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Chapter Text

Nynaeve was furious. Galad had given her the slip. She could already tell. The altered distance and direction the simulated Warder’s bond pointed her in was not towards the recovery rooms where she’d stashed the Andoran prince after breakfast. Now, as Nynaeve ventured out above ground to enter the arena proper, her gut filled further with burning anger as she was hit by the sunlight and noise of the day in progress.

It was an assault on her senses, the light and sound of Tar Valon’s stadium, every spot in the stacked rows of seating filled with excited spectators on Day Four of the Games. The mid-morning sun had the yellow stone around her glowing in reflected light from where it shone down from above, set in a mercilessly blue sky. Green banners snapped in the slight breeze high above the stadium’s upper levels, the flame of Tar Valon detailed in white decorating each.

The day was not warm, but it was bright. Nynaeve squinted, making her way along a ground-floor concourse until she’d reached a broad set of stone stairs. At least it was shaded here, though no less busy as people rushed to take their seats, or ran by to purchase food and drink before the first match of the day was to begin.

Galad was somewhere above, presumably in the seating at this end of the oval shaped stadium, and if Nynaeve wanted to find him and drag him back to the recovery room to rest, then she’d have to brave the crowds.

She could feel his excitement across the bond, a sparkling, elated sensation that pushed his sense of tiredness into the background of emotion and feeling that he formed in her mind. Nynaeve sent him feelings of angry irritation in return. He seemed to ignore them.

Letting the bond guide her, Nynaeve threaded through the people on the stairs, exiting the stairwell at a mid-level of the seating tiers. This was the end the borderlanders had claimed, as it was usually the end team Golden Crane started at. It was also the end where Galad’s obnoxious admirers usually set themselves up, and among them, Nynaeve’s own cohort of fanatics that had followed her ever since the trial. A lot of fools, she thought, annoyed that Galad had positioned himself here where his presence was sure to cause a fuss.

Perhaps he had done it on purpose, hoping she would stay away if he was surrounded by people who might very well prevent her removing him if he did not wish it.

When Nynaeve emerged, she raised a hand to shield her eyes against the sun. The noise in this section of the seating was immense, a headache-inducing racket of screams and cheers, and the first fight had not even begun.

Half of this area was filled with borderland warriors. Saldaeans, Kandori, Arafellins, and Sheinarans all dressed in their armour and house colours, made a boisterous wall of sound and brandished drinks in the air. When her ears adjusted, Nynaeve could hear they chanted ‘Forward the White Boar.’ The White Boar? That was Gawyn and Egwene’s team. As Nynaeve studied the crowd, she finally spotted Galad among them.

Her fool Warder in training was dressed immaculately in a fresh uniform, though he did not wear armour atop it, instead, wearing their team sigil badge to designate him as a competitor. He faced the array of borderlanders, raising a stonewear mug to them to lead them in the chant.

Nynaeve’s fury climbed. If that mug was full of ale, then she’d take it off of him and beat him over the head with it. At least, she realised, Galad wasn’t drunk. She’d know it over the bond if he was, and counted it a small blessing that she’d got there in time to prevent him drinking too much when he should be spending the day resting for tomorrow.

Below the block of borderlanders, the seating teemed with screaming women, seething like a kicked ant’s hill of bright dresses. The Novice and Accepted’s whites seemed plain amid the rich silks, colourful scarves and shawls, and vibrant ribbons worn in the women’s hair.

As if they were a single entity, these women all had their faces turned towards where Galad instigated the borderlanders cheering for his brother, but he ignored their wolf whistles, catcalls, and attempts to get his attention. Some women clutched bouquets of flowers and boxes of sweets, and some were even weeping at being so close to the object of their affection, yet still so far away.

Galad had been clever; he was safely among a cohort of armed warriors who acted as a barrier between him and his rabid admirers. Nynaeve was sure he’d done that on purpose at least.

Well, there was no sense in trying to be discreet about things. Everyone around Galad already had their attention fixed on him, and they seemed unable to look away from that smile of his, or the animated way he was inciting the enthusiasm of the chanting warriors in support of team White Boar.

Nynaeve scowled. Galad, when he decided it was appropriate, or perhaps because he was among fighting men, could be terribly charismatic, inspiring enthusiasm from the men around him. He flashed that smile, shouted encouragement, and moved among the warriors to whip them into a frenzy of cheering.

The borderlands, for their part, seemed all too eager to do Galad’s bidding, and half of them looked at him with as much adoration as the women below did. Galad was Lan’s prodigy protégé after all, and he wore the sigil of the Golden Crane. He’d proven himself in the arena, demonstrated the grit and valour expected of a borderlander — and almost got himself killed — as well as given them a show of exceptional swordsmanship, earning much respect from these seasoned fighting men.

In between cheers of ‘Forward the White Boar,’ and ‘Glory and victory to the White Boar’, Nynaeve shouted, letting her anger sear through her tone.

“Galadedrid Damodred, what do you think you’re doing?!” She placed her hands on her hips, raising her chin to glare up at Galad’s back two rows above her.

He must have felt her coming nearer through the bond, for he did not seem surprised to see her when he looked at her over his shoulder. In fact, he seemed amused at her presence, and she caught the corner of his suddenly wicked smile before he turned back to the choir of borderlanders.

