Page 123 of The Gathering Storm (The Wheel of Time 12)

That was all Bryne said, but from him, it spoke volumes. Gawyn had never heard the man offer a word of discontent about his station or his orders. He had been loyal to Morgase—loyal with the kind of steadfastness a ruler could only hope for. Gawyn had never known a man more sure, or a man less likely to complain.

“It must have been part of some scheme,” Gawyn said. “You know Mother. If she hurt you, there was a reason.”

Bryne shook his head. “No reason other than foolish love for that fop Gaebril. She nearly let her clouded head ruin Andor.”

“She’d never!” Gawyn snapped. “Gareth, you of all people should know that!”

“I should,” Bryne said, lowering his voice. “And I wish I did.”

“She had another motive,” Gawyn said stubbornly. He felt the heat of anger rise within him again. Around them, peddlers glanced at the two, but said nothing. They probably knew not to approach Bryne. “But now we’ll never know it. Not now that she’s dead. Curse al’Thor! The day can’t come soon enough when I can run him through.”

Bryne looked at Gawyn sharply. “Al’Thor saved Andor, son. Or as near to it as a man could.”

“How could you say that?” Gawyn said. “How could you speak well of that monster? He killed my mother!”

“I don’t know if I believe those rumors or not,” Bryne said, rubbing his chin. “But if I do, lad, then perhaps he did Andor a favor. You don’t know how bad it got, there at the end.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Gawyn said, lowering his hand to his sword. “I won’t hear her name soiled like that, Bryne. I mean it.”

Bryne looked him directly in the eyes. His gaze was so solid. Like eyes carved of granite. “I’ll always speak truth, Gawyn. No matter who challenges me on it. It’s hard to hear? Well, it was harder to live. No good comes of spreading complaints. But her son needs to know. In the end, Gawyn, your mother turned against Andor by embracing Gaebril. She needed to be removed. If al’Thor did that for us, then we have need to thank him.”

Gawyn shook his head, rage and shock fighting one another. This was Gareth Bryne?

“These aren’t the words of a spurned lover,” Bryne said, face set, as if shoving aside emotions. He spoke softly as he and Gawyn walked, camp followers giving them a wide berth. “I can accept that a woman could lose affection for a man and bestow it on another. Yes, Morgase the woman I can forgive. But Morgase the Queen? She gave the kingdom to that snake. She sent her allies to be beaten and imprisoned. She wasn’t right in her mind. Sometimes, when a soldier’s arm festers, it needs to be cut free to save the man’s life. I’m pleased at Elayne’s success, and it is a wound to speak these words. But you have to bury that hatred of al’Thor. He wasn’t the problem. Your mother was.”

Gawyn kept his teeth clenched. Never, he thought. I will never forgive al’Thor. Not for this.

“I can see the intent behind that look,” Bryne said. “All the more reason to get you back to Andor. You’ll see. If you don’t trust me, ask your sister. See what she says of it.”

Gawyn nodded sharply. Enough of that. Ahead, he noted the place where he’d seen the woman. He glanced toward the distant lines of washwomen, then turned and strode toward them, edging between two merchants with pungent pens full of chickens, selling eggs. “This way,” he said, perhaps too sharply.

He didn’t look to see if Bryne followed. Soon the general caught up to him, looking displeased, but he kept his peace. They walked down a crowded, twisting pathway among people in browns and dull grays, and soon reached the line of women kneeling before two long wooden troughs of slowly flowing water. Men stood at the far end, pouring water down the troughs, and the line of women washed clothing in the sudsy one, then rinsed them off in the cleaner trough. No wonder the ground was so wet! At least here it smelled of suds and cleanliness.

The women had their sleeves rolled up to their upper arms, and most of them chatted idly as they worked, rubbing clothing against boards

in the troughs. They were all dressed in those same brown skirts he had seen on the Aes Sedai. Gawyn rested his hand idly on his pommel, inspecting the women from behind.

“Which one?” Bryne asked.

“Just a moment,” Gawyn said. There were dozens of women. Had he really seen what he’d thought? Why would an Aes Sedai be in this camp, of all places? Surely Elaida wouldn’t send an Aes Sedai out to spy; their faces made them too easy to recognize.

Of course, if they were that easy to recognize, why couldn’t he spot her now?

And then he saw her. She was one of the only women who wasn’t chatting with those around her. She knelt with her head bowed, the yellow kerchief tied around her head, shading her face, a few locks of light hair sticking out from under the cloth. Her posture was so subservient that he almost missed her, but the shape of her body stood out. She was plump, and that kerchief was the only yellow one in the line.

Gawyn strode down the line of working women, several of whom stood up, hands on hips as they explained in no uncertain terms that “Soldiers with their big feet and awkward elbows” should stay out of the way of women at work. Gawyn ignored them, pressing on until he stood beside the yellow kerchief.

This is insane, Gawyn thought. There’s never in all of history been an Aes Sedai who could force herself to adopt that kind of posture.

Bryne stepped up beside him. Gawyn stooped down, trying to get a look at the woman’s face. She bowed down further, scrubbing more furiously at the shirt in the trough before her.

“Woman,” Gawyn said. “May I see your face?”

She didn’t respond. Gawyn looked up at Bryne. Hesitantly, the general reached down and pushed back the plump woman’s kerchief. The face underneath was distinctly Aes Sedai, with that unmistakable ageless quality. She didn’t look up. She just kept working.

“I said it wouldn’t work,” said a hefty woman nearby. The woman rose and waddled down the line, wearing a tentlike dress of green and brown. “ ‘My Lady,’ I told her, ‘you can do as you wish, I ain’t one to refuse such as you, but someone’s going to notice you.’ ”

“You’re in charge of the washwomen,” Bryne said.