“Traveling to Fal Moran,” Lan said. “Because of the Last Battle.”
“You’re not going to wait here like the rest?” the guard said, waving a gauntleted hand at the gathered Malkieri. “For your king?”
“I have no king,” Lan said softly.
The soldier nodded slowly, rubbing his chin. Then he waved for some soldiers to inspect the goods in the wagons. “There will be a tariff on that.”
“I plan to give it to Shienarans to fight in the Last Battle,” Lan said. “No price asked.”
The guard raised an eyebrow.
“You have my oath on it,” Lan said softly, meeting the man’s eyes.
“No tariff, then. Tai’shar Malkier, friend.”
“Tai’shar Arafel.” Lan kicked his horse forward. He hated riding through the Silverwalls; they made him feel as though a thousand archers were drawing on him. The Trollocs would not easily get through here, if the Arafellin were forced to retreat back this far. There were times that had happened, and they had held here each time, as in the days of Yakobin the Undaunted.
Lan practically held his breath the entire way. He reached the other side gratefully, and urged Mandarb out onto the roadway to the northeast.
“Al’Lan Mandragoran?” a voice yelled, sounding distant.
Lan froze. That call had come from above. He turned, looking back at the leftmost keep. A head was sticking from a window there.
“Light be praised, it is you!” the voice called. The head ducked back inside.
Lan felt like bolting. But if he did, this person would surely call back to the others. He waited. The figure came running out one of the fortress doorways. Lan recognized him: a boy not yet grown into a man wearing red, with a rich blue cloak. Kaisel Noramaga, grandson of the Queen of Kandor.
“Lord Mandragoran,” the youth said, trotting up. “You came! When I heard that the Golden Crane was raised—”
“I have not raised it, Prince Kaisel. My plan was to ride alone.”
“Of course. I would like to ride alone with you. May I?”
“This is not a wise choice, Your Highness,” Lan said. “Your grandmother is in the South; I assume your father rules in Kandor. You should be with him. What are you doing here?”
“Prince Kendral invited me,” Kaisel said. “And my father bade me come. We both plan to ride with you!”
“Kendral, too?” Lan asked, aghast. The grandson of the Arafellin king? “Your places are with your people!”
“Our ancestors swore an oath,” the young man said. “An oath to protect, to defend. That oath is stronger than blood, Lord Mandragoran. It is stronger than will or choice. Your wife told us to wait here for you; she said that you might try to pass without greeting us.”
“How did you notice me?” Lan asked, containing his anger.
“The horse,” Kaisel said, nodding to Mandarb. “She said you might disguise yourself. But you would never leave the horse.”
Burn that woman, Lan thought as he heard a call being raised through the fortress. He’d been outmaneuvered. Curse Nynaeve. And bless her, too. He tried to send a sense of love and frustration through the bond to her.
And then, with a deep sigh, he gave in. “The Golden Crane flies for Tarmon Gai’don,” Lan said softly. “Let any man or woman who wishes to follow join it and fight.”
He closed his eyes as the call went up. It soon became a cheer. Then a roar.
Chapter 43
Some Tea
“And these Asha’man claim they are free of the taint?” Galad asked, as he and Perrin Aybara picked their way through the aftermath of the battle.
“They do,” Perrin said. “And I’ve a mind to trust them. Why would they lie?”
Galad raised an eyebrow. “Insanity?”
Perrin nodded at that. This Perrin Aybara was an interesting man. Others often responded with anger when Galad said what he thought, but he was coming to realize that he didn’t need to hold himself back with Perrin. This man responded well to honesty. If he was a Darkfriend or Shadowspawn, he was a very odd sort.
The horizon was starting to grow brighter. Light, had night already passed? Bodies littered the ground, most of them Trollocs. The stench was of burned flesh and fur, nauseating as it mixed with that of blood and mud. Galad felt exhausted.
He’d allowed an Aes Sedai to Heal him. “Once you’ve committed your reserves, there’s no use holding back your scouts,” Gareth Bryne was fond of saying. If he was going to let Aes Sedai save his men, then he might as well accept their Healing. Once, accepting Aes Sedai Healing hadn’t bothered him nearly so much.
“Perhaps,” Perrin said. “Perhaps the Asha’man are mad, and the taint isn’t cleansed. But they’ve served me well, and I figure they’ve earned the right to be trusted until they show me otherwise. You and your men might well owe your lives to Grady and Neald.”
“And they have my thanks,” Galad said, stepping over the hulking body of a Trolloc with a bear’s snout. “Though few of my men will express that emotion. They aren’t certain what to think of your intervention here, Aybara.”
“Still think I set them up somehow?”
“Perhaps,” Galad said. “Either you are a Darkfriend of unsurpassed cunning, or you really did as you said—coming to save my men despite your treatment at our hands. In that case, you are a man of honor. Letting us die would have made your life much easier, I believe.”
“No,” Perrin said. “Every sword is needed at the Last Battle, Galad.
Every one.”
Galad grunted, kneeling beside a soldier with a red cloak and turning him over. It wasn’t a red cloak; it was a white one soaked in blood. Ranun Sinah would not see the Last Battle. Galad closed the young man’s eyes, breathing a prayer to the Light in his name.
“So what now for you and yours?” Perrin asked.
“We continue on,” Galad said, rising. “North, to my estates in Andor to prepare.”
“You could—” Perrin froze. Then he turned, trotting across the battlefield.
Galad hurried after him. Perrin reached a heap of Trollocs, then began pushing bodies aside. Galad heard a very faint sound. Moaning. He helped move a dead hawk-headed beast, its too-human eyes staring lifelessly.
Beneath it, a young man looked up, blinking. It was Jerum