“It’s el’Nynaeve! All hail el’Nynaeve! Glory to el’Nynaeve!” Galad roared in a voice trained to be heard across a battlefield. He thrust his mug into the air. Dark golden liquid sloshed from it. Ale. He turned to salute her with the mug, drawing everyone’s attention to her, a beautifully sly smile on that handsome face.

The effect on both the borderlanders and the women below was electric. The cry of ‘Glory to el’Nynaeve’ thundered from at least a hundred warriors, drowning out the higher pitched shrieks of ‘The queen of hearts!’ from the Tower’s girls, and the shouts of ‘it’s her, that stuck up chit,’ the latter expression coming from those among Galad’s fans who blamed Nynaeve every time the prince was injured in the arena.

“The queen of hearts!” Galad called, and the borderlanders answered, repeating the foolish title the Novices had dubbed Nynaeve with. “The queen of hearts!” Galad looked positively smug while he weaponized Nynaeve’s own fans against her. She had to fight her way through the borderlanders to get to him, and when she reached him, she seized him by his collar to jerk him down to her height and snarl into his ear.

“Just what do you think you’re doing? You’re supposed to be resting today! You’re still not fully recovered after yesterday, and you definitely should not be drinking ale!”

Nynaeve reached for the mug in Galad’s hand, but defiantly, he lifted it to drink. The look he gave her over the rim was challenging. When he lowered it, he made such an exaggerated show of licking his lips as if the ale was the most delicious thing in the world, that Nynaeve wanted to slap his pretty face right there. The only thing that stopped her was the thought the borderlanders and the women might tear her apart if she did.

“I’m fine, Nynaeve, and one drink won’t kill me. I’m not spending the day wasting away in a recovery room when this is my only chance to see my brother and sister fight. It’s my duty to cheer them on and encourage them towards victory. If you promise not to nag me all day, then I promise you can drag me back to whatever dull recovery room you please once the events are over.”

Then he looked away from her, shouting “Forward the White Boar!” and having his cry taken up again by the borderland warriors. “Don’t be such a spoilsport, el’Nynaeve,” Galad said, his words hidden by a smile.

Nynaeve narrowed her eyes at him. She had her braid in her hand, and she was wondering if she’d be able to strangle him with it before anyone could get to her. But… If she’d learned anything about Galad, it was that he kept his word, and he’d offered her a promise.

She jerked his head down again, her mouth close to his ear when she hissed, “Fine! You promised! Once it’s all over, you’re going back to bed, and you’ll eat anything I give you until I’m satisfied you’ll have the strength to be ready for Day Five.”

Galad gave her a sidelong look, already lifting his mug for another drink to hide his smile. “As you say, el’Nynaeve.”

Nynaeve huffed, still glaring at him, and as she gave her braid an irritable tug, Siuan Sanche addressed the crowd, signalling the first fight of the day was to begin.

“Gamesmanship,” Egwene murmured to Gawyn, “We win this and stop them acting as a team as much as we can to sabotage their score. Remember our plan.”

As much as Egwene didn’t like to use the word ‘sabotage’, sabotage was essentially what they planned to do. She and Gawyn had discussed the tactic with Alanna Sedai and Ihvon Gaidin that morning in the dressing rooms below the arena, and Alanna had agreed it was a sound idea. This far into the competition, every point counted, especially with the volatility of the Group One standings.

Egwene and Gawyn waited, tensely poised side by side at their end of the arena. Freshly strewn unmarked sand and sawdust crunched beneath Egwene’s soft white boots as she shifted impatiently. Theirs was the first match of the day, and so the fighting floor ahead of them was pristine, raked smooth and untouched.

“Right,” Gawyn nodded, “I’ll go out first to make them think we’ll be separated. When Irella brings up the Mirror of Mists, I’ll come straight back to you. Keep an eye on me the whole time so you’re sure it’s me if they try to make duplicates of me like they did to Mat. I won’t go far anyway, so I can come back to you quickly.”

Around them, the dull noise of the crowds surged like a rolling ocean, wave after wave of sound, until— a solid cry of many voices broke through the sea of sound like the prow of a ship smashing through the crest of a wave — “Forward the White Boar! Glory and honour to team White Boar!”

Egwene looked up in surprise, just as Gawyn’s head jerked up at attention. The cry came again, a repeated chant. It came from the stands behind them, a swelling of borderlander voices. “Forward the White Boar! Glory and honour to team White Boar!”

She met Gawyn’s surprised blue eyes, but as understanding dawned in those cerulean depths, Gawyn smiled a radiant smile that made Egwene’s heart beat a little faster. “Galad,” he said, “that brother of mine must be sitting with the borderlanders.”

There was the warmth of affection in Gawyn’s voice, and Egwene felt his sense of appreciation for the rallied support pulse across the bond. She reached out to touch Gawyn’s wrist, buoyant with his sense of elation and brotherly fondness.

“We mustn’t disappoint them if they’re cheering for us,” she told him, taking his hand as they turned to face their opponents.

On the opposite side of the arena, team Pink Rose, Irella and Corbet, had taken up their positions, their mentors seated behind them. The Amyrlin’s voice, magnified by an amplification weave, boomed out from the private balcony where Siuan Sanche watched the Games with her guests, the visiting monarchs.

“Alget!” The call to begin was given.

Gawyn squeezed Egwene’s hand before letting it go, and as she embraced the source to fill herself with saidar, he dashed forward, leaving her side. Across the fighting floor, Egwene could see the answering glow of power from Irella, and Corbet ran out to meet Gawyn, a rather confident grin on his face.

