Chapter 4 – Leaving the Tower

Moiraine and Swan are preparing to leave the tower on a mission. Moiraine gathers her belongings including warm clothes, a dagger, and various other useful items. They meet up with other accepted and their guards, and Moiraine rides her horse, Arrow. Swan struggles to mount her horse but manages to do so. They are joined by an escort of guards and set off on their journey. CHAPTER FOUR LEAVING THE TOWER Moiraine's room was little different from Swan's. Her small square table with four books lying on it and the two cushionless straight-backed chairs could have come from the same farmhouse that had provided Swan's. Her bed was narrower, her Ileana carpet round and flowered and darned in several places, while on her washstand it was the basin that had taken a blow some time in the past. The mirror had a crack in one corner. Apart from that, they could have been the same room. She did not bother with starting a fire. She had banked her coals more carefully than Swan, but there was no time to so much as take the edge off the room's chill. Reaching into the back of her wardrobe, slightly larger than Swan's but just as plain, she brought out a stout pair of shoes that made her grimace, ugly things, made of leather much thicker than her slippers. The laces could have done to mend a saddle, but the shoes would keep her feet dry in the snow and her slippers would not. Adding a pair of woolen stockings, she sat on the edge of her unmade bed to pull them on over those she was already wearing. For a moment she considered donning a second shift as well. However cold it was inside the tower, it would be colder where she was going. But time was short, and besides, she did not want to take off her dress in that icy air. Surely recording names would be done in some sort of shelter, with a fire or a brazier for warmth? Of course it would. Most people in the camps likely would take them for sisters, just as Tamra had suggested. Next out of the wardrobe came a narrow, worked leather belt with silver buckle and a plain scabbard holding a slim, silver-mounted dagger, its blade a little longer than her hand. She had not worn that since arriving in the tower, and it felt awkward at first, hanging at her waist. Perhaps she was forbidden to use the power to defend herself, but the dagger would do nicely if need be. Transferring her belt pouch from the white leather belt she had laid on the bed, she thought for a moment. It was all very well for Tamra to say that everything they needed would be waiting, but depending on someone else, even the amarylline seat to provide everything, was unwise. She tucked her ivory comb and ivory-handled hairbrush into a leather script. No matter how urgent the need to gather names, she doubted that any Accepted who let herself go untidy for long would escape sharp words at best. Her good-riding gloves, dark blue leather with just a touch of embroidery on the back, a small sewing kit in a carved blackwood box, a ball of stout twine, two pairs of spare stockings in case those she was wearing got wet, several kerchiefs in various sizes, and a number of other items that might be useful, including a little knife that folded for trimming quill pens, in the event that was what they found themselves using. Sisters would never be forced to put up with such a convenience, but they were not sisters. Taking the script from one shoulder, she gathered her cloak, with its banded hem and another band bordering the hood, and rushed out just in time to see Maidani and Brendas go scurrying through the doorway that led off the gallery, cloaks flaring behind them. Swan was waiting impatiently, a script on her shoulder too, beneath her cloak, and her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. She was not alone in being caught up in the moment. On the other side of the gallery, Katerina Alruddin popped out of her room, demanding at the top of her lungs that Karlinia return her sewing kit, then darted back inside without waiting for an answer. "'Alana! Pratala! Can one of you lend me a pair of clean stockings?' someone called from below. "'I loaned you a pair yesterday, Edesina,' came a reply from above. Doors banged throughout the well as women rushed out to shout for Tamyla or Tassandra, or Oladera, or Atuan, or a score of others to return this or that borrowed item, or lend something. Had a sister been present, the cacophony would put them all in the soup kettle to their necks on a hot fire." "'What kept you, Moiraine?' Swan said breathlessly. "'Come on, before we're left behind!' She set off at a rapid stride, as though she really expected the guardsmen to be gone if they did not hurry. There was no chance of that, of course, but Moiraine did not dawdle. She was not about to drag her feet at a chance to leave the city, especially not at this chance. Outside, the sun was still well short of half-way to its