"It must be the mercenaries," she said, not quite managing to keep regret out of her voice. Armsmen from her estates surely would begin arriving inside a month - once they learned she was alive - but the men Birgitte was recruiting would require half a year or more before they were fit to ride and handle a sword at the same time, "And Hunters for the Horn, if any will sign and swear." There were plenty of both trapped in Caemlyn by the weather. Too many of both, most people said, carousing, brawling, troubling women who wanted no part of their attentions. At least she would be putting them to good use, to stop trouble instead of beginning it. She wished she did not think she was still trying to convince herself of that. "Expensive, but the coffers will cover it." For a time, they would. She had better start receiving revenues from her estates soon.
Wonder of wonders, the two women standing before her reacted in much the same fashion.
Dyelin gave an irritated grunt. A large, round silver pin worked with Taravin's Owl and Oak was fastened at the high neck of her dark green dress, her only jewellery. A show of pride in her House, perhaps too much pride; the High Seat of House Taravin was a proud woman altogether. Gray streaked her golden hair and fine lines webbed the corners of her eyes, yet her face was strong, her gaze level and sharp, Her mind was a razor. Or maybe a sword. A plainspoken woman, or so it seemed, who did not hide her opinions.
"Mercenaries know the work," she said dismissively, "but they are hard to control, Elayne. When you need a feather touch, they're liable to be a hammer, and when you need a hammer, they're liable to be elsewhere, and stealing to boot. They are loyal to gold, and only as long as the gold lasts. If they don't betray for more gold first. I'm sure this once Lady Birgitte will agree with me."
Arms folded tightly beneath her breasts and heeled boots planted wide, Birgitte grimaced, as always when anyone used her new title. Elayne had granted her an estate as soon as they reached Caemlyn, where it could be registered. In private, Birgitte grumbled incessantly over that, and the other change in her life, Her sky-blue trousers were cut the same as those she usually wore, billowing and gathered at the ankles, but her short red coat had a high white collar, and wide white cuffs banded with gold. She was the Lady Birgitte Trahelion and the Captain General of the Queen's Guard, and she could mutter and whine all she wanted, so long as she kept it private,
"I do," she growled unwillingly, and gave Dyelin a not-quite-sidelong glare. The Warder bond carried what Elayne had been sensing all morning. Frustration, irritation, determination. Some of that might have been a reflection of herself, though. They mirrored one another in surprising ways since the bonding, emotionally and otherwise. Why, her courses had shined by more than a week to match the other woman's!
Birgitte's reluctance to take the second-best argument was clearly almost as great as her reluctance to agree.
"Hunters aren't much bloody better, Elayne," she muttered. "They took the Hunter's Oath to find adventure, and a place in the histories if they can. Not to settle down keeping the law. Half are supercilious prigs, looking down their flaming noses at everyone else; the rest don't just take necessary chances, they look for chances to take. And one whisper of a rumor of the Horn of Valere, and you'll be lucky if only two in three vanish overnight."
Dyelin smiled a thin smile, as though she had won a point. Oil and water were not in it compared to those two; each managed well enough with nearly anyone else, but for some reason they could argue over the color of charcoal. Could and would, "Besides, Hunters and mercenaries alike, nearly all are foreigners. That will sit poorly with high and low alike. Very poorly. The last thing you want is to start a rebellion." Lightning flared, briefly lighting the casements, and a particularly loud peal of thunder punctuated her words. In a thousand years, seven Queens of Andor had been toppled by open rebellion, and the two who survived probably wished they had not,
Elayne stifled a sigh, One of the small inlaid tables along the walls held a heavy silver ropework tray with cups and a tall pitcher of hot spiced wine. Lukewarm spiced wine, now, She channeled briefly, Fire, and a thin wisp of steam rose from the pitcher. Reheating gave the spices a slight bitterness, but the warmth of the worked-silver cup in her hands was worth it. With an effort she resisted the desire to heat the air in the room with the Power and released the Source; the warmth would not have lasted unless she maintained the weav
es, anyway. She had conquered her unwillingness to let go every time she took in saidar - well, to some extent - yet of late, the desire to draw more grew every time. Every sister had to face that dangerous desire. A gesture brought the others to pour their own wine.