Corbet’s pace was an unhurried lope, slower, Egwene guessed, to give Irella time to weave. As she watched, she could see the other Accepted weaving, the Mirror of Mists taking shape before Irella flung it out towards Corbet.

“Gawyn! Back!” Egwene shouted, and much to her relief, the prince turned neatly on a heel to dart back to her side. She started a weave of her own, eyes fixed on Irella.

As Irella’s clever weave had performed during team Pink Rose’s fight with Red Eagle, it acted identically here, splitting in two, with one half spiralling its way towards Corbet, and the other springing back to cover Irella. As soon as the threads touched them, Irella and Corbet seemed to shimmer, then burst apart into clones of themselves, multiple mirror images of them spreading out to cause visual chaos.

But Egwene had been watching, her steadfast gaze on the real Irella the entire time. Irella’s illusions were remarkable; she’d even created a false glow around her clones to make them look as if they all held saidar, knowing a rival Accepted might be looking for the halo was a way to differentiate who was real and who was not. Egwene was not fooled. She’d been paying attention.

“Go, Gawyn!” Egwene commanded her Warder in training, and he ran out again, directly at the Corbets. Gawyn should have had his eye on the real one just in case, Egwene hoped, but she was about to make it an unnecessary precaution. Gawyn drew the Corbets away, making sure they chased him and kept off Egwene while she wove, and also leading whichever was the real Corbet away from Irella so that when Egwene cast, Corbet would be too far away to assist his Accepted.

Egwene threaded air and fire, wrangling powerful threads of both to fashion into a lightning weave, and with her talent for dividing her flows and being able to weave multiple things at once, Egwene crafted Alanna’s armour weave around Gawyn, encasing him protectively so that he would be unharmed by what she was about to do should stray lightning follow him or Corbet.

Focusing on the Irella she’d picked to be the real one, Egwene unleashed her threads of air and fire, but it was not to call lightning down from the sky; this thread was flung out like discus, a spinning plate of crackling electricity that flew towards one of the Irellas, who ran about trying to confuse Egwene.

Away to the side, she heard the clashes of steel as Gawyn engaged the Corbets, knowing that he couldn’t be hit, and that if he hit a Corbet, it would not be the real one unless his sword came back bloodied.

Egwene’s weave hit an Irella — not the real one— the flashing disc of lightning shearing through her, but Egwene had created this weave to be something more than just flying saucer-shaped lightning. Channelling all she had into her illusions, Irella was unable to defend against it.

Egwene twisted the threads of air, and in a purple flash, her disc split into many, crackling tendrils of electricity arcing between each to form a net of chained lightning. It spun tbetween the Irellas, mowing through them until the real one was caught, and then it sizzled, wrapping itself tightly around her.

Irella’s scream was shrill. The body caught in the chains of lightning jerked and spasmed violently before dropping to the sand, its white dress singed and smoking. Almost instantly, the multiples of it, the illusions, all winked out like snuffed candles, the Corbet clones vanishing with them. A duo of Yellow Sisters rushed to tend the fallen Irella.

Exposed now, the real Corbet cried out in dismay, shock replacing the grin of arrogance he and his clones had worn. His shock and hesitation upon feeling Irella disabled by Egwene’s lightning gave Gawyn precious seconds to close the distance between them, and then Corbet was frantically fending off Gawyn’s attacks, trading steely strikes in a desperate attempt to defeat the prince.

But, whenever Corbet did manage to pass Gawyn’s guard to land a hit, he was horrified to find Gawyn protected by invisible armour, his sword skidding off of apparently nothing, and Gawyn remaining unharmed. Egwene actively maintained the flows of the armour weave, keeping her Warder in training safe.

Then, it was only a matter of time.

Egwene did not intervene, although she could have struck Corbet with an attack weave if she’d wanted to. She let Gawyn have his fun and his victory over the other Warder in training, and though Corbet fought with the determination of someone trying to stave off the inevitable, Gawyn eventually sent him to the dirt with a series of slashes that ended with his sword through Corbet’s stomach.

A second team of Yellows rushed to tend Corbet, and Gawyn stepped away to the sound of Leane’s victory announcement. Corbet was too badly injured to continue.

“Wounds sustained by Warder in training Corbet have been deemed by the Yellow Ajah as too severe for him to continue, ending the fight! Winners! Team White Boar!”

Joyously, Egwene ran to Gawyn, who met her and swept her up with an arm about her waist. She threaded her arms around his neck as he spun her, his bloodied sword held clear behind him. The thundering response from the crowd filled her ears, and the stadium became a whirling mass of colour as Gawyn twirled her as if they danced.

“We did it!” He laughed, “Our plan worked!” and this time when he bent his head to kiss her, Egwene allowed it, too elated with the thrill of victory to really care that Gawyn Trakand was kissing her in front of Tar Valon, the Amyrlin Seat, Queen Morgase, and however many other monarchs decorated the private balcony.

A raucous chorus of wolf whistles and girlish shrieks bounded through the spectators at this display of romance. Egwene felt herself blushing, but Gawyn did not allow her to hide her face against his chest when she turned into him. He took her hand, thrusting it up into the air with his own in a gesture of triumph, his sword raised with it as he led her to the judge’s platform.

Irella and Corbet were back on their feet, already awaiting their team score, and if the sheepish expressions they wore were a hint, then team Pink Rose were well aware they’d flubbed that match, perhaps too reliant on their established tactics, assuming they’d work with team White Boar too.