noonday peak. Sickening dark-gray clouds rolled across the sky. They might have more snowfall today. That would not make the task ahead any easier. The walk was easy, since the wide, graveled path through the trees that led to the west stable beyond the tower wing that held the accepted quarters had been cleared. For the convenience of the accepted, of course. Most of the sisters kept their horses in the west stable, and workmen shoveled that path clean two or three times a day, if necessary. The stable itself was three sprawling storeys of gray stone, larger than the main stables of the Sun Palace, the wide, stone-paved stable-yard in front of it almost filled by a crowd of rough-coated grooms and saddled horses and helmeted tower guards who wore gray steel breastplates over nearly black coats and equally dark cloaks worked with the white teardrop of the flame of tar-vallon. Seven-striped tabards over the breastplates marked out bannermen and the lone officer. Brenda and Maidani were climbing into their saddles, and half a dozen other accepted, cloaked and hooded in a strung-out line, were already riding toward the sunset gate, surrounded by their guards. Everything felt a moment of irritation that so many had beaten her and Swan down. Had they packed nothing to be so quick? But they did not know what they really were looking for. That buoyed her spirits again. Pushing through the crowd, she found her bay mare, the reins held by a lanky groom with a disapproving expression on her narrow face. Very likely she frowned on an accepted having her own horse. Few did, most could not afford to keep a horse, and besides, opportunities to ride anywhere outside the tower grounds were rare, but Moiraine had purchased Arrow to celebrate attaining the ring. An act of ostentation that she suspected had nearly earned her a trip to marine study. She did not regret the purchase even so. The mare was not tall, since she despised looking like a child, which she did on tall saddles, yet Arrow could keep running long after larger horses had tired out. A fast mount was good, but a mount with endurance was better. Arrow was both, and she could jump fences that few other horses would even try. Finding that out had earned a visit to the Mistress of Novices. Sisters took a dim view of accepted risking a broken neck. A very dim view. The groom tried to hand her the reins, but she hung the script from the saddle's tall pommel by its strap, then unbuckled the flaps of the saddlebags. One side held a cloth-wrapped parcel that proved to contain half a loaf of dark bread, dried apricots in oiled paper, and a large piece of pale yellow cheese. More than she could eat by herself, but some of the others had larger appetites. The other side bulged with a polished wooden lap-desk, complete with a thick sheaf of good paper and two good steel-nibbed pens inside. No need for the pen-knife, she thought ruefully, careful to keep her face smooth. She did not intend to let the groom see her look abashed. At least she had been prepared. The lap-desk also held a tightly-stoppered ink-jar of heavy glass. Much to the groom's undisguised amusement, she checked to make sure it was tightly-stoppered. Well the woman could snicker all she wanted, not bothering to hide it behind a hand, but she would not have had to deal with the mess if the ink leaked out over everything. Sometimes Moiraine thought it a pity the servants did not see accepted the way novices did. The groom made a derisory bow as she finally took the reins and bent to offer cupped hands for a mounting step, another mocking gesture. But Moiraine disdained the help. Donning her snug riding-gloves, she swung easily up into the saddle. Let the woman snicker at that. She had been put on her first pony—on a lead, to be sure—as soon as she was old enough to walk without someone holding her hand, and had been given her first real horse at ten. Unfortunately accepted's dresses did not have skirts divided for riding, and the necessity of pushing her skirts down, vainly trying to cover her legs, spoiled the dignity of the moment somewhat. It was the cold that concerned her, not modesty—well, partly modesty. She noticed some of the guardsmen studying her stockinged legs, bare almost to the knee, and blushed furiously. Attempting to ignore the men, she looked for Swann. She had wanted to buy Swann a horse in celebration, too, and now she wished she had not let Swann talk her out of it. Swann could have used whatever practice she might then have had. She scrambled on to her mount, a stout gray gelding, so awkwardly that the placid-seeming animal twisted his head around to look at her in consternation. She nearly fell off, trying to get her other foot into the stirrup. That done, she gripped her reins so tightly that her dark gray gloves strained over her knuckles, her face set in a grim expression, as if prepared for an onerous test she