she knew. Dragon Reborn or false Dragon, he could not have Andor. Yet how was she to know?
A timid scratch at the door brought her around. “Come,” she said sharply.
The door opened slowly to admit a grinning young man in gold-and-red livery, a tray in his hands bearing a fresh pitcher of iced punch, the silver already beading with cold. She had half-expected Tallanvor. Lamgwin stood guard alone in the corridor, as far as she could see. Or rather lounged against a wall like a tavern bouncer. She waved the young man to put his tray down.
Angrily—Tallanvor should have come; he should have come!—she resumed her pacing. Basel and Lamgwin might hear rumors in the nearest village, but they would be rumors, and maybe planted by Niall. The same held true for the palace servants.
“My Queen. May I speak, my Queen?”
Morgase turned in amazement. Those were the accents of Andor. The young man was on his knees, grin flashing from uncertain to cocky and back. He might have been good-looking except that his nose had been broken and not properly tended. On Lamgwin it looked rugged, if low; this lad looked as if he had tripped and fallen on his face.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “How did you come here?”
“I’m Paitr Conel, my Queen. From Market Sheran. In Andor?” he added, as if she might not realize that. Impatiently she motioned him to go on. “I came to Amador with my uncle Jen. He’s a merchant from Four Kings, and he thought he might find some Taraboner dyes. They’re dear, with all the troubles in Tarabon, but he thought they might be cheaper—” Her mouth tightened, and he went on in a rush. “We heard about you, my Queen, that you were here in the palace, and given the law in Amadicia, and you being trained in the White Tower and all, we thought we could help you. . . .” He swallowed hard, and finished in a small voice. “Help you escape.”
“And are you prepared to help me . . . escape?” Not the best plan, but she could always ride north to Ghealdan. How Tallanvor would gloat. No, he would not, and that would be worse.
But Paitr shook his head wretchedly. “Uncle Jen had a plan, but now there’s Whitecloaks all over the palace. I didn’t know what else to do but come on to you, the way he told me. He’ll think of something, my Queen. He’s smart.”
“I’m sure he is,” she murmured. So Ghealdan went glimmering again. “How long are you gone from Andor? A month? Two?” He nodded. “Then you don’t know what is happening in Caemlyn,” she sighed.
The young man licked his lips. “I. . . . We’re staying with a man in Amador who has pigeons. A merchant. He gets messages from everywhere. Caemlyn, too. But it’s all bad news that I hear, my Queen. It may take a day or two, but my uncle will figure out another way. I just wanted to let you know help was nearby.”
Well, that was as might be. A race between Pedron Niall and this Paitr’s uncle Jen. She wished she were not so sure how to bet. “In the meantime, you can tell me just how bad matters are in Caemlyn.”
“My Queen, I was just supposed to let you know about the help. My uncle will be angry if I stay—”
“I
am
your Queen, Paitr,” Morgase said firmly, “and your uncle Jen’s, too. He will not mind if you answer my questions.” Paitr looked as though he might bolt, but she settled herself in a chair and began digging for the truth.
Pedron Niall was feeling quite good as he dismounted in the main courtyard of the Fortress of the Light and tossed his reins to a stableman. Morgasewas well in hand, and he had not had to lie once. He did not like lying. It had all been his own interpretation of events, but he was sure of it. Rand al’Thor was a false Dragon and a tool of the Tower. The world was full of fools who could not think. The Last Battle would not be some titanic struggle between the Dark One and a Dragon Reborn, a mere man. The Creator had abandoned mankind to its own devices long ago. No,
A timid scratch at the door brought her around. “Come,” she said sharply.
The door opened slowly to admit a grinning young man in gold-and-red livery, a tray in his hands bearing a fresh pitcher of iced punch, the silver already beading with cold. She had half-expected Tallanvor. Lamgwin stood guard alone in the corridor, as far as she could see. Or rather lounged against a wall like a tavern bouncer. She waved the young man to put his tray down.
Angrily—Tallanvor should have come; he should have come!—she resumed her pacing. Basel and Lamgwin might hear rumors in the nearest village, but they would be rumors, and maybe planted by Niall. The same held true for the palace servants.
“My Queen. May I speak, my Queen?”
Morgase turned in amazement. Those were the accents of Andor. The young man was on his knees, grin flashing from uncertain to cocky and back. He might have been good-looking except that his nose had been broken and not properly tended. On Lamgwin it looked rugged, if low; this lad looked as if he had tripped and fallen on his face.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “How did you come here?”
“I’m Paitr Conel, my Queen. From Market Sheran. In Andor?” he added, as if she might not realize that. Impatiently she motioned him to go on. “I came to Amador with my uncle Jen. He’s a merchant from Four Kings, and he thought he might find some Taraboner dyes. They’re dear, with all the troubles in Tarabon, but he thought they might be cheaper—” Her mouth tightened, and he went on in a rush. “We heard about you, my Queen, that you were here in the palace, and given the law in Amadicia, and you being trained in the White Tower and all, we thought we could help you. . . .” He swallowed hard, and finished in a small voice. “Help you escape.”
“And are you prepared to help me . . . escape?” Not the best plan, but she could always ride north to Ghealdan. How Tallanvor would gloat. No, he would not, and that would be worse.
But Paitr shook his head wretchedly. “Uncle Jen had a plan, but now there’s Whitecloaks all over the palace. I didn’t know what else to do but come on to you, the way he told me. He’ll think of something, my Queen. He’s smart.”
“I’m sure he is,” she murmured. So Ghealdan went glimmering again. “How long are you gone from Andor? A month? Two?” He nodded. “Then you don’t know what is happening in Caemlyn,” she sighed.
The young man licked his lips. “I. . . . We’re staying with a man in Amador who has pigeons. A merchant. He gets messages from everywhere. Caemlyn, too. But it’s all bad news that I hear, my Queen. It may take a day or two, but my uncle will figure out another way. I just wanted to let you know help was nearby.”
Well, that was as might be. A race between Pedron Niall and this Paitr’s uncle Jen. She wished she were not so sure how to bet. “In the meantime, you can tell me just how bad matters are in Caemlyn.”
“My Queen, I was just supposed to let you know about the help. My uncle will be angry if I stay—”
“I
am
your Queen, Paitr,” Morgase said firmly, “and your uncle Jen’s, too. He will not mind if you answer my questions.” Paitr looked as though he might bolt, but she settled herself in a chair and began digging for the truth.
Pedron Niall was feeling quite good as he dismounted in the main courtyard of the Fortress of the Light and tossed his reins to a stableman. Morgasewas well in hand, and he had not had to lie once. He did not like lying. It had all been his own interpretation of events, but he was sure of it. Rand al’Thor was a false Dragon and a tool of the Tower. The world was full of fools who could not think. The Last Battle would not be some titanic struggle between the Dark One and a Dragon Reborn, a mere man. The Creator had abandoned mankind to its own devices long ago. No,
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