Today, Beldeine Sedai was resplendent in a shimmering gown of emerald coloured silk. She’d even gone so far as to style her hair in battle braids atop her head, and donned a leather corselette over her dress to give her a more martial-like appearance. It was evident that the youthful looking Aes Sedai was enthusiastic about her role as spokeswoman for the judges, and had come to enjoy having the stadium’s attention on her when she spoke.

“Or winners today, team White Boar, have earned the ten victory points, and have achieved an almost perfect total team score of nineteen points for showing impeccable teamwork and highly effective tactics!”

From their end of the stadium, the borderlanders were cheering again, and the cry of ‘Glory, honour, and victory to team White Boar’ almost made what Beldeine said next inaudible, even with the amplification weave carrying her voice around the stadium.

“Team Pink Rose, unable to achieve victory today, finish the day with a total team score of two points. With today’s match being the last fight for team Pink Rose, they finish the Group Stages of the competition with a total score of thirty-three points! Please join us in applauding their performances through the Group Stages of the Green Ajah Battle Games!”

Cheers and a tumult of appreciative clapping followed team Pink Rose’s exit from the arena. The crowds had been well entertained by Irella’s Mirror of Mists, and they let the departing team know their approval in farewell. Finishing the Group Stages on thirty-three points with no more fights to be fought on the last day meant it was very unlikely that Pink Rose would advance to the knockout stages, but Irella and Corbet did not seem too disappointed about that. The pressure was off now, and they could enjoy the rest of the Games as spectators.

“Incredible, you two!” Alanna was clapping her hands when Egwene and Gawyn returned to where their mentors waited. “An almost perfect score and such a flawless performance from both of you! Not only did you almost gain the maximum points for this day, but you kept your opponents from scoring highly too! Well done!” Her smile matched Ihvon’s.

“We’re sitting on thirty-six points now, with one match remaining tomorrow,” the Warder said, providing some perspective among the celebratory feeling between them all, “so it’s not ever yet, and team Red Eagle aren’t going to be an easy win. Come, they’re up next, and we should watch this fight.” Ihvon led team White Boar from the arena, vacating the mentor’s seats and taking them into the lowest row of the stands.

As Egwene settled herself, still giddy with the thrill of winning and Gawyn’s feelings reflecting her own over their bond, she allowed herself to enjoy the moment. They’d done it! She and Gawyn had made a plan, worked as a team, and the result was almost perfect!

She felt Gawyn place his arm around her shoulders, and gloriously happy, Egwene leaned into his side while they turned their attention to watching the next fight. Elayne and Mat were up next, and Egwene wasn’t so distracted by victory that she’d forgotten that tomorrow, team Red Eagle would be the enemy. While she’d cheer Mat and Elayne on today, she’d also be watching their tactics.

“It goes like this,” Galad was shouting at the borderlanders, still ignoring the women whose desperate calls for his attention seemed to bounce off his back unheard. He cleared his throat, and then in a voice which surprised Nynaeve for its lovely pitch, clarity, and projection, Galad sang lyrics for the fighting men to learn.

Of course, Nynaeve thought with annoyance, of course Galad’s singing voice was nice. Everything about her idiot Warder in training was perfect, and when it was not perfect, it was nice, or good, or competent, or skillful… No wonder Elayne couldn’t stand him. How could anyone stand someone so good looking and so good at everything?

“Forward the Lion, forward the Lion,” Galad sang at the borderlanders. The song was obviously some sort of Andoran war tune, “the White Lion takes the field. Roar defiance at the Shadow. Forward the Lion, forward, Andor triumphant— except!” Galad broke off, using his second mug of ale to conduct the borderlanders, who were all leaning forward, listening diligently, “Except we’re going to change the words for my sister’s team!”

“So it’ll be Forward the Red Eagle, but to the same tune?” A Sheinaran asked, earning himself a smile and a nod from Galad.

“Exactly! And we can drop the bit about the Shadow and Andor, since it doesn’t matter here! So we have, Forward the Red Eagle, forward the Red Eagle, the Red Eagle takes the field. Forward the Red Eagle, forward, Red Eagle triumphant! And it needs to be in tune so Elayne can recognise it!” Galad instructed the men.

All morning, Nynaeve had felt as though a headache were coming on, made worse by her irritability that Galad was apparently stepping into the role of House Trakand’s cheerleader with his team of borderland singers, and they were doing it right next to her.

She’d cheered when Egwene and Gawyn had won too, joining in the chant and genuinely happy that her friends had done well, but a war song? This was getting too much, and if she hadn’t been determined to monitor how much ale the borderland warriors were giving Galad, she’d have left to sit with Lan on the Amyrlin’s private balcony.

Lan had been invited to join the other rulers, and on this occasion, he had accepted as team Golden Crane was not fighting that day.

“FORWARD THE RED EAGLE,” a hundred borderlanders sang when team Red Eagle themselves exited the tunnel and made their appearance in the arena.

Nynaeve covered her ears. Galad charged his almost empty mug into the air to conduct the singers. One of them topped it up, pouring ale from his own mug into Galad’s. Galad smiled at him. Nynaeve shot them both a withering scowl. Galad lowered his mug and drank. Nynaeve resisted the urge to knock it from his hand.

She could feel him across the bond, the first tickle of tipsiness flickering through. She wondered how many top ups the men had given Galad; she’d only seen him exchange his mug for another once, but she had not been watching closely enough to see if anyone had been sharing their drinks with him too.