might fail. For her, it was. Swann could ride, she was just very bad at it. Some of the men stared at her half-exposed legs, too, but she appeared not to notice. Of course, if she had, it would not have flustered her. According to her, working a fishing-boat meant tying your skirts up and exhibiting your legs well above the knee. As soon as they were both mounted, a slim young under-lieutenant, his helmet marked by a short white plume, told off eight guardsmen for the escort. He was quite pretty, really, behind the face-bars of his helmet, but any tower-guard knew better than to smile at accepted, and he barely looked at her and Swann before turning away. Not that she wanted him to smile, or to smile back. She was no brainless novice, but she would have enjoyed looking at him a while longer. The leader of the escort was not pretty. A tall, grizzled bannerman with a permanent scowl, who curtly introduced himself in a deep gravelly voice as Steeler, formed his soldiers in a loose ring around the pair of them and turned his rangy, roan-gelding toward the sunset gate without another word. The guardsmen healed their mounts after him, and Swann and she found themselves being herded along. Herded? She held on to calmness with an effort. It was good practice. Swann seemed not to think she needed any practice. We're supposed to go to the West Bank, she called, glowering at Steeler's back. He did not answer. Thumping her heels against the gray's plump flanks, she pushed up beside the man, almost sliding out of her saddle in the process. Did you hear me? We are to go to the West Bank. The bannerman sighed loudly and finally turned his head to look at Swann. I was told to take you to the West Bank. He paused as if thinking of what title to use in addressing her. Guardsmen seldom had reason to speak to accepted. Nothing occurred to him apparently, because when he went on it was without honorifics and in a firmer tone. Now, if one of you gets herself bruised, I'm going to hear about it. And I don't want to hear about it, so you stay inside the ring, hear? Well, go on now, or we'll stop right here until you do. Clenching her jaw, Swann fell back beside Moiraine. With a quick glance to make sure none of the soldiers was close enough to overhear, Moiraine whispered, you cannot think we will actually be the ones, Swann. She hoped for it, true, but this was real life, not a glee man's tale. We might not even be born yet. As much chance us as anyone else, Swann muttered. More, since we know what we're really looking for. She had not stopped scowling at the bannerman. When I bond a warder, the first thing I'll make sure of is that he does what he's told. You are thinking of bonding Steeler? Moiraine asked in an innocent voice. Swann's stare was such a blend of astonishment and horror that she nearly laughed. But Swann nearly fell off her horse again, too, and she could not laugh at that. Once past the iron-strapped Sunset Gate, with the gilded setting suns that gave it its name set high in the thick timbers, it quickly became apparent that they were angling southwest through the stone-paved streets, toward the Allendare Gate. There were any number of water-gates to the city where small boats could enter, and of course North Harbor and South Harbor for river-ships, but only six bridge-gates. The Allendare Gate was the most southerly of the three to the west, and not a good omen for coming near to Dragonmount, but Moiraine did not think Steeler would let himself be turned. Live with what you cannot change, she told herself sourly. Swann must be ready to chew nails. Swann was silently studying Steeler's back, though, not glaring any longer, but studying, the way she did with the puzzles she loved so much, the maddening intricate sort with pieces fitted together so it seemed they could never come apart. Only they always did come apart eventually, for Swann. The word-puzzles, too, and the number-puzzles. Swann saw patterns where no one else could. She was so absorbed with the Bannerman that she actually rode with some ease, if not skill. At least she did not seem ready to topple off at every other step. Perhaps she would figure out a way to turn him, but Moiraine gave herself over to enjoying the ride through the city. It was not as if even accepted were allowed outside the Tower Grounds every day, after all, and Tar Valon was the largest city, the grandest city, in the known world, in the whole world, surely. The island was nearly ten miles long, and except for public parks and private gardens, and the Ogier Grove, of course, the city covered every square foot of it. The streets they rode along were wide and long since cleared of snow, and all seemed full to overflowing with people, mostly afoot, though sedan chairs and closed litters wove through the crowd. In that press walking was faster than riding, and only the proudest and most stubborn, a tyrant