Unable to see, she could not channel to any real purpose, but she could sense weaves near her, some of Spirit, some of Air. Without seeing the weaves, she was unable to know what they were, yet she could make a reasonable guess. Her captors were themselves captives now, shielded and bound. And all she could do was wait impatiently. Birgitte was coming closer rapidly, yet now she felt anxious to have that bloody web of ropes off her.
The wagon box creaked as someone heaved herself in. Birgitte. The bond carried a flash of joy. In moments, the ropes fell away from her and Birgitte’s hands went to the knot of the gag. Moving a little stiffly, Elayne untied the blindfold herself. Light, she was going to ache like fury until she could ask for Healing. That reminded her that she would have to ask the Windfinders, and the sadness rose all over again for Vandene and Sareitha.
Once she could spit out the gag, she wanted to ask for water to wash away the oily taste, but instead, she said, “What kept you?” Her laughter at the other woman’s sudden consternation was cut short by another sneeze. “Let’s get out of here, Birgitte. The Kin?”
“Windfinders,” Birgitte answered, holding open the canvas flap at the back of the wagon. “Chanelle decided she’d rather not report losing her bargain to Zaida.”
Elayne sniffed in disdain, a mistake. Sneezing repeatedly, she climbed down from the wagon as quickly as she could manage. Her legs were as stiff as her arms. Burn her, but she wanted a hot bath. And a hairbrush. Birgitte’s white-collared red coat looked somewhat rumpled, but Elayne suspected she made her warder appear fresh from the dressing room.
When her feet hit the ground, mounted Guardsmen in a thick ring around the wagon raised a loud cheer, shaking their lances in the air. Guardswomen whooped, too, apparently almost every last one of them. Two of the men bore Andor’s White Lion and her Golden Lily. That brought a smile. The Queen’s Guards were sworn to defend Andor, the Queen and the Daughter-Heir, yet the decision to carry her personal banner had to have been Charlz Guybon’s. Sitting a tall bay with his helmet resting on the saddlebow, he bowed to her, a broad smile on his lips. The man was a pleasure to look at. Perhaps he would do for a third Warder. Beyond the Guards rose House banners and banners of mercenary companies, banner after banner. Light, how many men had Birgitte brought? That could be answered later, though. First Elayne wanted to see her prisoners.
Asne lay spreadeagled on the road, her empty eyes staring at the sky; the shield on her was unneeded. The others lay as still, bound with flows of Air that held their arms to their sides and snugged their divided skirts against their legs. A much more comfortable position than she had been in. Most seemed remarkably composed considering their situation, though Temaile scowled at her and Falion appeared about to sick up. Shiaine’s mud-smeared face would have done credit to any Aes Sedai. The three men bound with Air were anything but composed. They writhed and struggled, glaring at the riders surrounding them as if they wanted nothing more than to attack them all. That was enough to identify them as Asne’s Warders, though not necessarily as Darkfriends. Whether they were or not, they would still have to be imprisoned, to protect others from the death-rage that Asne’s death had filled them with. They would do anything to kill whomever they held responsible.
“How did they find us?” Chesmal demanded. If she had not been lying in the road with a dirty face, no one would have thought her a prisoner.
“My Warder,” Elayne said, smiling at Birgitte. “One of them.”
“A woman Warder?” Chesmal said disdainfully.
Marillin shook in her bonds with silent laughter for a moment. “I’d heard that,” she said when the shaking ceased, “but it seemed too incredible to be true.”
“You heard this, and you never mentioned it?” Temaile said, twisting around to transfer her scowl to Marillin. “You great fool!”
“You forget yourself,” Marillin said sharply, and the next instant they were arguing about whether Temaile should defer to her! In truth, Temaile should—Elayne could sense their relative strengths—yet it hardly seemed a topic they would argue over now!
“Somebody gag these women,” Elayne ordered. Caseille dismounted, handing her reins to another Guardswoman, and strode over to begin cutting a strip from Temaile’s skirts with her dagger. “Load them into the wagon and cut away that dead horse. I want to get back inside the walls before Arymilla’s people beyond the ridge feel tempted.” The last thing she needed now was a pitched battle. Whatever the outcome, Arymilla could afford to lose more men than she. “Where are the Windfinders, Birgitte?”
“Still on the ridge. I think they believe they can deny taking part if they don’t get too near the carnage. But you don’t have to worry about being attacked here. The camps beyond the ridge are empty.”
Caseille hoisted Temaile over her shoulder and staggered over to heave her into the wagon like a sack of grain. Guardswomen were picking up the other women, too. They wisely left the struggling Warders to the Guardsmen. It required two to handle each of them. A pair of tall Guardsmen were unfastening the dead horse’s harness.
“All I saw were camp followers, grooms and the like,” Charlz put in.
“I think all of her camps may be empty,” Birgitte went on. “She sent heavy assaults against the northern wall this morning to draw as many of our men as possible, and she has twenty thousand or more in Low Caemlyn below the Far Madding Gate. Some of the mercenaries changed colors and are attacking it from inside, but I sent Dyelin with everything I could spare. As soon as you’re safe inside the walls, I’ll take the rest to help her. To add to the good news, Luan and the rest of that lot are riding north. They could be here this afternoon.”
Elayne’s breath caught. Luan and the rest would have be dealt with when they appeared, but the other news . . . ! “Do you remember what Mistress Harfor reported, Birgitte? Arymilla and the others all intend to be with the first party to ride into Caemlyn. They must be outside the Far Madding Gate, too. How many men do you have here?”
“What’s the butcher’s bill, Guybon?” Birgitte asked, eyeing Elayne warily. The bond carried wariness, too. Great wariness.
“I don’t have a full tally yet, my Lady. Some of the bodies. . . .” Charlz grimaced. “I’d say as many as five or six hundred dead, though, perhaps a few more. Twice as many wounded one way and another. As nasty a few minutes as I&