“THE RED EAGLE TAKES THE FIELD,” the song was shouted as though by men on the march, and far below on the arena’s floor, both Elayne and Mat looked up in surprise.

“Yes!” Galad laughed, rewarding the singers with the most captivatingly gorgeous smile, “Again! She can hear you!”

And Nynaeve had to wonder, even though Elayne was always quite nasty towards her half-brother, why Galad bothered being supportive of her at all. He always bore the Daughter-Heir’s scorn gracefully, seeing his duty to his family as more important than any emotion he might have over Elayne’s behaviour. It was yet another signalling of his perfectness, Nynaeve thought, and rather than see it as a virtue, it added to Nynaeve’s anger towards him.

So, folding her arms beneath her breasts, Nynaeve glared like a stormcloud, the very obvious opposite to Galad and the fun he was having with the borderland vocalists.

“Forward the Red Eagle, forward the Red Eagle, the Red Eagle takes the field.”

Morgase recognised the tune immediately, though the words had been altered. She was surprised to hear an Andoran song of patriotism shouted roughly by a motley assortment of borderlanders, but as she observed the concentration of bright dresses and swooning women at that end of the stadium, Morgase connected the clues and realised that her step-son must have been responsible for this war-like serenade of team Red Eagle. Galad must be there. Why else would there be a heaving mass of well dressed ladies gathered right below where the borderlanders were singing? 

She wasn’t quite sure if she approved of Galad teaching Forward the Lion to Kandori, Sheinarans, Saldaeans, and Arafellins, but she decided it was permissible since it was in support of his sister, the Daughter-Heir.

Beside her, al’Lan Mandragoran had his chilly blue glare trained on the singers. The would-be King of Malkier had accompanied Morgase’s sister-in-law, Moiraine, to the Amyrlin’s balcony this day. Moiraine had claimed a spot next to Siuan Sanche, and the two women had their heads together, laughing and chatting over glasses of wine, barely paying attention to the fights.

Lan had done Morgase a favour by occupying the cushioned seat at her side; by doing so, he’d denied Barthanes Damodred the chance to sit beside the Queen of Andor.

“Your children are all performing well,” Lan said to her, and she found it interesting to see this very dangerous and slightly terrifying man doing his best to make light conversation that was not about fighting, or weapons, or the Blight, or whatever he talked about when speaking with the Kings and Queens of the borderland nations.

Morgase smiled graciously at Lan. Apparently, his betrothed was the same young woman who had partnered with Galad for the games, another thing Morgase found interesting. “In part thanks to you, my Lord Mandragoran. I’m told my step-son’s swordsmanship has improved astoundingly under your mentorship.”

She did not tell Lan that she disapproved of the way Galad seemed far more prone to injury in defense of Lan’s affianced though, aware that voicing such an opinion might sail them into argumentative waters. This was supposed to be pleasant conversation, and she did not care to take the King of Malkier to task over anything or cause disharmony just then.

“He had good foundations,” Lan grunted, sounding as agreeable as he could, adding, “He’s a good lad.”

Morgase smiled again. She’d never heard anyone say otherwise about Galad. But now, Elayne was entering the arena with the Cauthon boy at her side, and Morgase wondered if Lan had an opinion there.

“I’m told you’re familiar with these young people from the Two Rivers? They’re all from the same village as your betrothed, I believe? And you accompanied them from that edge of my kingdom? What do you think of this farm boy with his stick?” she asked casually.

“Matrim?” Lan shrugged, watching team Red Eagle and team Shooting Star taking their places at opposite ends of the arena. “Bit of a village idiot, but surprisingly knows what he’s doing with that stick of his. Not a bad shot with the bow either, but you’d expect any man out of the Two Rivers to know how to use a longbow anyway.”

And there, Lan’s small talk meandered back towards fighting and weapons as if he wasn’t even aware of it. Morgase hid her exasperation. “Yes,” she said, “he does seem to know what he’s doing with that stick,” she tried again, “but you’ve spent time around the boy, and I’d like to know what sort of a boy he is since he’s with my daughter frequently. You do understand my concern, of course?”

Lan wasn’t a fool. He did understand, but he didn’t shift his attention away from the fight shaping up in the stadium below them. “If you’re concerned, Your Majesty, then perhaps your concern should be for young Cauthon, not because of him. I’ve never seen that boy go near a girl who didn’t want him to go near her. If anything untoward happens, I doubt he’ll be the instigator.”

Lan’s assessment was delivered in a flat, uninterested voice, and though Morgase felt a flash of temper at the implication in his words, she was wise enough to leash that temper and properly consider what Lan had said before responding to it.

He had heavily implied that if any mischief was going on between Elayne and Mat, that Elayne would be the one behind it, and unfortunately, Morgase knew all too well what her daughter was like. Elayne strove to be a good daughter, and worthy of the role of Daughter-Heir, but the girl had a rebellious streak, and was more than capable of getting herself into all sorts of trouble.

Lord Mandragoran was right. Perhaps it wasn’t the Cauthon boy she should worry about. Feeling somewhat reassured, Morgase turned her attention to the arena below, just as Siuan Sanche stood to call a start for the next fight.

“Forward the Red Eagle, forward, Red Eagle triumphant!”

The distinctive lyrics drew both Elayne and Mat’s attention.

“We’re Red Eagle,” Mat said, confused for a moment. He looked perplexed at the chorus of borderlanders.