noblewoman, stiff-necked in a tall lace collar, with her entourage of servants and guards, a cluster of sober-eyed Candori merchants with silver chains across their chests, several knots of brightly coated Murandian dandies with curled mustaches, who should have been out in the fighting, were mounted. For those with a long way to go, she amended, making another futile effort at covering her legs, and frowning at a tilt-eyed Saldaean, a tradesman or craftsman, by his plain woolen coat, who was ogling them much too openly. Light! Men never seemed to understand or care when a woman wished to be looked at and when not. In any case, Steeler and his soldiers managed to clear a path ahead of them with their mere presence. Though one wanted to impede the way of eight armed and armored tower guards, it had to be that which opened the crush of people. She doubted that anyone in the crowd would know that a banded dress indicated an initiate of the White Tower. People who came to Tarvalon stayed clear of the Tower, unless they had business there. Every country seemed to be represented in that crowd. The world comes to Tarvalon, so the saying went. Other boner men from the far west, wearing veils that covered their faces to the eyes and were transparent enough to show their thick mustaches clearly, rubbed shoulders with sailors, leather-skinned and barefoot even in this cold, from the river-ships that plied the Arryn in. A borderman in platent mail passed them riding in the other direction, a stone-faced Shynarren with his crested helmet hanging from his saddle, and his head shaved except for a topknot. He was certainly a messenger headed for the Tower, and Waraim briefly considered stopping him. But he would not reveal his message to her, and she would have had to force her way through Steeler's guardsmen. Light, she hated not knowing. There were dark-clad Kyrianen, easy to pick out because they were shorter and paler than nearly everyone else. Altarin men in heavily embroidered coats, Altarin women clutching their cloaks, bright red or green or yellow, to shield what their low-cut dresses exposed to the icy air, Tyrans in broad-striped coats or lace-trimmed dresses, and plainly garbed Andorans who strode along as though they not only knew exactly where they were going, but intended to reach there as soon as possible. Andorans always focused on one matter at a time. They were stubborn people, overproud, and they lacked imagination. Half a dozen copper-skinned Damani women in fancifully worked cloaks, doubtless merchants most Damani women seen abroad were, stood buying meat pies from a pushbarrow. And nearby, an Araphelan wearing a coat with red-slashed sleeves, his black hair dangling down his back in two braids decorated with silver bells, was waving his arms and arguing with a stolid Ileaner who appeared more interested in wrapping his vividly striped cloak around his bulk. She even glimpsed a charcoal-skinned fellow who might have been one of the Seafolk, though some Tyrans were as dark. His hands were hidden in his frayed cloak as he scuttled away in the throng, so she could not see whether they were tattooed. So many people made a din just by their normal talking, but wagons and carts added to it with the squeak of poorly greased axles, the clatter of hooves, and the grate of steel-rimmed wheels on the paving stones. The carters and wagon drivers shouted for people to give way, which they did reluctantly, and hawkers cried ribbons or needles or roasted nuts or a dozen things more from barrows and trays. Despite the cold, jugglers and tumblers were performing on some street corners, men and women with caps laid out to collect coins were playing flute or pipes or harp, and shopkeepers standing in front of their shops called out the superiority of their goods over any others. Street cleaners with their brooms and shovels and barrows cleaned away what the horses left behind and any other trash as well, shouting, Make way for clean shoes! Make way if you want clean shoes! It was so... normal. No one appeared to notice the heavy smell of sour smoke that hung in the air. A battle outside Tar-Valin could not alter what went on inside Tar-Valin's walls. Perhaps even a war could not. But you could see as much in Kyrian, if not in quite the same numbers or quite as much variety. It was Tar-Valin itself that made the city unlike any other. The white tower rose from the center of the city, a thick bone-white shaft climbing almost a hundred spans into the sky and visible for miles. It was the first thing anyone approaching the city saw, long before they could make out the city itself. The heart of Aes Sedai power, that alone, was sufficient to mark Tar-Valin apart. But other, smaller towers rose throughout the city. Not simply spires, but spirals and fluted towers, some close enough together to be linked by bridges a hundred feet in the air, or two hundred, or