“The final year of it,” she said, a touch impatiently, “as nearly as the histories record.” It was plain she had little real interest in Souran except as Ishara’s husband. “Ishara was wise. She promised the Aes Sedai that her eldest daughter would be sent to study in the White Tower, thus gaining the Tower’s backing and an Aes Sedai advisor named Ballair, the first ruler to do so. Others did follow, of course, but they still wanted Hawkwing’s throne.” She had the bit in her teeth now, face animated, goblet forgotten, gesturing With her free hand. Words bubbled out. “A full generation passed before that idea died, although Narasim Bhuran did try as late as the last ten years of the War of the Hundred Years—a dismal failure that ended with his head on a pike after a year—and Esmara Getares’ effort some thirty years earlier gained considerable ground before she tried to conquer Andor and spent the last twelve years of her life as the guest of Queen Telaisien. Esmara was assassinated in the end, though there is no record of why anyone would want her dead once Telaisien broke her power. You see, the Queens who came after Ishara, from Alesinde to Lyndelle, followed what she had begun, and not only in sending a daughter to the Tower. Ishara had Souran secure the land around Caemlyn first, only a few villages in the beginning, then slowly expanded her control. Why, it took five years for her sway to reach the River Erinin. But the land that Andor’s Queens held was solidly theirs when most others who called themselves kings or queens were still more interested in gaining hew lands than in solidifying what they already had.”
She paused for breath, and Rand leaped in quickly. Elenia spoke of these people as if she knew them personally, but his head was spinning with names he had never heard before. “Why is there no House Maravaile?”
“None of Ishara’s sons lived past twenty.” Elenia shrugged and sipped her punch; the subject did not interest her. But it did give her a new topic. “Nine queens reigned over the course of the War of the Hundred Years, and none had a son live beyond twenty-three. The battles were constant, and Andor was pressed from every side. Why, in Maragaine’s reign, four kings brought armies against her—there is a town named for the battle, on the site. The kings were—”
“But all the queens have been descendants of Souran and Ishara?” Rand put in quickly. The woman would give him a day-by-day account if he let her. Sitting, he motioned her to take a chair.
“Yes,” she said reluctantly. Probably reluctant to include Souran. But she brightened immediately. “You see, it is a matter of how much of Ishara’s blood one has. How many lines connect you to her, and in what degree. In my case—”
“It isn’t easy for me to understand. For example, take Tigraine and Morgase. Morgase had the best claim to succeed Tigraine. I suppose that means Morgase and Tigraine were closely related?”
“They were cousins.” Elenia made an effort to hide her irritation over being interrupted so often, especially now that she was so close to the heart of what she wanted to say, but her mouth still narrowed. She looked like a fox that wanted to bite, but the chicken kept slipping just out of reach.
“I see.” Cousins. Rand drank deeply, half-emptying his goblet.
“We are all cousins. All the Houses.” His silence seemed to invigorate her. Her smile returned. “With marriages over a thousand years, there is not a House without some drop of Ishara’s blood. But the degree is what is important, that and the number of connecting lines. In my case—”
Rand blinked. “You’re all cousins? All of you? That doesn’t seem poss—” He leaned forward intently. “Elenia, if Morgase and Tigraine had been . . . merchants, or farmers . . . how closely would they have been related?”
“Farmers?” she exclaimed, staring at him. “My Lord Dragon, what a peculiar—” The blood drained slowly from her face; he had been a farmer, after all. She wet her lips, a nervous flicker of the tongue. “I suppose . . . I should have to think. Farmers. I suppose that means imagining all the Houses as farmers.” A nervous titter broke from her before she drowned it in her punch. “Had they been farmers, I don’t think anyone would consider them related at all. All the connections are too far back. But they were not, my Lord Dragon. . . .”
He stopped listening with more than half an ear and sank back in his chair. Not related.
“. . . have thirty-one lines to Ishara, while Dyelin has only thirty, and. . . .”
Why did he feel so relaxed suddenly? Knots had vanished from his muscles that he had not even known were there until they went.
“. . . if I may say so, my Lord Dragon.”
“What? Forgive me. My mind wandered for a moment—the problems of. . . . I missed the last thing you said.” There had been something in it that had tugged at his ear, though.
Elenia wore the obsequious, flattering smile that looked so strange on her face. “Why, I was just saying that you yourself bear some resemblance to Tigraine, my Lord Dragon. You might even have some touch of Ishara’s blood your—” She cut off with a squeak, and he realized he was on his feet.
“I . . . feel a little tired.” He tried to make his voice normal, but it sounded as distant as if he were deep in the Void. “If you would leave me, please.”
He did not know how his face looked, but Elenia bounced out of her chair, hurried to set her goblet on the table. She was trembling, and if her face had been bloodless before, now it looked like snow. Dropping a curtsy deep enough for a scullery maid caught stealing, she hurried toward the door, each step faster than the last, all the while watching him over her shoulder, until she tore the door open and the sound of running slippers receded down the hall. Nandera put her head in, checking on him, before pulling the door shut.
For a long time Rand stood staring at nothing. No wonder those ancient queens had been staring at him; they knew what he was thinking when he did not himself. That sudden worm of worry that had gnawed at him unseen since he discovered his mother’s real name. But Tigraine had not been related to Morgase. His mother had not been related to Elayne’s mother. He was not related to. . . .
“You’re worse than a lecher,” he said aloud, bitterly. “You’re a fool and a. . . .” He wished Lews Therin would speak, so he could say to himself, That is a madman; I am sane. Was it those dead rulers of Andor he felt staring at him, or was it Alanna? Striding to the door, he jerked it open. Nandera and Caldin were sitting on their heels beneath a tapestry of brightly colored birds. “Assemble your people,” he told them. “I’m going to Cairhien. Please don&rsq