Elayne’s confusion mirrored Mat’s, “That’s Forward the Lion, but the words are different. Aren’t those the same borderland warriors who have been cheering for team Golden Crane? Why are they singing to us now? And singing an Andoran song?” But she realised the answer to that at the same time Mat did. Mat grinned at her.

“I think that brother of yours might have something to do with this. He and Nynaeve must be in the singing section somewhere since they’re not fighting today. I could get used to this, having our own cheering section.”

While Mat was pleased, his high spirits bouncing across the bond, Elayne felt conflicting emotions. It was rather nice to have the visiting soldiers of foreign nations all cheering for her and Mat to the tune of a patriotic Andoran battle song, but why had Galad done such a thing? Elayne was baffled, and Mat must have felt her mixed feelings. He answered her as if he’d read her mind.

“Because you’re Lord Pretty Pants’ sister, Elayne, and he’s your brother. It’s normal for brothers and sisters to support each other. He stood up to Elaida for you didn’t he? Come on,” twirling his quarterstaff, Mat motioned Elayne should accompany him to their starting positions.

Trailing after Mat, Elayne just couldn’t bring herself to believe Galad’s support was genuine, so ignoring the singing borderlanders and Galad’s intentions for the moment, Elayne took her place beside Mat. Across the arena, Pedra and Jisao squared up in preparation. Like team Red Eagle, today was team Shooting Star’s second to last fight, and they were just as eager to secure precious points as Elayne and Mat were.

“Gamesmanship,” Elayne said, almost in unison with Mat, who’d said the same thing. Turning to him, Elayne shared his grin, feeling a sense of unified focus over their bond. “We keep to the plan, Mat,” she told him, “we do this quickly and don’t give them a chance to work together.”

“Dovie'andi se tovya sagain,” Mat seemed to agree, or at least, he sounded agreeable enough. Elayne wished she’d paid more attention during her lessons in the Old Tongue. Mat decided to sprinkle it into his speech at the strangest of times.

A familiar lull descended on the crowd, a lull of expectation that had become ritual preceding Siuan Sanche’s call to begin. Tar Valon’s audience knew the routine. They held their collective breath.

“Alget!”

That was one word in the Old Tongue Elayne knew. The Amyrlin’s command was the trigger for a roaring wave of cheering and shouting, and the song sang by the Borderland choir rose once more, the sound of it dominating their end of the stadium.

Elayne embraced the source, opening herself up to be filled with the joyous sensation of saidar. She could see Pedra had done the same, and anticipating what the other girl would weave, Elayne prepared her counters. Egwene had advised them last night that Pedra’s opening move was predictable, a set of snaking earth weaves designed to make the ground explode under an opponent’s feet, and Pedra remained fortunately predictable.

Jisao dashed forward, apparently knowing he was flanked by the winding streams of earth, and Elayne let them come nearer, holding out a hand to signal to Mat not to move yet. Closer and closer Jisao and the earth weave came, and when they’d passed the middle pillars that marked the centre of the arena, Elayne let her counters fly.

Writhing snakes of spirit laced through the ground, rushing at Pedra’s earth weaves. At the same time, Elayne dropped her hand and shouted to Mat. “Go, now!”

Mat’s quarterstaff whirled into motion, his flourishes and embellishments with it drawing cries of delight from the spectators. The stick was a spinning blur as Mat handled it and dashed out to meet Jisao. Elayne’s spirit weaves outpaced Mat, and she knew neither of the Warders in training would be able to see when she shredded Pedra’s threads of riven earth, though she expected they would realise what had happened when the ground under Mat failed to erupt.

The sand and sawdust remained firm underfoot, and the barest flicker of panic crossed Jisao’s youtful face. The distance between him and Mat was closing fast. Elayne turned her attention to Pedra, who shouted angrily as her opening attack was torn apart. Pedra was weaving again. Elayne recognised the threads of air and fire, identifying the whirlwind, but she would give Pedra no chance to complete it.

Elayne had maintained her slashing weaves of spirit even as they ripped through the earth, and they continued past Jisao, dragging along the ground like two thrashing ropes. She added air and fire, and when these threads reached Pedra, Elayne warped them into a shield, snapping it into place over the other Accepted and cutting her off from the source before she’d fully formed her whirlwind.

“Shield timer on Accepted Pedra, five minutes, starts now!” Leane Sedai’s voice rose over even the singing of the borderlanders.

But Elayne was not simply content to keep Pedra shielded. She was far stronger than the other girl, and so she channelled again to wrap Pedra in weaves of air, binding her to stop her from running as Elayne began to drag the struggling girl towards the middle of the arena where Mat clashed with Jisao.

Last night, Gawyn had the right of it when he’d said Mat wouldn’t have any problems handling Jisao with the quarterstaff.

Without exploding earth to unbalance and distract Mat, Jisao didn’t last long. Mat had been able to best Gawyn and Galad with his staff after all, and Jisao was no equal to either prince in swordsmanship. He managed to turn aside Mat’s first blow, a strike at Jisao’s ribs, sidestep the second, which was a clipping blow aimed at an ankle, but finally the third landed, and Jisao screamed as his shoulder shattered.

Mat had swung the staff and connected with the very tip of it, where the momentum and force was greatest, and the sheer strength of the impact destroyed Jisao’s joint. Mat’s fourth and final strike saw the other end of his quarterstaff go from low to high, counterweighted by its opposide end, and it struck the side of Jisao’s head with an alarmingly loud crack. Jisao’s eyes rolled back in his head. He dropped, his temple bleeding and his skull perhaps split. Two of the Yellow Ajah rushed for him.

