The Gathering Storm - By Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson Page 0,103

those who would be better left ignorant.”

She left that statement hanging before walking to the door. The Warder didn’t stop her, though he did watch with those suspicious eyes of his. She wondered whose Warder he was—she didn’t believe any of the sisters inside the room had Warders, though she wasn’t certain. Perhaps he belonged to one of the other spies sent from Salidar, and had been drafted by Saerin and the others. That would explain his disposition.

Meidani quickly followed Egwene from the room, glancing over her shoulder, as if expecting argument or censure to fly out behind her. The Warder simply pulled the door shut.

“I can’t believe you succeeded,” the Gray said. “They should have strung you up by your heels and had you howling!”

“They are too wise for that,” Egwene said. “They’re the only ones in this blasted Tower—besides maybe Silviana—who have anything resembling heads sitting atop their shoulders.”

“Silviana?” Meidani asked with surprise. “Doesn’t she beat you every day?”

“Several times a day,” Egwene said absently. “She’s very dutiful, not to mention thoughtful. If we had more like her, the Tower wouldn’t have gotten to this state in the first place.”

Meidani regarded Egwene, an odd expression on her face. “You really are the Amyrlin,” she finally said. It was an odd comment. Hadn’t she just sworn that she accepted Egwene’s authority?

“Come on,” Egwene said, hastening her pace. “I need to get back before those Reds grow suspicious.”

CHAPTER 13

An Offer and a Departure

Gawyn stood, sword at the ready, facing down two Warders. The barn let in slots of light, air sparkling with dust and bits of straw kicked up from the fighting. Gawyn backed slowly across the packed dirt floor, passing through patches of light. The air was warm on his skin. Trickles of sweat ran down from his temples, but his grip was firm as the two Warders advanced on him.

The one in front was Sleete, a limber, long-armed man with rough-hewn features. In the barn’s uneven light, his face looked like an unfinished work one might find in a sculptor’s workshop, with long shadows across his eyes, his chin divided by a cleft, his nose crooked from being broken and not Healed. He wore long hair and black sideburns.

Hattori had been quite pleased when her Warder had finally arrived at Dorlan; she’d lost him at Dumai’s Wells, and his story was the sort gleemen and bards sang about. Sleete had lain wounded for hours before deliriously managing to grab his horse’s reins and pull himself into the saddle. It had loyally carried him, near unconscious, for hours before arriving at a nearby village. The villagers there had been tempted to sell Sleete to a local band of bandits—their leader had visited earlier promising them safety as a reward for revealing any refugees from the nearby battle. However, the mayor’s daughter had argued for Sleete’s life, convincing them that the bandits must be Darkfriends if they were seeking wounded Warders. The villagers had chosen to hide Sleete instead, and the girl had nursed him to safety.

Sleete had been forced to sneak away once he was well enough to travel; the girl had apparently taken quite a liking to him. Whispers among the Younglings said that Sleete’s escape had also come because he had begun feeling affection for the girl himself. Most Warders knew better than to let themselves grow attached. Sleete had left in the night, after the girl and her family fell asleep—but in return for the village’s mercy, he’d hunted down the bandits and seen to it that they would never plague the village again.

It was the marrow of stories and legends—at least, among regular, lesser men. For a Warder, Sleete’s story was almost commonplace. Men like him attracted legends as ordinary men attracted fleas. In fact, Sleete hadn’t wanted to share his tale; it had come out only owing to a vigorous campaign of questions from the Younglings. He still acted as if his survival were nothing to brag about. He was a Warder. Surviving against the odds, riding in delirium over miles of rough terrain, cutting down an entire band of thieves with wounds not fully healed—these were just the sorts of things you did when you were a Warder.

Gawyn respected them. Even the ones he had killed. Especially the ones he had killed. It took a unique kind of man to show this kind of dedication, this kind of vigilance. This kind of humility. While Aes Sedai manipulated the world and monsters like al’Thor