The Gathering Storm

Perhaps it had been a mistake to fight the men, but he had already wasted too much time. Egwene could be dead by now! When a man like that sergeant tried to assert his authority, you really only had two options. You could talk your way up through the ranks of the bureaucracy, convincing each soldier each step of the way that you were important. Or you could make a disturbance. The second was faster, and the camp obviously had enough Aes Sedai support to Heal a few injured soldiers.

Eventually, a small group of men strode out from inside the palisade. Their uniforms were sharp, their postures dangerous, their faces worn. At their head came a square-faced man with graying temples and a strong, stocky build. Gawyn smiled. Bryne himself. The gamble had worked.

The Captain-General surveyed Gawyn, then moved on to a quick inspection of his fallen soldiers. At last, he shook his head. "Stand down," he said to his men. "Sergeant Cords."

The stocky sergeant stood up. "Sir!"

Bryne glanced back at Gawyn. "Next time a man comes to the gate claiming to be nobility and asking for me, send for an officer. Immediately. I don't care if the man has two months of scruffy beard and reeks of cheap ale. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," the sergeant said, blushing. "Understood, sir."

"See your men to the infirmary, Sergeant," Bryne said, still looking at Gawyn. "You, come with me."

Gawyn clenched his jaw. He hadn't received such an address from Gareth Bryne since before he'd started shaving. Still, he couldn't really expect the man to be pleased. Just inside the palisade, Gawyn spotted a young boy who was likely a stablehand or messenger boy. He handed Challenge to the wide-eyed youth, instructing him to see the horse cared for. Then Gawyn retrieved his sword from the man holding it and hurried after Bryne.

"Gareth," Gawyn said, catching up, "I—"

"Hold your tongue, young man," Bryne said, not turning toward him. "I haven't decided what I'm going to do with you."

Gawyn snapped his mouth closed. That was uncalled for! Gawyn was still brother to the rightful Queen of Andor, and would be First Prince of the Sword should Elayne take and hold the throne! Bryne should show him respect.

But Bryne could be stubborn as a boar. Gawyn held his tongue. They reached a tall, peaked tent with two guards at the front. Bryne ducked inside and Gawyn followed. The inside was neat and clean, more so than Gawyn had expected. The desk was stacked with rolled maps and orderly sheets of paper, and the pallets in the corner were rolled carefully, blankets folded with sharp angles. Bryne was obviously relying on someone meticulous to tidy up for him.

Bryne clasped his hands behind his back, breastplate reflecting Gawyn's face as he turned around. "All right. Explain what you're doing here."

Gawyn drew himself up. "General," he said, "I think you mistake yourself. I'm no longer your student."

"I know," Bryne said curtly. "The boy / trained would never have pulled a childish stunt like that one to get my attention."

"The watch sergeant was belligerent, and I had no patience for the posturing of a fool. This seemed the best way."

"The best way to what}" Bryne asked. "Outrage me?"

"Look," Gawyn said, "perhaps I was hasty, but I have an important task. You need to listen to me."

"And if I don't?" Bryne asked. "If I instead throw you out of my camp for being a spoiled princeling with too much pride and not enough sense?"

Gawyn frowned. "Be careful, Gareth. I've learned a great deal since we last met. I think you'll find that your sword can no longer best mine as easily as it once did."

"I have no doubt of that," Bryne said. "Light, boy! You always were a talented one. But you think that just because you're skilled with the sword, your words hold more weight? I should listen because you'll kill me if I don't? I thought I taught you far better than that."

Bryne had aged since Gawyn had last seen him. But that age didn't bow Bryne down—it rested comfortably on his shoulders. A few more traces of white at his temples, a few more wrinkles around the eyes, yet strong and lean enough of body that he looked years younger than he was. One couldn't look at Gareth Bryne and see anything other than a man in—certainly not past—his prime.

Gawyn locked eyes with the general, trying to keep the anger from boiling out. Bryne held his gaze, calm. Solid. As a general should be. As Gawyn should be.

Gawyn looked away, suddenly feeling ashamed of himself. "Light," he whispered, releasing his sword and raising a hand to his head. He suddenly felt very, very tired. "I'm sorry, Gareth. You're right. I've been a fool."

Bryne grunted. "Good to hear you say that. I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you."

Gawyn sighed, wiping his brow, wishing for something cool to drink. His anger melted away, and he felt exhausted. "It has been a difficult year," he said, "and I rode myself too hard getting here. I'm at the edge of my mind."

"You aren't the only one, lad," Bryne said. He took a deep breath and walked to a small serving table, poured a cup of something for Gawyn. It was only warm tea, but Gawyn took it thankfully and sipped.

"These are times to test men," Bryne said, pouring himself a cup. He took a sip and grimaced.

"What?" Gawyn asked, glancing down at his cup.

"It's nothing. I despise this stuff."