“Shield timer on Accepted Pedra, four minutes remain!” Leane announced.

The fight was not over yet, and Elayne called to Mat. “Just Pedra now!”

Pedra was struggling madly, screaming and cursing, but she could not break free of Elayne’s shield or her bonds of air. Elayne could have ran the clock down, keeping Pedra restrained as she was, but she and Mat had discussed this, and now Mat advanced casually towards the trapped Pedra. She’d been dragged to the middle of the arena, so Mat only needed a few steps to reach her.

The grin he gave her was perfectly roguish. He even knuckled his forehead at her as if he were doffing an invisible hat. Pedra looked daggers at him, screaming as if she thought he was about to murder her, but Mat only lifted his quarterstaff in salute, and then he gave her the gentlest, lightest tap with it to her forehead. She howled as if he’d broken her skull open.

“Accepted Pedra has been disabled! Victory, team Red Eagle!” Leane called.

Elayne released Pedra, clapping her hands excitedly as she practically bounced on the spot. The thrill of victory was sweetened by the flawless execution of the plan she and Mat contrived with their mentors, and while Mat made his way back towards her, showboating shamelessly for the crowd with a series of flashy staff tricks, Elayne found herself unable to contain her exuberance.

She ran at Mat, squealing happily, and Mat had to move fast to avoid Elayne crashing into his spinning quarterstaff. She threw her arms around his neck, standing on the tips of her toes to be able to shower his cheeks with kisses. “We did it, Mat!” Elayne chirped at him, all about drowning him in her happiness and jubilation over the bond.

Mat had turned an interesting shade deep red, and his voice was suddenly husky when he replied. “Uh, yes Elayne. We did. And uh… your mother is probably watching right now, and since I don’t want the queen of Andor to order my head be cut off, perhaps you should tone the celebrations down a little?” He sounded quite nervous.

Elayne laughed at him, knowing her mother would never order such a thing, but she did drop back down and moved to link arms with her Warder in training, escorting Mat to the judge’s platform while she bounced energetically at his side.

Pedra and Jisao followed, both of them looking quite sorry for themselves. Jisao had been Healed, but there was still dried blood crusted at his temple. Pedra had sustained injury only to her pride at being so soundly beaten.

From among the Green Ajah Judges on the platform above, Beldeine stood with an air of officiousness. She spared a glare for the singing borderlanders, who had defaulted to a rough chant of ‘Red Eagle Triumphant’ now that the battle was fought and won. The noise of it detracted attention away from Beldeine, and Beldeine was keen to have her moment in the spotlight.

“Our winners today, team Red Eagle,” she began, shouting even with the volume amplification weave to make her louder, “have earned the ten victory points,” the chants of ‘Red Eagle Triumphant’ surged loudly at this, and Beldeine looked annoyed, “and finish the day with a total team score of nineteen points for well executed battle tactics!”

Elayne, still attached to Mat’s arm, jumped up and down with glee, not caring how her erratic movements jostled Mat or rocked him from side to side as she alternately pulled his arm down and jerked it back up. “Oh Mat! Did you hear that? A nearly perfect score! We matched Egwene and Gawyn’s score today!”

Mat had thrust the butt of his quarterstaff in the sand, letting the weapon stand on its own so he could use his other hand to pat Elayne’s arm to try and calm her down. “I’d expect nothing less with a well formed battle plan, but please stop bouncing around, Elayne. You’re going to tear my arm out of its socket and I’ll need the Yellows to bloody well Heal me after all.”

“Team Shooting Star, not among today’s victors, have finished the fight with a total team score of two points, lacking a display of cohesive team tactics! The Group Two matches will begin shortly! Please join us in applauding today’s Group One competitors!” Beldeine was still fighting for dominance of volume with the borderlanders, but her part in the show was over for now. She sat back down with the other judges, huffing in frustration, a sour look on her face.

“We deserve a drink,” Mat said cheerfully as he snagged his staff in a hand and escorted Elayne from the arena with his other. Not quite having learned her lesson, Elayne agreed enthusiastically, clinging to Mat’s arm and skipping along happily beside him.

Up on the Amyrlin’s private balcony, Morgase sipped wine chilled with the use of the One Power. One of the Aes Sedai who had been assigned to wait on her had cooled the beverage, and now the woman was hovering near by, but not near enough to eavesdrop on the conversation the Queen of Andor was having with the uncrowned King of Malkier.

“Your daughter and son acquitted themselves well today, Morgase,” Lan said. By now, they had done away with formal titles. Lan had proven to be quite an insightful commentator as the fights unfolded, and Morgase had listened to his opinions with interest. Lan not only knew fighting, but he was Warder to a powerful Aes Sedai, and so was able to offer informed critique regarding the performance of the Accepted as well. He knew what an Aes Sedai was capable of in battle.

“But if I had to offer an analysis of the Daughter-Heir’s tactics just now, I’d say she was gaming the ruleset,” Lan said shrewdly.

“Oh?” Morgase questioned lightly, prompting him to elaborate.

“Yes,” Lan grunted, “Your daughter could have destroyed the rival Accepted. She didn’t need to shield the girl; she could have struck her down with a weave, and she didn’t need to leave it to the Cauthon boy to disable her with a touch of his staff. To me, it looks as if this was a deliberate choice to demonstrate teamwork, and the quick finishing of the opposing team was to prevent them doing the same. Clever.”

