Rand stopped listening. Grateful as he was that the man had not run away as so many others had, he was not certain anything was real to Norry except the numbers in his ledgers. He recited the number of deaths during the week and the price of turnips carted in from the countryside in the same dusty tone, arranged the daily burials of penniless friendless refugees with no more horror and no more joy than he showed hiring masons to check the repair of the city walls. Illian was just another land to him, not the abode of Sammael, and Rand just another ruler.
Where are they? he wondered furiously. Why hasn’t Alanna at least tried to sidle up to me? Moiraine would never have been frightened off so easily.
Where are all the dead? Lews Therin whispered. Why will they not be silent?
Rand chuckled grimly. Surely that had to be a joke.
Sulin was sitting easily on her haunches to one side of the throne’s dais, and red-haired Urien to the other. Today twenty Aethan Dor, Red Shields, waited among the Grand Hall’s columns with the Maidens, some wearing the red headband. They stood or squatted or sat, some talking quietly, but as usual looked ready to spring into action in a heartbeat, even the Maiden and two Red Shields who were dicing. At least one pair of eyes always seemed to be watching Norry; few Aiel trusted a wetlander this close to Rand.
Abruptly Bashere appeared in the Hall’s tall doorway. When he nodded, Rand sat up. At last. At bloody last. The green-and-white tassel swayed as he gestured with the dragon-carved length of Seanchan spear. “You’ve done well, Master Norry. Your report left nothing out. I will see that the gold you need is provided. But I must attend to other matters now, if you will forgive me.”
The man gave no sign of curiosity or hurt at being cut off so abruptly. He merely stopped in midword, bowed with “As the Lord Dragon commands” in that same dry tone, and backed away three steps before turning. He did not even glance at Bashere in passing. Nothing real but the ledgers.
Impatiently, Rand nodded to Bashere and set himself erect and stiff-backed on the throne. The Aiel went silent. It made them seem twice as ready.
When the Saldaean entered, he did not come alone. Two men and two women followed close behind, none young, in rich silks and brocades. They tried to pretend Bashere did not exist, and almost carried it off, but the watchful Aiel among the columns were another story. Golden-haired Dyelin missed only a step, but Abelle and Luan, both graying yet hard-faced, frowned at the cadin’sor-clad figures and instinctively felt for the swords they did not wear today, while Ellorien, a plump dark-haired woman who would have been pretty were her face not so determinedly stony, stopped dead and glared before she came to herself and caught up to the others with a quick stride. Their first good view of Rand took them aback as well, all of them. Quick wondering glances passed between them. Perhaps they had thought he would be older.
“My Lord Dragon,” Bashere intoned loudly, halting before the dais, “Lord of the Morning, Prince of the Dawn, True Defender of the Light, before whom the world kneels in awe, I give to you Lady Dyelin of House Taravin, Lord Abelle of House Pendar, Lady Ellorien of House Traemane, and Lord Luan of House Norwelyn.”
The four Andorans looked at Bashere then, with tight lips and sharp sidelong glances. There had been something in his tone that made it sound as if he was giving Rand four horses. To say their spines stiffened would be to say water became wetter, yet it seemed so as they stared up at Rand. Mostly at Rand. Their eyes could not help drifting to the Lion Throne shining and glittering on its pedestal beyond his head.
He wanted to laugh at their outraged faces. Outraged, but also careful, and perhaps a touch impressed in spite of themselves. He and Bashere had worked out that list of titles between them, but the bit about the world kneeling was new, Bashere’s own late addition. Moiraine had given him the advice, though. He almost thought he heard her silvery voice again. How people see you first is what they hold hardest in their minds. It is the way of the world. You can step down from a throne, and even if you behave like a farmer in a pigsty, some part in each of them will remember that you did descend from a throne. But if they see only a young man first, a country man, they will resent him stepping up to his throne later, whatever his right, whatever his power. Well, if a title or two could make anything so, everything would be a deal easier.
I was the Lord of the Morning, Lews Therin mumbled. I am the Prince of the Dawn.
Rand kept his face smooth. “I will not welcome you—this is your land, and the palace of your queen—but I am pleased you accept my invitation.” After five days, and with just a few hours’ notice, but he did not mention that. Rising, he laid the Dragon Scepter on the throne, then trotted down from the dais. With a reserved smile—Never be hostile unless you must, Moiraine had said, but above all never be overly friendly. Never be eager—he gestured to five comfortably cushioned chairs with padded backs, set in a circle among the columns. “Join me. We will talk and have some chilled wine.”
They followed, of course, eyeing the Aiel and him with equal curiosity and perhaps equal animosity, both poorly hidden. When they were all seated, gai’shain came, silent in their hooded white robes, bringing wine and golden goblets already damp with condensation. Another stood behind each chair with a plumed fan, gently stirring the air. Every chair but Rand’s. They noted that, noted the lack of sweat on his face. But the gai’shain did not perspire either, even in their robes, and neither did the other Aiel. He watched the nobles’ faces over his own winecup.
Andorans were proud of being more straightforward than many, and they were not slow to boast that the Game of Houses was far more entwined in other lands than in theirs, yet they still believed they could play Daes Dae’mar when they had to. After a fashion they could, but the truth was, Cairhienin and even Tairens considered them simple when it came to the subtle move and countermove of the Great Game. These four kept their composure for the most part, but to someone schooled by Moiraine, schooled harder in Tear and Cairhien, they gave away much with every shift of eye, every slight change of expression.
First it dawned on them that there was no chair for Bashere. Quick looks flickered between them, a slight brightening, especially when they realized Bashere was striding from the throne room. All four actually let themselves glance after him with the faintest of satisfied smiles. They must dislike a Saldaean army in Andor as much as Naean and that lot did. Now their thoughts were obvious: Perhaps the foreigner’s influence was less than they had feared. Why, Bashere had been treated as no mor