'You know the situation," she told chem. "Only a fool could think it anything but dire, and you're neither of you fools." The Guards were a shell, a handful of acceptable men and a double handful of strongarms and toughs better suited to throwing drunks out of taverns, or being thrown out themselves. And with the Saldaeans gone and the Aiel leaving, crime was blooming like weeds in spring. She would have thought the snow would damp it down, but every day brought robbery, arson and worse. Every day, the situation grew worse, "At this rate, we'll see riots in a few weeks. Maybe sooner. If I can't keep order in Caemlyn itself, the people will turn against me." If she could not keep order in the capital, she might as well announce to the world that she was unfit to rule. "I don't like it, but it has to be done, so it will be," Both opened their mouths, ready to argue further, but she gave them no chance, She made her voice firm. "It will be done,"
Birgitte's waist-long golden braid swung as she shook her head, yet grudging acceptance filtered through the bend. She took a decidedly odd view of their relationship as Aes Sedai and Warder, but she had learned to recognize when Elayne would not be pressed. After a fashion she had learned. There was the estate and title. And commanding the Guards. And a few other small matters,
Dyelin bent her neck a fraction, and perhaps her knees; it might have been a curtsy, yet her face was stone. It was well to remember that many who did not want Elayne Trakand on the Lion Throne wanted Dyelin Taravin instead. The woman had been nothing but helpful, but it was early days yet, and sometimes a niggling voice whispered in the back of Elayne's head. Was Dyelin simply waiting for her to bungle badly before stepping in to "save" Andor? Someone sufficiently prudent, sufficiently devious, might try that route, and might even succeed.
Elayne raised a hand to rub her temple but made it into adjusting her hair, So much suspicion, so little trust. The Game of Houses had infected Andor since she left for Tar Valon. She was grateful for her months among Aes Sedai for more than learning the Power, Daes Dae'mar was breath and bread, to most sisters. Grateful for Thom's teaching, too. Without both, she might not have survived her return as long as she had. The Light send Thom was safe, that he and Mat and the others had escaped the Seanchan and were on their way to Caemlyn. Every day since leaving Ebou Dar she prayed for their safety, but that brief prayer was all she had time for, now.
Taking the chair at the center of the arc, the Queen's chair, she tried to look like a queen, back straight, her free hand resting lightly on the carved chair arm, Looking a queen is not enough, her mother had told her often, but a fine mind, a keen grasp of affairs, and a brave heart will go for nothing if people do not see you as a queen. Birgitte was watching her closely, almost suspiciously. Sometimes the bond was decidedly inconvenient! Dyelin raised her winecup to her lips.
Elayne took a deep breath. She had harried this question from every direction she knew, and she could see no other way. "Birgitte, by spring, I want the Guards to be an army equal to anything ten Houses can put in the field," Impossib1e to achieve, likely, but just trying meant keeping the mercenaries who signed now and finding more, signing every man who showed the least inclination, Light, what a foul tangle!
Dyelin choked, her eyes bulging dark wine sprayed from her mouth. Still spluttering, she plucked a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her chin.
A wave of panic shot down the bond from Birgitte. "Oh, burn me, Elayne, you can't mean...! I'm an archer, not a general! That's all I've ever been, don't you understand yet? I just did what I had to do, what circumstances forced on me! Anyway, I'm not her, anymore; I'm just me, and...!" She trailed off, realizing she might have said too much. Not for the first time. Her face went crimson as Dyelin eyed her curiously.
They had put it about that Birgitte was from Kandor, where country women wore something like her clothes, yet Dyelin clearly suspected the lie. And every time Birgitte let her tongue slip, she came closer to letting her secret slip, too. Elaine shot her a look that promised a talking-to, later.
She would not have thought Birgitte's cheeks could get any redder. Mortification drowned everything else in the bond, wooding through until Elayne felt her own face coloring. Quickly she put on a stern expression, hoping her crimson cheeks would pass for something other than an intense desire to squirm in her seat with Birgitte's humiliation. That mirroring effect could be more than merely inconvenient!
Dyelin wasted only a moment on Birgitte. Tucking her handkerchief back in its place, she carefully set her cup back on the tray then planted her hands on her hips. Her face was a thunderhead, now, "The Guards have always been the core of Andor's army, Elayne, but this... Light's mercy, this is madness! You could turn every hand against you from the River Erinin to the Mountains of Mist!"
