Page 191 of The Gathering Storm (The Wheel of Time 12)

“You’ll tell me what is in that bloody paper?”

“No,” Verin said. “Because I might not need you to go through with the contents. I hope to be able to return to you and relieve you of the letter and send you on your way. But if I cannot. . . .”

“The compromise, then?” Mat said.

“You may choose not to open the letter,” Verin said. “Burn it. But if you do so, you wait fifty days in Caemlyn, just in case it takes me longer to return than I had expected.”

That gave him pause. Fifty days was a long time to wait. But if he could do it in Caemlyn, rather than traveling on his own. . . .

Was Elayne in the city? He’d worried about her, since her escape from Ebou Dar. If she was there, he might at least be able to get production started quickly on Aludra’s dragons.

But fifty days? Waiting? Either that, or open the bloody letter and do what it said? He didn’t like either option. “Twenty days,” he said.

“Thirty days,” she said, rising, then raised a finger to cut off his objection. “A compromise, Mat. Among Aes Sedai, I think you shall find me to be far more amenable to those than most.” She held out her hand.

Thirty days. He could wait thirty days. He looked at the letter in his hands. He could resist opening it, and thirty days of waiting didn’t really lose him any time. It was only a little longer than he’d take to reach Caemlyn on his own. In fact, this was a bloody bargain! He needed a few weeks to get the dragons going, and he wanted time to find out more about the Tower of Ghenjei and the snakes and foxes. Thom couldn’t complain—when it would take them two weeks to reach Caemlyn anyway.

Verin eyed him, a hint of worry on her face. He couldn’t let her know how pleased he was. Let a woman know that, and she’d find some way to make you pay her back.

“Thirty days,” Mat said reluctantly, taking her hand, “but at the end of them, I can go.”

“Or you can open the letter after ten days,” Verin said, “and do what it says. One of the two, Matrim. I have your word?”

“You do,” he said. “But I’m not going to open the bloody letter. I’m going to wait thirty days, then be off on my business.”

“We shall see,” she said, smiling to herself and releasing his hand. She folded up the picture of him, then took a small leather-bound satchel from her pocket. She opened it, sliding the picture inside, and as she did, he noticed that she had a small stack of folded, sealed pieces of paper

inside just like the one he was holding. What was the purpose of those?

Once the letters were safely tucked in her pocket, she took out a carved piece of translucent stone—a brooch, shaped like a lily. “Begin breaking down your camp, Matrim. I need to make your gateway as soon as possible. I myself need to Travel shortly.”

“Fine.” Mat looked down at the sealed, folded paper in his hands. Why was Verin being so cryptic?

Burn it! he thought. I’m not going to open it. I’m not. “Mandevwin,” he said. “Get Verin Sedai her own tent to wait in as we break camp and assign a couple of soldiers to fetch for her anything she needs. Also, inform the other Aes Sedai that she’s here. They’ll probably be interested to hear of her arrival, Aes Sedai being Aes Sedai.”

Mat tucked the folded paper into his belt, then started to leave. “And have somebody burn that bloody bench. I can’t believe we carted the thing this far.”

Tuon was dead. Gone, cast aside, forgotten. Tuon had been the Daughter of the Nine Moons. She was now just a notation in the histories.

Fortuona was empress.

Fortuona Athaem Devi Paendrag kissed the soldier lightly on the forehead as he knelt, head bowed, on the short grass. The muggy Altaran heat made it feel as if summer had already arrived, but the grass—which had seemed lush and full of life just weeks before—had grown stunted and was beginning to yellow. Where were the weeds and thistles? Recently seeds didn’t sprout as they should. Like grain, they were going bad, dying before they truly came alive.

The soldier before Fortuona was one of five. Behind those five stood two hundred members of the Fists of Heaven—the most elite of her attack forces. They wore dark leather breastplates and helms of light wood and leather, shaped like insects. Both helms and breastplates were emblazoned with the sign of the clenched fist. Fifty sul’dam and damane pairs, including Dali and her sul’dam Malahavana, whom Fortuona had given to the cause. She had felt the need to sacrifice something personal to this most important of missions.

Hundreds of to’raken milled in the pens behind, walked by their handlers, who were preparing them for the flight to come. Already, a flock of raken circled above, graceful.

Fortuona looked down at the soldier before her, laying her fingers on his forehead, where she had kissed him. “May your death bring victory,” she said softly, speaking the ritual words. “May your knife draw blood. May your children sing your praises until the final dawn.”

He bowed his head further. Like the four others in the row, he wore black leather. Three knives hung from his belt, and he had no cloak or helm. He was a small man—all members of the Fists of Heaven were small and compact, and over half in this group were women. Weight was always an issue for those facing missions using to’raken. In a raid, two small, well-trained soldiers were preferable to one lumbering hulk in heavy armor.

It was early evening, the sun just setting. Lieutenant-General Yulan—who would lead the strike force personally—felt it best to take flight late in the day. Their assault would begin in darkness, shrouding it from those who might be watching the horizon in Ebou Dar. Once, the caution would have been unnecessary. What matter if people in Ebou Dar saw hundreds of to’raken take to the skies? News could never travel as quickly as raken wings.

But their enemies could travel far more quickly than they should be able to. Be it ter’angreal, weave or something else that gave the power, it was a distinct danger. Better to use all stealth. The flight to Tar Valon would take several days.

Fortuona moved to the next soldier in the line of five. The woman’s black hair was braided. Fortuona kissed her on the forehead, saying the same ritual words. These five were Bloodknives. The pure black stone ring each one wore was a specialized ter’angreal that would grant them strength and speed, and would shroud them in darkness, allowing them to blend into shadows.

The incredible abilities came at a cost, however, for the rings leeched life from their hosts, killing them in a matter of days. Removing the ring would slow that process slightly, but once activated—done by touching a drop of one’s own blood to the stone ring while wearing it—the process was irreversible.