“Why would Cauthon bring me down here?” Galad said softly. “He wanted a dozen of my best men…”

“You’re not asking me to guess the mind of Matrim Cauthon, are you?” Elayne asked. “I’m convinced that Mat only acts simple so that people will let him get away with more.”

Galad shook his head. She could see a group of his men gathered nearby. They were pointing toward the Trollocs that were slowly making their way upriver on the Arafellin bank. Elayne realized her right flank was in jeopardy.

“Send for six companies of crossbowmen,” Elayne said to Birgitte. “Guybon needs to reinforce our troops upriver.”

Light. This is starting to look bad. The White Tower was out there on the west slope of the Heights, where the channeling was most furious. She couldn’t see much of it, but she could feel it.

Smoke billowed over the top of the Heights, lit by splashing explosions of lightning. Like a beast of storm and hunger stirring amid the blackness, its eyes flashing as it woke.

Elayne was suddenly aware of the pervasive scent of smoke in the air, the cries of pain from men. Thunder from the sky, trembles in the earth. The cold air resting upon a land that would not grow, the breaking weapons, grinding of pikes against shields. The end. It really had come, and she stood upon its precipice.

A messenger galloped up, bearing an envelope. He gave the proper pass codes to Elayne’s guard, dismounted and was allowed to step up to her and Galad. He addressed Galad, handing the letter to him. “From Lord Cauthon, sir. He said you’d be here.”

Galad took the letter and, frowning, opened it. He slipped a sheet of paper from inside.

Elayne waited patiently—patiently—to a count of three, then moved her horse up beside Galad’s mount and craned her neck to read. Honestly, one would think he’d take concern for the comfort of a pregnant woman.

The letter was written in Mat’s hand. And, Elayne noticed with amusement, the handwriting was much neater and the spelling much better in this one than the one he’d sent her weeks ago. Apparently, the pressure of battle made Matrim Cauthon into a better clerk.

Galad,

Not much time to be flowery. You’re the only one I trust with this mission. You’ll do what is right, even when nobody bloody wants you to. The Borderlanders might not have the stomach for this, but I’ll bet I can trust a Whitecloak. Take this. Get a gateway from Elayne. Do what has to be done.

Mat

Galad frowned, then upended the envelope, dumping out something silvery. A medallion on a chain. A single Tar Valon mark slid out beside it.

Elayne breathed out, then touched the medallion and channeled. She could not. This was one of the copies she’d made, one of those she’d given Mat. Mellar had stolen another one. “It protects the wearer against channeling,” Elayne said. “But why send it to you?”

Galad turned

the sheet of paper over, apparently noticing something. Written on the back in a hastier scrawl was, p.s. In case you don’t know what “Do what needs to be done” means, it means that I want you to go bloody slaughter as many of those Sharan channelers as you can. I’ll bet you a full Tar Valon mark—it’s only been shaved on the sides a little—that you can’t kill twenty. —MC

“That’s bloody devious,” Elayne breathed out. “Blood and bloody ashes, it is.”

“Hardly fitting language for a monarch,” Galad said, folding the message and placing it in the pocket of his cloak. He hesitated, then put the medallion around his neck. “I wonder if he knows what he is doing by giving one of the Children an artifact that makes one immune to the touches of the Aes Sedai. The orders are good ones. I will see them carried out.”

“You can do it, then?” Elayne asked. “Kill women?”

“Perhaps once I would have hesitated,” Galad said, “but that would have been the wrong choice. Women are as fully capable of being evil as men. Why should one hesitate to kill one, but not the other? The Light does not judge one based on gender, but on the merit of the heart.”

“Interesting.”

“What is interesting?” Galad asked.

“You actually said something that doesn’t make me want to strangle you. Perhaps there is hope for you someday, Galad Damodred.”

He frowned. “This is neither the place nor the time for levity, Elayne. You should see to Gareth Bryne. He appears agitated.”

She turned, surprised to find the aging general speaking with her guards. “General?” she called to him.

Bryne looked up, then bowed formally from horseback. “Did my guard stop you?” Elayne asked, as he approached. Had word of Bryne’s Compulsion spread?

“No, Your Majesty,” he said. His horse was lathered. He had been riding hard. “I did not wish to bother you personally.”

“Something is troubling you,” Elayne said. “Out with it.”

Tags: Robert Jordan The Wheel of Time Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net