“From Bryne’s army?” Chubain asked, lips downturned. Like many of the Tower Guard, he still regarded Bryne’s army as a rival force.
“No,” Gawyn said. “Men loyal to the Tower. Some of those who trained to be Warders and who fought with me on Elaida’s side. They’re feeling displaced now, and they would rather be soldiers than Warders. I’d appreciate it if you’d give them a home. They’re solid men and excellent warriors.”
Chubain nodded. “Send them to me.”
“They’ll come to you tomorrow,” Gawyn said. “I only ask one thing. Try not to break the group apart. They’ve been through much together. Their bond gives them strength.”
“Shouldn’t be difficult,” Chubain said. “The Tenth Tower Company was destroyed nearly to a man by those flaming Seanchan. I’ll set some veteran officers over your lads and form the new company out of them.”
“Thank you,” Gawyn said. He nodded toward Egwene’s quarters. “Watch over her for me, Chubain. I think she’s determined to see herself dead.”
“It is ever my duty to defend and uphold the Amyrlin. But where will you be?”
“She made it clear that she wants no Warder,” Gawyn said, his mind drifting back to the things Bryne had said to him earlier. What did he want, aside from Egwene? Perhaps it was time to find out. “I think it’s past time I went to visit my sister.”
Chubain nodded, and Gawyn took his leave. He visited the barracks and gathered his possessions—little more than a change of clothing and a winter cloak—then made his way to the stables and saddled Challenge.
Then he led the horse to the Traveling ground. Egwene maintained a sister on duty there at all times. Tonight’s Aes Sedai—a petite, drowsy-eyed Green named Nimri—didn’t question him. She made him a gateway to a hillside about an hour’s travel from Caemlyn.
And so he left Tar Valon—and Egwene al’Vere—behind.
“What is that?” Lan demanded.
The aged Nazar looked up from his saddlebags, leather hadori holding down his powdery white hair. A small stream gurgled near their camp in the middle of a forest of highland pines. Those pines shouldn’t have borne half so many brown needles.
Nazar had been tucking something into his saddlebags, and Lan had happened to spot a bit of gold peeking out. “This?” Nazar asked. He pulled the cloth out: a brilliant white flag with a golden crane embroidered in the center. It was a fine work, with beautiful stitching. Lan nearly grabbed it out of Nazar’s fingers and ripped it in half.
“Now, I see that expression on your face, Lan Mandragoran,” Nazar said. “Well, don’t you be getting all self-centered about this. A man has a right to carry his kingdom’s flag with him.”
“You’re a baker, Nazar.”
“I’m a Borderlander first, son,” the man said, tucking the banner away. “This is my heritage.”
“Bah!” Lan said, turning away. The others were breaking up camp. He’d grudgingly allowed the three newcomers to join him—they were stubborn as boars, and in the end, he had had to succumb to his oath. He’d promised that he’d accept followers. These men, technically, hadn’t asked to ride with him—they’d simply started doing it. That was enough. Besides, if they were going to travel in the same direction, then there was little sense in making two camps.
Lan continued to wipe his face dry from the morning’s washing. Bulen was getting bread ready for breakfast. This grove of pines was in eastern Kandor; they were getting close to the border into Arafel. Perhaps he could—
He froze. There were several new tents in their camp. A group of eight men were chatting with Andere. Three of them looked plump around the waist—not warriors, judging by their soft clothing, though they did appear to be Malkieri. The other five were all Shienarans, topknots on their heads, leather bracers on their arms, and horsebows stored in cases on their backs beside long, two-handed swords.
“What is this?” Lan demanded.
“Weilin, Managan and Gorenellin,” Andere said, gesturing to the Malkieri. “These others are Qi, Joao, Merekel, Ianor, Kuehn—”
“I didn’t ask who,” Lan said, voice cold. “I asked what. What have you done?”
Andere shrugged. “We met them before running into you. We told them to wait along the southern roadway for us. Rakim fetched them last night, while you were sleeping.”
“Rakim was supposed to be on watch!” Lan said.
“I watched in his stead,” Andere said. “I figured we’d want these fellows.”
All three of the plump merchants looked to Lan, then went down on their knees. One was weeping openly. “Tai’shar Malkier.”
The five Shienarans saluted Lan. “Dai Shan,” one said.
“We have brought what we could to the cause of the Golden Crane,” another of the merchants added. “All that we could gather in a little time.”
“It is not much,” said the third. “But we lend you our swords as well. We may look to have grown soft, but we can fight. We will fight.”
“I don’t need what you brought,” Lan said, exasperated. “I—”
“Before you say too much more, old friend,” Andere said, laying a hand on Lan’s shoulder, “perhaps you should have a look at that.” He nodded to the side.
Lan frowned, hearing a rattling sound. He stepped past a patch of trees to look upon the path to the camp. Two dozen wagons were approaching, each piled high with supplies—weapons, sacks of grain, tents. Lan opened his eyes wide. A good dozen warhorses were hitched in a line, and strong oxen pulled the wagons. Teamsters and servants walked alongside them.
“When they said they sold what they could and brought supplies,” Andere said, “they meant it.”
“We will never be able to move quietly with all of this!” Lan said.
Andere shrugged.
Lan took a deep breath. Very well. He would work with it. “Moving quietly appears to be failing anyway. From now on, we will pose as a caravan delivering supplies to Shienar.”
“But—”
“You will swear to me,” he said, turning toward the men. “Each of you will swear not to reveal who I am or send word to anyone else who might be looking for me.
