Silverbow still struck home with every shaft she loosed. Answer came, quick as bad thought, black streaks, crossbow bolts. So quick, all happening so fast. Aviendha fell, blood running over the fingers clutching her right arm, but she let go of her wound immediately, crawling clear, scrabbling on the ground for the
angreal
, her face set. Birgitte cried out; dropping her bow, she grabbed her thigh where a quarrel stuck out. Elayne felt the stab of agony as sharply as if it were her own.

Desperately, she seized another thread from where she lay half on her back. And realized to her horror after one tug that it was all she could do to hold on. Had the thread moved? Had it slipped free any at all? If it had, she did not dare let go. The thread trembled greasily in her grasp.

“Alive, I said!” that Seanchan voice roared. “Anyone who kills a woman gets no share of the taking gold!” The flurry of crossbow bolts ceased.

“You wish to take me?” Aviendha shouted. “Then come and dance with me!”
Saidar’s
glow abruptly surrounded her, dim even with the
angreal
, and balls of fire sprang into being in front of the gateway and sprayed through again and again. Not very large balls, but the blasts as they burst back in Altara sounded in a steady stream. Aviendha panted with effort, though; her face glistened with sweat. Birgitte had recovered her bow; she looked every inch the hero of legend, blood streaming down her leg, barely able to stand, but an arrow half drawn, searching for a target.

Elayne tried to control her breathing. She could not embrace one shred more of the Power, nothing to help. “The two of you must get away,” she said. She could not believe how she sounded, calm as ice; she knew she should have been wailing. Her heart was trying to pound through her ribs. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold this.” That held true for the entire weave as much as for that single thread. Was it sliding? Was it? “Go, as fast as you can. The other side of the hills should be safe, but every span you can cover gains something. Go!”

Birgitte growled in the Old Tongue, but nothing that Elayne knew. It sounded like phrases she would like to learn. If there was ever a chance. Birgitte went on in words Elayne could understand. “You let that bloody thing go before I tell you, and you won’t have to worry about waiting for Nynaeve to skin you; I’ll do it myself. And then let her have a turn. Just be quiet and hang on! Aviendha, get around here—behind that thing!—can you keep that up from behind it?—get around here and on one of these bloody horses.”

“As long as I can see where to weave,” Aviendha replied, staggering to her feet. She wobbled sideways and barely caught herself short of falling. Blood flowed down her sleeve from a wicked gash. “I think I can.” She vanished behind the gateway, and the fireballs continued. You could see through a gateway from the other side, though it appeared to be a heat haze hanging in the air. You could not walk through from that side, though—the attempt would be extremely painful—and when Aviendha reappeared, she was stumbling well wide. Birgitte helped her mount her gelding, but
backward
, of all things!

When Birgitte motioned fiercely to her, Elayne did not bother with shaking her head. For one thing, she feared what might happen if she did. “I’m not certain I can hold on if I try to get up.” In truth, she was not certain she
could
get up; tired was no longer in it; her muscles were water. “Ride as fast as you can. I’ll hold on as long as I’m able. Please, go!”

Muttering curses in the Old Tongue—they had to be; nothing else ever had the sound!—Birgitte shoved the horses’ reins into Aviendha’s hands. Nearly falling twice, she hobbled to Elayne and bent to take her by the shoulders. “You can hang on,” she said, her voice filled with the same conviction Elayne felt from her. “I never met a Queen of Andor before you, but I’ve known queens like you. A backbone of steel and a lion’s heart. You can do it!”

Slowly she pulled Elayne up, not waiting for an answer, her face tight, every stab in her leg echoing in Elayne’s head. Elayne quivered with the effort of holding the weave, holding that one thread; she was surprised to find herself erect. And alive. Birgitte’s leg throbbed madly in her head. She tried not to lean on Birgitte, but her own trembling limbs would not support her completely. As they lurched toward the horses, each half leaning on the other, she kept looking back over her shoulder. She could hold a weave without looking at it—she could normally—but she needed to reassure herself that she really did still have a grip on that one thread, that it was not slipping. The gateway now appeared like no weave she had ever seen, twisting wildly, wreathed with fuzzed tentacles.

With a groan, Birgitte heaved her into her saddle more than helped her. Backward, just like Aviendha! “You have to see,” she explained, limping to her gelding; holding the reins of all three horses, she pulled herself up painfully. Without a sound, but Elayne felt the agony. “You do what needs doing and leave where we’re going to me.” The horses leaped away, perhaps as much from eagerness to be gone as from Birgitte’s heel in her own mount’s flank.

Elayne hung on to the high cantle of her saddle as grimly as she did to the weave, to
saidar
itself. The galloping horse flung her about, and it was all she could do to remain in the saddle. Aviendha used her saddle’s cantle as a prop to keep herself upright; her mouth hung open, sucking air, and her eyes seemed fixed. The glow surrounded her, though, and that stream of fireballs continued. Not as fast as before, true, and some shot wide of the gateway, streaking trails of flame through the grass or exploding on the ground beyond, but they still formed and flew. Elayne took strength, made herself take strength; if Aviendha could keep on when she looked ready to fall on her face, she could, too.

At a gallop, the gateway began to dwindle, brown grass stretching out between them and the opening, and then the ground was slanting upward. They were climbing the hill! Birgitte was again the arrow in the bow, all focus, fighting down the agony in her legs, urging her horses for more speed. All they had to do was reach the crest, reach the other side.

With a gasp, Aviendha sagged onto her elbows, bouncing on her saddle like a loose sack; the light of
saidar
flickered around her and was gone. “I cannot,” she panted. “I cannot.” That was all she could get out. Seanchan soldiers began leaping into the meadow almost as soon as the hail of fire ceased.

“It’s all right,” Elayne managed. Her throat was sand; all the moisture that had been in her now coated her skin and soaked her clothes. “Using an
angreal
is tiring. You did well, and they can’t catch us now.”

As if to mock her, a
sul’dam
appeared in the meadow below; even at half a mile there was no mistaking the two women. The sun, low in the west, still flashed glints off the
a’dam
linking them. Another pair joined them, then a third, and a fourth. A fifth.

“The crest!” Birgitte shouted joyfully. “We made it! It’s good wine and a well set-up man tonight!”

In the meadow, a
sul’dam
pointed, and time seemed to slow for Elayne. The glow of the One Power sprang up around the woman’s
damane
. Elayne could see the weave forming. She knew what it was. And there was no way to stop it. “Faster!” she shouted. The shield struck her. She should have been too strong for it—she should have been!—but exhausted as she was, barely clinging to
saidar
as she was, it sliced between her and the Source. Down in the meadow, the weave that had been a gateway fell in on itself. Haggard, looking as though she could not possibly move, Aviendha hurled herself from her saddle at Elayne, carrying them both off. Elayne had just time to see the far slope of the hill below her as she fell.