Elayne focused on calm. If she was wrong, Andor would become another Cairhien, another blood-soaked land filled with chaos. And she would die, of course, a price not high enough to meet the cost. Not trying was unthinkable, and in any case would have the same result for Andor as failure. Cool, composed, steely calm. A queen could not show herself afraid, even when she was. Especially when she was. Her mother had always said to explain decisions as seldom as possible; the more eaten you explained, the more explanations were necessary, until they were all you had time for. Gareth Bryne said to explain if you could; your people did better if they knew the why as well as the what. Today, she would follow Gareth Bryne, A good many victories had been won by following him.
"I have three declared challengers." And maybe one nor declared. She made herself meet Dyelin's gaze. Not angrily; just eyes meeting eyes. Or maybe Dyelin did take it for anger, with her jaw tight and her face flushed. If so, so be it, "By herself, Arymilla is negligible, but Nasin has joined House Caeren to her, and whether or not he's sane, his support means she must be considered. Naean and Elenia are imprisoned; their armsmen are not. Naean's people may dither and argue until they find a leader, but Jarid is High Seat of Sarand, and he will take chances to feed his wife's ambition. House Baryn and House Anshar flirt with both; the best I can hope is that one goes with Sarand and one with Arawn. Nineteen Houses in Andor are strong enough that smaller Houses will follow where they lead. Six are arrayed against me, and I have two." Six so far, and the Light send she had two! She would not mention the three great Houses that had all but declared for Dyelin; at least Egwene had them tied down in Murandy for now,
She motioned to a chair near her, and Dyelin sat, carefully arranging her skirts. The storm clouds had left the older woman's face. She studied Elayne, giving no hint as to her questions or conclusions, "I know all that as well as you, Elayne, but Luan and Ellorien will bring their Houses to you, and Abelle will as well, I'm sure." A careful voice, too, but it gathered heat as she went on. "Other Houses will see reason, then. As long as you don't frighten them out of reason, Light, Elayne, this is not a Succession. Trakand succeeds Trakand, not another House, Even a Succession has seldom come to open fighting! Make the Guards into an army, and you risk everything."
Elayne threw her head back, but her laughter held no amusement, It fit right in with the peals of thunder, "I risked everything the day I came home, Dyelin. You say Norwelyn and Traemane will come to me, and Pend? Fine; then I have five to face six. I don't think the other Houses will 'see reason,' as you put it. If any of them move before it's clear as good glass the Rose Crown is mine, it will be against me, not for." With luck, those lords and ladies would shy away from associating with cronies of Gaebril, but she did not like depending on luck. She was not Mat Cauthon. Light, most people were sure Rand had killed her mother, and few believed that "Lord Gaebril" had been one of the Forsaken. Mending the damage Rahvin had done in Andor might take her entire lifetime even if she managed to live as long as the Kinswomen! Some Houses wo
uld stand aside from supporting her because of the outrages Gaebril had perpetrated in Morgase's name, and others because Rand had said he intended to "give" her the throne, She loved the man to her toes, but burn him for giving voice to that! Even if it was what reined in Dyelin, The meanest crofter in Andor would shoulder his scythe to pull a puppet from the Lion Throne!
"I want to avoid Andoran killing Andoran if I can, Dyelin, but Succession or no Succession, Jarid is ready to fight, even with Elenia locked away. Naean is ready to fight," Best to bring both women to Caemlyn as soon as possible; too much chance of them slipping messages, and orders, out of Aringill. "Arymilla is ready, with Nasin's men behind her. To them, this is a Succession, and the only way to stop them from fighting is to be so strong they don't dare. If Birgitte can build the Guards into an army by spring, well and good, because if I don't have an army before then, I will have need of one. And if that isn't enough, remember the Seanchan. They won't be satisfied with Tanchico and Ebou Dar; they want everything. I won't let them have Andor, Dyelin, any more than I'll let Arymilla." Thunder roared overhead.
Twisting a little to look back at Birgitte, Dyelin moistened her lips. Her fingers plucked unconsciously at her skirts. Very little frightened her, but tales of the Seanchan had. What she murmured, though, as if to herself, was "I had hoped to avoid outright civil war." And that might mean nothing, or a great deal! Perhaps a little probing might show which.
"Gawyn," Birgitte said suddenly. Her expression had lightened, and so had the emotions flowing though the bond. Relief stood out strong, "When he comes, he'll take command. He'll be your First Prince of the Sword."