The Gathering Storm

had been a very few who—in their lust for an unanticipated edge—had tried to train these Tsorov'ande Doon, these Black-Souled Tempests. The fools had fallen quickly, often destroyed by the very tools that they sought to control.

Tuon steeled herself. Karede and the Deathwatch Guards around her grew tense. It was subtle—fists tightening at their sides, breaths inhaled and released slowly. Tuon didn't turn toward them, though she made a covert gesture to Selucia.

'You are to maintain your calm,' the Voice said softly to the men.

They would do so—they were Deathwatch Guard. Tuon hated to make the comment, as it would lower their eyes. But she would not have a mishap. Meeting with the Dragon Reborn would be dangerous. There was no avoiding that. Even with twenty damane and sul'dam on each side of the pavilion. Even with Karede at her back and Captain Musenge and a force of archers watching from a covered rooftop just within bowshot. Even with Selucia at her right, tense and ready to pounce, like a jagwin on the high rocks. Even with all of that, Tuon was exposed. The Dragon Reborn was a bonfire inexplicably lit inside a house. You could not prevent it from damaging the room. You just hoped to save the building.

He walked directly to the chair opposite Tuon and sat down, never once questioning that she had set him as her equal. She knew that the others wondered why she still wore the ashes of mourning, why she hadn't proclaimed herself Empress. The mourning period was over, but Tuon had not taken her throne.

It was because of this man. The Empress could not meet anyone, not even the Dragon Reborn, as an equal. The Daughter of the Nine Moons, however . . . this one man could be her equal. And so she had hesitated. The Dragon Reborn would not likely respond well to another setting herself above him, no matter if that other had a perfectly legitimate reason for doing so.

As he sat down, a distant flare of lightning arced between two clouds, though Malai—one of the damam who could tell fortunes of the weather—had insisted that no rain was near. Lightning on a day without rain. Tread very lightly, she thought, reading the omen, and be careful what you speak. Not the most illuminating of omens. If she trod any more carefully, she would have to take flight into the air!

'You are the Daughter of the Nine Moons,' the Dragon Reborn said. It was a statement, not a question.

'You are the Dragon Reborn,' she replied. Looking into those slate-like eyes, she realized that she had been wrong in her first impression. He was not a young man. Yes, his body might be that of a youth. But those eyes . . . those were old eyes.

He leaned forward slightly. Her Deathwatch Guards tensed, leather creaking. 'We will make peace,' al'Thor said. 'Today. Here.'

Selucia hissed softly. His words sounded a great deal like a demand. Tuon had shown him great respect by placing him at her level, but one did not give orders to the Imperial family.

Al'Thor glanced at Selucia. 'You can tell your bodyguard that she can relax,' he said dryly. 'This meeting will not turn to conflict. I will not allow it.'

'She is my Voice,' Tuon said carefully, 'and my Truthspeaker. My bodyguard is the man behind my chair.'

Al'Thor snorted softly. So he was an observant man. Or a lucky one. Few had correctly guessed Selucia's nature.

'You wish for peace,' Tuon said. 'Have you terms for your . . . offer?'

'It is not an offer, but a necessity,' al'Thor said. He spoke with softness. All of these people spoke with such quick words, yet al'Thor's had a weight to them. He reminded her of her mother. 'The Last Battle comes. Surely your people remember the prophecies. By prosecuting this war of yours, you endanger us all. My forces—everyone's forces—are needed in the struggle against the Shadow.'

The Last Battle would be between the Empire and the forces of the Dark One. Everybody knew that. The prophecies clearly showed that the Empress would defeat those who served the Shadow, and then she would send the Dragon Reborn in to duel with Lighteater.

How much had he fulfilled? He didn't seem blinded yet, so that had yet to happen. The Essanik Cycle said that he would stand on his own grave and weep. Or did that prophecy refer to the dead walking, as they did already? Certainly, some of those spirits had walked across their own graves. The writings were unclear, sometimes.

This people seemed to have forgotten many of the prophecies, just as they forgot their oaths to watch for the Return. But she did not say this. Watch your words carefully. . . .

'You believe the Last Battle is close, then?' she asked.

'Close?' al'Thor asked. 'It is as close as an assassin, breathing his foul breath upon your neck as he slides his knife across your skin. It is close like the last chime of midnight, after the other eleven have struck. Close? Yes, it is close. Horribly close.'

Had the madness taken him already? If it had, that would make things much more difficult. She studied him, searching for signs of insanity. He seemed in control of himself.

A sea breeze blew through the canopy, ruffling the canvas and carrying with it the scent of rotten fish. Many things seemed to be rotting these days.

Those creatures, she thought. The Trollocs. What did their appearance foretell? Tylee had destroyed them, and the scouts had found no others. Looking at the intensity of this man, she hesitated. Yes, the Last Battle was close, perhaps as close as he said. That made it all the more important that she unify these lands beneath her banner.

'You must see why this is so important,' the Dragon Reborn said. 'Why do you fight me?'

'We are the Return,' Tuon said. 'The omens said it was time for us to come, and we expected to find a united kingdom, ready to praise us and lend us armies for the Last Battle. Instead, we found a fractured land that had forgotten its oaths and prepared for nothing. How can you not see that we must fight? It does not bring us pleasure to kill you, no more than it brings a parent joy to discipline a child who has gone astray.'

Al'Thor seemed incredulous. 'We are children to you?'

'It was a metaphor only,' Tuon said.

He sat for a moment, then rubbed his chin with his hand. Did he blame her for the loss of the other one? Falendre had spoken of it.

'A metaphor,' he said. 'An apt one, perhaps. Yes, the land did lack unity. But I have forged it together. The solder is weak, perhaps, but it will hold long enough. If not for me, then your war of unification would be commendable. As it is, you are a distraction. We must have peace. Our alliance need last only until my life ends.' He met her eyes. 'I assure you that will not be overly long.'

She sat at the wide table, arms folded before her. If al'Thor stretched out his arm, he would not be able to reach her. That was intentional, though the precaution was laughable, in hindsight. He would not need his hand should he decide to kill her. Best not to think of that.

'If you see the value of unification,' she said, 'then perhaps you should unite your lands beneath the Seanchan banner, have your people take the oaths and—' The woman standing behind al'Thor, the marath'damam, opened eyes wide as Tuon spoke.

'No,' al'Thor said, interrupting Tuon.

'But surely you can see that one ruler, with—'

'No,' he said, softly, yet more firmly. More dangerous. 'I will not see another person chained by your foul leashes.'

'Foul? They are the only way to deal with those who can channel!'

'We have survived without them for centuries.'

'And you have—'

'This is not a point I will concede,' al'Thor said.

Tuon's guards—Selucia included—gritted their teeth, and the guards dropped hands to sword hilts. He had interrupted her twice in a row. The Daughter of the Nine Moons. How could he be so bold?

He was the Dragon Reborn, that was how. But his words were foolishness. He would bow before her, once she was Empress. The prophecies demanded it. Surely that meant that his kingdoms would join with the Empire.