higher. Even the topless towers of Kyrian did not come close to matching them. Every square had its fountain or monument in the center, or a huge statue, some atop plinths as much as fifty paces tall. But the buildings themselves were grander than most monuments in other cities. Around the palatial homes of wealthy merchants and bankers, with their domes and spires and colonnaded walks, crowded shops and inns, taverns and stables, apartment buildings and the homes of ordinary folk. Yet even they were ornamented with carvings and friezes fit for palaces. A fair number could have passed for palaces. Nearly all were Ogier built, and Ogier built for beauty. More wondrous still were the structures dotted through the city, half a dozen in sight on every street, where the Ogier masons had been given a free hand. A three-story banking house suggested a flight of gold and marble birds taking wing, while the Kandori Merchant's Guildhall seemed to represent horses running in surf, or perhaps surf turning into horses. And a very large inn called the Blue Cat strongly resembled exactly that, a blue cat curled up to sleep. The great fish market, the largest in the city, seemed to be a school of huge fish, green and red and blue and striped. Other cities boasted of Ogier-built buildings, but nothing like what Tarvalan possessed. Scaffolding surrounded one of the Ogier-made structures, obscuring its form so that all she could make out was green and white stone, and the fact that it seemed all curves, and Ogier stonemasons moved on the wooden platforms, some hoisting large pieces of white stone on a long wooden crane that stuck out over the street. Even Ogier work needed mending now and then, and no human mason could duplicate their craft. They were not often seen, though. One of them was standing in the street, at the foot of the broad ladder leading up to the first platform, in a long dark coat that flared out above his boot tops, with a thick roll of paper under one arm. Plans, no doubt. He could have been taken for human, if you squinted, and ignored the fact that his huge eyes were on a level with Moiraine's as she drew abreast of him. That, and the long tufted ears that stuck up through his hair, a nose nearly as wide as his face, and a mouth that all but cut that face in two. His eyebrows dangled onto his cheeks like mustaches. She offered him a formal bow from her saddle, and he returned it with equal gravity, stroking the narrow beard that hung down his chest. But his ears twitched, and she thought she saw a grin as he turned to begin climbing the ladder. Any Ogier who came to Tarvalon would know an accepted stress when he saw one. Flushing, she glanced from the corner of her eye to see whether Swann had seen, but the other woman was still studying Steeler. She might not even have noticed the Ogier. Swann could become very engrossed in her puzzles, but to miss seeing an Ogier? Nearly an hour after leaving the tower, they reached the Allendare Gate, wide enough for five or six wagons abreast to pass uncrowded and flanked by tall towers with crenellated tops. There were towers all along the city's high white walls, thrusting out into the river, but none so tall or strong as the bridge towers. The huge bronze-strapped gates stood wide open, yet guardsmen atop the gate towers were keeping watch, ready to order them winched shut, and two dozen more at the side of the road, carrying halberds, kept an eye on the very few who passed by. She and Swann and their escort drew those eyes like iron filings to magnets. Or rather, the banded dresses did. No one said anything about accepted leaving the city, though, which suggested that another party had gone out of this gate already. Unlike the bustling streets, the gate had no traffic. All who had wanted to seek the safety of Tarvallon's walls were long since inside, and despite the apparent normality inside the walls, no one seemed to think it safe to depart just yet. One of the guardsmen on the roadside, a wide-shouldered bannerman, nodded to Steeler, who nodded back without stopping. As their horses' hooves rang on the bridge, she felt her breath catch. The bridges themselves were marvels, constructed with the aid of the power, stone lacework arching nearly a mile to solid ground beyond the marshy riverbank, unsupported that whole way and high enough at the center for the largest river-ship to sail beneath. That was not what struck her, though. She was out of the city. The sisters impressed deeply on every novice that so much as setting foot on the bridges constituted an attempt to run away, which was the worst crime a novice could commit short of murder. The same held true for accepted, they just did not need to be reminded. And she was out of the city, as free as if she already wore the shawl. She glanced at the soldiers around her, well, nearly as free. At the highest point of the bridge, more than fifty