The Gathering Storm - By Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson Page 0,242

captured, and two dead, then. That left four more to locate before he had enough members to order a new vote for king. It would not be the most ethical council election in Domani history; why did he bother? He could appoint a king, or name himself to the throne. Why did he care what the Domani thought proper?

Rhuarc watched him; the Aiel chief’s eyes were thoughtful. He likely wondered the same things.

“Keep searching,” Rand said. “I do not intend to take Arad Doman for myself; we will find the rightful king or we will see the Council of Merchants assembled so that they can choose a new one. I will not care who it is, so long as he is not a Darkfriend.”

“As you say, Car’a’carn,” Rhuarc said, moving to rise.

“Order is important, Rhuarc,” Rand said. “I don’t have time to secure this kingdom myself. We don’t have long before the Last Battle.” He glanced at Nynaeve, who had joined several Maidens at the back of the small room. “I want four more members of the merchant council in our possession by the end of the month.”

“You set a demanding pace, Rand al’Thor,” Rhuarc said.

Rand stood up. “Just find me those merchants. These people deserve leaders.”

“And the king?”

Rand glanced to the side, to where Milisair Chadmar stood, carefully watched by Aiel guards. She seemed . . . haggard. Her once-luxurious raven hair had been pulled up into a bun, obviously because it was easier to care for that way. Her dress was still rich, but now wrinkled, as if she’d been wearing it for too long. Her eyes were red. She was still beautiful, but much in the way that a painting would still be beautiful if it were crumpled up, then smoothed out on a table.

“May you find water and shade, Rhuarc,” Rand said in dismissal.

“May you find water and shade, Rand al’Thor.” The tall Aiel withdrew, some of his spears following him. Rand took a deep breath, then stepped up to the gaudy throne and sat. Rhuarc he treated with the respect he deserved. The others . . . well, they would get the respect they deserved as well.

He leaned forward, motioning Milisair to approach. One of the Maidens nudged her in the back, forcing her forward. The woman looked far more apprehensive than she had the last time she had come before Rand.

“Well?” he asked her.

“My Lord Dragon . . .” she began, glancing around, as if seeking aid from the Domani stewards and attendants who stood there. They ignored her; even the fop Lord Ramshalan looked the other way.

“Speak, woman,” Rand demanded.

“The messenger you asked after,” she said. “He is dead.”

Rand took in a deep breath. “And how did this happen?”

“The men I assigned to watch after him,” she said quickly, “I hadn’t realized how poorly they were treating the messenger! Why, they hadn’t given him water for days, and the fevers struck. . . .”

“In other words,” Rand said, “you failed to extract information from him, so you left him in a dungeon to rot, only remembering where he was when I demanded he be produced.”

“Car’a’carn,” one of the Maidens—a very young woman named Jalani—said, stepping forward. “We found this one packing her things, as if she were planning to escape the city.”

Milisair paled visibly. “Lord Dragon,” she said. “A moment of weakness! I—”

Rand waved for silence. “What am I to do with you now?”

“She should be executed, my Lord!” Ramshalan said, stepping forward eagerly.

Rand looked up with a frown. He hadn’t been asking for a response. Lanky, with one of the thin black Domani mustaches, Ramshalan had a prominent nose that might have indicated some Saldaean forebear. He wore an outrageous coat of blue, orange and yellow, with ruffled white cuffs peeking out underneath. Apparently, such things passed for fashionable among some segments of the Domani upper crust. His earrings bore the mark of his house, and he had a black beauty mark in the shape of a bird in flight affixed to his check.

Rand had known many like him, courtiers with too few brains but too many family connections. Noble life seemed to breed them, much as the Two Rivers bred sheep. Ramshalan was particularly annoying because of his nasal voice and eager willingness to betray others in his desire to curry favor with Rand.

Still, men like him had their uses. Occasionally. “What do you think, Milisair?” Rand said musingly. “Should I have you executed for treason, as this man suggests?”

She did