“Be silent, boy,” the dark man in the gold-encrusted coat said calmly. He was a handsome man, almost as good-looking as Galad and nearly as youthful-seeming, despite the white streaking his temples, but built on a bigger scale, with more than Rand’s height and very nearly Perrin’s shoulders. “We will hear what you have to say in a moment.” He reached over Morgase’s shoulder and plucked the letter out of her hand. Her glare turned on him—Mat could see her temper heating—but the dark man laid a strong hand on her shoulder, never taking his eyes off what he was reading, and Morgase’s anger melted. “It seems she has left the Tower again,” he said. “On the service of the Amyrlin Seat. The woman oversteps herself again, Morgase.”
Mat had no trouble holding his tongue. Luck. It was stuck to the roof of his mouth. Sometimes I don’t know if it’s good or bad. The dark man was the owner of the deep voice, the “Great Master” who wanted Elayne’s head. She called him Gaebril. Her advisor wants to murder Elayne? Light! And Morgase was staring up at him like an adoring dog with her master’s hand on her shoulder.
Gaebril turned nearly black eyes on Mat. The man had a forceful gaze, and a look of knowing. “What can you tell us of this, boy?”
“Nothing . . . uh . . . my Lord.” Mat cleared his throat; the man’s stare was worse than the Amyrlin’s. “I went to Tar Valon to see my sister. She’s a novice. Else Grinwell. I’m Thom Grinwell, my Lord. The Lady Elayne learned I was meaning to see Caemlyn on my way back home—I’m from Comfrey, my Lord; a little village north of Baerlon; I’d never seen any place bigger than Baerlon before I went to Tar Valon—and she—the Lady Elayne, I mean—gave me that letter to bring.” He thought Morgase had glanced at him when he said he came from north of Baerlon, but he knew there was a village called Comfrey there; he remembered hearing it mentioned.
Gaebril nodded, but he said, “Do you know where Elayne was going, boy? Or on what business? Speak the truth, and you have nothing to fear. Lie, and you will be put to the question.”
Mat did not have to pretend a worried frown. “My Lord, I only saw the Daughter-Heir the once. She gave me the letter—and a gold mark!—and told me to bring it to the Queen. I know no more of what is in it than I’ve heard here.” Gaebril appeared to consider it, with no sign on that dark face of whether he believed a word or not.
“No, Gaebril,” Morgase said suddenly. “Too many have been put to the question. I can see the need as you have shown it to me, but not for this. Not a boy who only brought a letter whose contents he does not know.”
“As my Queen commands, so shall it be,” the dark man said. The tone was respectful, but he touched her cheek in a way that made color come to her face and her lips part as if she expected a kiss.
Morgase drew an unsteady breath. “Tell me, Thom Grinwell, did my daughter look well when you saw her?”
“Yes, my Queen. She smiled, and laughed, and showed a saucy tongue—I mean. . . .”
Morgase laughed softly at the look on his face. “Do not be afraid, young man. Elayne does have a saucy tongue, far too often for her own good. I am happy she is well.” Those blue eyes studied him deeply. “A young man who has left his small village often finds it difficult to return to it. I think you will travel far before you see Comfrey again. Perhaps you will even return to Tar Valon. If you do, and if you see my daughter, tell her that what is said in anger is often repented. I will not remove her from the White Tower before time. Tell her that I often think of my own time there, and miss the quiet talks with Sheriam in her study. Tell her that I said that, Thom Grinwell.”
Mat shrugged uncomfortably. “Yes, my Queen. But . . . uh . . . I do not mean to go to Tar Valon again. Once in any man’s life is enough. My da needs me to help work the farm. My sisters will be stuck with the milking, with me gone.”
Gaebril laughed, a deep rumble of amusement. “Are you anxious then to milk cows, boy? Perhaps you should see something of the world before it changes. Here!” He produced a purse and tossed it; Mat felt coins through the wash-leather when he caught it. “If Elayne can give you a gold mark for carrying her letter, I will give you ten for bringing it safely. See the world before you go back to your cows.”
“Yes, my Lord.” Mat lifted the purse and managed a weak grin. “Thank you, my Lord.”
But the dark man had already waved him away and turned to Morgase with his fists on his hips. “I think the time has come, Morgase, to lance that festering sore on the border of Andor. By your marriage to Taringail Damodred, you have a claim to the Sun Throne. The Queen’s Guards can make that claim as strong as any. Perhaps I can even aid them, in some small way. Hear me.”
Tallanvor touched Mat on the arm, and they backed away, bowing. Mat did not think anyone noticed. Gaebril was still speaking, and every lord and lady seemed to hang on his words. Morgase was frowning as she listened, yet she nodded as much as any other.
CHAPTER
47
To Race the Shadow
From the small courtyard with its pool of fish, Tallanvor led Mat swiftly to the great court at the front of the Palace, behind the tall, gilded gates gleaming in the sun. It would be midday, soon. Mat felt an urge to be gone, a need to hurry. It was hard keeping his pace to the young officer’s. Someone might wonder, if he started running, and maybe—just maybe—things had really been the way they seemed back there. Maybe Gaebril really did not suspect that he knew. Maybe. He remembered those nearly black eyes, seizing and holding like a pair of pitchfork tines through his head. Light, maybe. He forced himself to walk as if he had all the time in the world—Just a haybrain country lout staring at the rugs and the gold. Just a mudfoot who’d never think anyone might put a knife in his back—until Tallanvor let him through a sallyport in one of the gates, and followed him out.
The fat officer with the rat’s eyes was still there with the Guards, and when he saw Mat his face went red again. Before he could open his mouth, though, Tallanvor spoke. “He has delivered a letter to the Queen from the Daughter-Heir. Be glad, Elber, that neither Morgase nor Gaebril knows you tried to keep it from them. Lord Gaebril was most interested in the Lady Elayne’s
missive.”
Elber’s face went from red to as white as his collar. He glared once at Mat, and scuttled back along the line of guardsmen, his beady eyes peering through the bars of their face-guards as if to determine whether any of them had seen his fear.
“Thank you,” Mat told Tallanvor, and meant it. He had forgotten all about the fat man until he was staring him in the face again. “Fare you well, Tallanvor.”
He started across the oval plaza, trying not to walk too fast, and was surprised when Tallanvor walked along. Light, is he Gaebril’s man, or Morgase’s? He was just beginning to feel an itch between his shoulder blades, as if a knife might be about to go in—He doesn’t know, burn me! Gaebril doesn’t suspect I know!—when the young officer finally spoke.
“Did you spend long in Tar Valon? In the White Tower? Long enough to learn anything of it?”
“I was only there three days,” Mat said cautiously. He would have made the time less—if he could have delivered the letter without admitting ever being in Tar Valon, he would have—but he did not think the man would believe he had gone all that way to see his sister and left the same day. What under the Light is he after? “I learned what I saw in that time. Nothing of any importance. They did not guide me around and tell me things. I was only there to see Else.”
“You must have heard something, man. Who is Sheriam? Does talking to her in her study mean anything?”
Mat shook his head vigorously to keep relief from showing on his face. “I don’t know who she is,” he said truthfully. Perhaps he had heard Egwene, or perhaps Nynaeve, mention the name. An Aes Sedai, maybe? “Why should it mean anything?”
“I do not know,” Tallanvor said softly. “There is too much I do not know. Sometimes I think she is trying to say something. . . .” He gave Mat a sharp look. “Are you a loyal Andorman, Thom Grinwell?”