paces above the river, Steeler abruptly drew rein. Was he mad enough to pause for the view of Dragonmount rising in the distance, its broken peak emitting a ribbon of smoke? In her euphoria she had forgotten the cold, but a strong breeze slicing down the Alandrella aran and slicing right through her cloak reminded her quickly enough. The stench of charred wood seemed particularly strong on that wind. The trumpets had stopped, she realized. Somehow the silence seemed as ominous as their calling had been. Then she saw the cluster of horsemen at the foot of the bridge, nine or ten of them staring at the city walls. Why the trumpets had gone silent no longer seemed so worrisome. The riders' burnished breastplates and helmets shone like silver, and they all wore long white cloaks spread across their mounts' cruppers. Embracing the source filled her with life and joy, but more importantly at the moment it sharpened her sight. As she had suspected, a flaring golden sun was embroidered on the left breast of each of those cloaks. Children of the Light. And they dared to block traffic on one of Tarvallon's bridges? Well there was only her and Swan and the guardsmen, but the principle was the same. The fact that it was Swan and her and Tower Guards made it worse, in truth. That made it intolerable. "'Bannerman Steeler,' she said loudly, "'white cloaks must not be allowed to think they can intimidate initiates of the Tower, or Tower Guards. We ride forward.'" The fool man did not so much as glance around at her from his study of the white cloaks. Perhaps if she gave him a little rap on top of his head with a small flow of air. "'Wa-rain!' Swan's whisper was low, but managed a sharp edge. She looked at her friend in surprise. Swan wore a scowl. How had the other woman known? She had not begun to weave. Still, Swan was right. Some things were just not allowed. Slowly she released Cidar, and sighed as all of that joyous exultation drained away. Shivering, she pulled her cloak tighter, as if that would do any good. At last the white cloaks turned and rode back into the village. Allendare was a very large village, practically a town, with brick houses of two or even three stories roofed in blue tiles, where they showed through the snow, and its own inns and shops and markets. The blanket of white made it appear clean and peaceful. For long moments the white cloaks vanished. Only when they appeared in a gap between two buildings on a street heading north did Steeler heel his mount into motion. His gauntleted hand rested on his sword-hilt, and his head swiveled constantly, searching the streets ahead as they rode down the final lengths of the bridge. Where there was one group of white cloaks, there might be another. Warrene felt suddenly very grateful for the presence of Steeler and his men. A dagger would not be much use against a white cloak's arrow. None of her preparations were turning out to be very useful. When they reached the edge of the town, Swan again thumped her gray up beside the bannerman, still so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she rode with something approaching... not grace, certainly, but at least steadiness. Bannerman Steeler. Her tone combined firmness with civility, and a strong element of certainty. It was very much a voice of command. Steeler turned his head to her, blinking in surprise. "'You know why we are here, of course,' she went on, and barely waited for his nod. "'The women most likely to leave before hearing of the bounty are those in the camps most distant from the city. Visiting them yesterday would have entailed some danger, but the Amaryllin has reports that the Aiel are retreating. Light! She sounded for all the world as though the Amaryllin regularly shared reports with her. The Amaryllin has expressed her unwillingness to let any of these women slip away without receiving the bounty, bannerman, so I strongly suggest that we follow the Amaryllin's urging and begin with the more distant camps." Her gesture might have seemed vague to anyone other than Waraen, but it just happened to point straight at Dragonmount. "'The Amaryllin seat will wish it.' Waraen held her breath. Could Swann have found the key? "'There's not an Aiel this side of the Aranen, so I hear,' Steeler replied in an agreeable voice. The next moment he dashed her hopes. "'But I was told the camps closest the river, so that's what it'll be. And I was told if anybody made a fuss I was to take a right back to the tower. You're not making a fuss, are you?' I thought not. Reining her mount in to let Waraen catch up, Swann fell in alongside Arrow. She was not scowling, but her stare at the bannerman's back was blue ice. The glow of sidar abruptly surrounded her. "'No, Swann,' Waraen said quietly. Swann frowned at her. "'I could just be trying to see further ahead, you know. In case there are more white cloaks.' Waraen arched an eyebrow, and