A Journey North

[Carter de Volthström]

Lord Leodon Taravin

Heir to the High Seat

Despite the canvas walls and earthen floor of the command tent, Lord Leodon Taravin carried himself with the dignity of a man born to his rank. There was not a speck of dust on his coat, not a thread out of place, though the road had been long and the camps crowded with the stink of horses and sweat. His bow, when he gave it, was precise and deep enough to honor the White Tower itself, his eyes never quite meeting hers not out of disrespect, but reverence. It was the look a man gave to power, not a woman.

To him, she was not simply Amelia Sedai of the Thorne bloodline, but a living signal of the Tower’s will, a woman woven into the Pattern with threads few dared touch. He might as well have been greeting the Amyrlin Seat in disguise.

The name Thorne was familiar to him, of course. One of the Twenty Great Houses of Andor, steeped in centuries of honor and maneuver. His mind flicked through generations of bloodlines, marriages, alliances. Leodon prided himself on remembering such things; to know a House was to understand its ambitions. But no particular Amelia came to mind, not in the last hundred years at least. Perhaps she was older, and likely she was. The Tower’s ageless grace clouded such things. Were it not for that agelessness in her eyes and cheek, he might have thought her younger than himself.

It always struck him strangely, standing in the presence of those chosen by the Pattern to wield the One Power. No matter how many times he spoke with Aes Sedai, the same chill ran along his spine. Not quite fear. Awe, perhaps. Or the echo of it.

He inclined his head again. “Our Houses have long shared friendship,” he said, his voice smooth as good wine. “And so I count myself doubly blessed to welcome a sister of the Tower whose blood runs with the nobility of Andor. You do me honor, Aes Sedai.”

His mouth quirked in the barest hint of a smile. “Though I fear your arrival finds us in less-than-dignified pursuits. The duties of a moving army are many and mostly mundane and nothing worthy of an Aes Sedai’s service. The road to Shienar is long, and we are thick with supply trains and latrine diggers. Forgive my bluntness, Aes Sedai. But when twenty thousand men march, twenty thousand more must feed them, shoe their horses, clean after them, and keep them from stabbing one another over the sausage.”

He gestured gracefully toward the wide campaign map on the table, where carved tokens of armored men, banners, and wagons marked their position along the route north. A black wolfhead rested just beyond the Spine of the World, a reminder of why they marched at all.

“Still,” he added, tone softening, “your presence alone will do more to lift spirits than a week of feasts. If I may presume, I would like you to meet Lady Graciela Armendariz. She is niece to King Togita of Shienar and the Lady of Fal Sion. She leads our escort to the Borderlands with both grace and the steel expected of her House.”

With a quiet word, Leodon turned toward the tent flap. A young man stood just beyond the entryway, his cousin’s son, if memory served. A young nobleman with more pride than experience, but loyal.

“Summon Lady Graciela, if she pleases,” Leodon said. “Tell her we are graced by a guest the likes of whom she would be pleased to meet.”