Morgase considered this, and decided she approved. “Cleverness is something that will serve Elayne well when she’s queen of Andor.”

“Indeed,” was all Lan said.

They both watched as an overly excited Elayne kissed Mat’s face until he’d turned as red as an overripe apple. Morgase pursed her lips disapprovingly, ignoring the way Lan glanced at her as if to say I told you so.

Morgase had been equally as disapproving when Gawyn kissed the al’Vere girl right there in front of all the spectators, acting as though the two of them were wed, but Gawyn was just as impulsive as Elayne, and Morgase hoped the impression of Andor’s next generation of rulers would only be that they were passionate, not dissolute with slack morals.

She’d finished her wine. Morgase relished crooking her finger at the Aes Sedai to summon her for a refill. What was the woman’s name? Katerine? A Sister of the Red Ajah, no doubt assigned to tend to Morgase’s cup today as some sort of punishment for the entire Ajah that was Elaida’s.

Katerine looked surly as she poured the chilled wine, so Morgase gave her a brilliant smile and effusive thanks, just to annoy the woman further before sending her away with another careless gesture. Lan had noticed, his brow arched.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Lan,” Morgase bit back a chuckle, “Even queens can be petty sometimes, and I want the entire White Tower to know how displeased I am with not only the Red Ajah concerning Elaida’s treatment of my children, but also how fragile the alliance with Andor could be if they ever commit such transgressions again.”

She had no intention of ending the centuries long alliance with the White Tower, but the Amyrlin didn’t know that, and neither did Lan. He only grunted in response, not approving or disapproving, and looked back down at the arena as the Group Two matches were to begin.

“Nynaeve!” Galad slurred, his smile rather sloppy, but no less gorgeous for it, “They won, Nynaeve!” He waved his suspiciously full mug in the air, no longer joining the singing and chanting of the borderlanders, but shouting instead, “Forward House Trakand!”

When he lifted his mug to drink, Nynaeve was quick to put her hand over its rim and block him. Galad looked at her with narrowed eyes. He was more than a little drunk, which was far too drunk for Nynaeve’s liking.

“No,” she told him, “that’s enough. Your sibling’s fights are over and won, you’ve had more ale than I should have let you, and now you have to do what you promised and go back to the recovery rooms for rest.”

Galad scoffed at her, snorting in amusement. He was pretty even doing that. “No, I said I’d go once the day’s events were over, and it’s not over yet!” He jerked the mug from under her hand, turning back to raise it to the borderlanders. “Next chant! We want team Black Bear to win this one!”

Team Black Bear, Asseil and Berden, faced off against Silver Sword, who were Faolain and Rajar. As much as Nynaeve wanted to see Faolain lose, if she let Galad fool about with the borderlanders for the next two matches, they’d likely supply him with so much ale that he wouldn’t be able to walk straight once it was all over. They were a bad influence on the Andoran prince.

“That’s enough, Galad!” Nynaeve snapped at him, “And I don’t care what the exact wording of your promise was! You know you have to rest for tomorrow because we’ll be up against Silver Sword then, so you’re coming below with me right now! And have you had anything to eat since breakfast? You’re overdue for lunch!” She reached for his mug, tipping it so it spilled everywhere.

Amber liquid sloshed everywhere. The borderlanders laughed. “That was his lunch, el’Nynaeve!” A Kandori called, distracting her as she glared in his direction.

That distraction was enough for Galad to give her the slip yet again. The man could move annoyingly quickly when he wanted to, even as tipsy as he was. Galad had taken his mug and climbed down to the level of seating below theirs. Nynaeve wasn’t about to try the same thing in skirts, so she could only watch in frustration as Galad did it again, putting more vertical distance between them. She could feel his mirth dancing across the bond.

“I’ll go back when the events are all over, Nynaeve, and not before! There’ll be plenty of time to rest tonight, and I feel fine anyway!” He called up to her, his grin bright and boyish. The borderlanders were cheering on Galad’s escape from el’Nynaeve, but Galad hadn’t been looking where he was going, and as he dropped down another level, he landed himself right in the middle of a pack of his well-dressed admirers.

The shrieks and squeals those ladies let out nearly deafened Nynaeve as they closed in around Galad. Too late, he realised what he’d done, and his grin was replaced by an expression a lamb might wear when it found itself in the jaws of the wolves.

Galad looked back up at where Nynaeve remained safely among the borderlanders, who were all in an uproar of hysterical amusement.

His pleading gaze made it very clear he wanted rescue, but Nynaeve only folded her arms, remaining staunchly merciless towards his plight. A variety of women accosted him for kisses, enthusiastic embraces, or to get him to sign their fixture programs with personalised messages addressed to each of them. They shoved sweets and flowers at him, some demanding he taste the chocolates they’d brought, and others trying to push boxes of confection and more love letters into his arms.

Through the bond ter’angreal, Nynaeve could feel Galad’s mirth become horrified panic at the mess he now found himself in, instant regret shearing over the connection. Nynaeve sent Galad her feelings of smugness, and decided she’d leave him to learn his lesson down there for awhile. He was right, after all. There was still plenty of time to rest, so there was absolutely no hurry to deprive Galad’s admirers of what they waited so long for. That was what he got for running away from her! Perhaps, Nyanaeve thought, feeling her temper imrpove, she’d have a mug of ale herself.