Swann blushed, the light around her vanishing. She had no right to look so surprised. After six years practically in one another's belt-pouches, Waraen knew at a glance when her friend was thinking of mischief. For someone as intelligent as she was, Swann was blind sometimes. "'I don't see how you can stand this,' the taller woman muttered, half rising in her stirrups. Waraen had to put out a hand to keep her from toppling to the ground. "'If the camp is much further, I'll need a sister for healing.' "'I have an ointment,' Waraen said, patting the script hanging from her saddle with a touch of satisfaction. The penknife and the dagger might be useless, but at least she had thought of the ointment. "'Now, if only you had a carriage in there,' Swann grumbled, but Waraen only smiled. Allendare lay empty and still. The village had been burned at least three times in the Trolloc Wars, once more near the end of the War of the Second Dragon, and twice during the twenty-year siege of Tarvalon by Artur Hawkwing's armies. And it seemed the inhabitants had expected the same again. Here a chair sat in the snow-covered street, there a table, a child's doll, a cookpot, all dropped by people hurrying to get inside the city with whatever they could take with them. Then again, every window appeared to be shuttered tightly, every door closed and no doubt locked. Whatever remained behind kept safe against the people's return. But the stink of burning was stronger here than on the bridge, and the only sounds were the creak of swinging inn signs and the dull clop of the horses' hooves on the paving stones beneath the snow. The place no longer seemed so pristine. It seemed... dead. Waraen felt a great relief when they left the village behind, even if they were riding south and away from Dragonmount. The countryside was supposed to be quiet, and the smell of burning faded the farther they went. Swan plainly was not relieved. From time to time she looked over her shoulder toward the great black peak of Dragonmount. Most of the time she needed a steadying hand from Waraen to keep her in her saddle, and more than once she ground her teeth audibly. They had often discussed what aja they might join, and Waraen had long since settled on the blue for herself, but she thought Swan might well end choosing green. The first camp they came to, two miles below Allendare, was a cookfire-dotted sprawl of wagons and carts and tents in every size and state of repair, mixed with rude shelters made of brush. Hammers rang on anvils at three different forges, and children ran shouting and playing in trampled, dirty snow, as though unaware that there'd been a battle, or that their fathers might be dead. Perhaps they were. It would be a mercy. The horse-lines were nearly empty, and aside from the blacksmiths, few men were in evidence. But a long line of women, well above fifty, stood in front of a canvas pavilion where an Accepted was seated at a table, with four tower-guards arrayed behind her, so Steeler did not so much as slow down. Waraen embraced the source briefly, and felt Swan do the same. Just to better see who it was, of course. A multitude of thin, taraboner braids surrounded the distant Accepted's face. Waraen was perhaps the most beautiful woman in the Accepted's quarters, except perhaps for Elid, though she seemed completely unconscious of it, which Elid definitely was not. But she had remarkably little tact for a shopkeeper's daughter. Her mother must have been glad to see Serene's sharp tongue go off to Tarvalon. "'I hope it doesn't get her in hot water this time,' Swan said softly, just as if she could read Waraen's thoughts. Then they both knew Serene all too well. A friend, but a nettlesome one at times. Her saving grace was that she seemed as unaware of what she had said wrong as she was of her face. A hundred paces later the light around Swan vanished, and Waraen released the power too. A sister might see them, after all. The next camp, less than a mile farther south, was even longer and more disorderly and without anyone taking names. It was noisier as well, with six forges working and twice as many children rushing about, shouting. The relative absence of men was the same, and the nearly bare horse-lines, but surprisingly a number of closed coaches dotted the camp. Waraen winced when she heard the Mirandian accents as they rode in. Mirandians were a quarrelsome lot, prickly over points of honor no one else could see, always fighting duels. But when Steeler announced the purpose of their visit in a bellow that would have frightened a bull, no one wanted to quarrel in the least. In short order, two weedy young men in worn cloaks carried out a table and a pair of stools for Waraen and Swan. They placed the table in the open, but two other youths brought three-legged braziers that they set at either end of the table. This might not be too unpleasant after all.