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“Accepted!”
Nynaeve set her jaw. The voice came from behind her, and its haughty tone of command said that the Aes Sedai who’d called expected a mere Accepted to obey. No one but an Aes Sedai would address her as ‘Accepted,’ Nynaeve thought, halting in her steps to turn and make only the most perfunctory of curtsies.
The woman who had spoken was most certainly Aes Sedai, judging by her smoothly ageless face, but Nynaeve had never seen her before, not at the Tower, and not here within the arena.
She was a rather stocky looking woman, broad faced and wide mouthed, and had a nose that reminded Nynaeve of a bird’s beak. Her dark hair was styled in the manner favoured by the women of Tarabon; fashioned in a multitude of thin braids that seemed to bounce as she hastened towards Nynaeve. The fringe on the shawl she wore was grey. She was slightly breathless but trying not to show it, as if she’d been chasing Nynaeve across the concourse for some time.
Morning sunlight lit the empty arena’s walkways, filtering down through travertine arches and casting sharp shadows on the stone paving. The stadium seemed to slumber without the roaring crowds, a peaceful giant when it was not home to spectacle and excitement.
Nynaeve had risen early after spending the night sleeping in the recovery room, keeping an eye on Galad and making sure he rested after she’d stuffed him full of food. She’d left him, still sleeping, just as the sun was rising, so that she could make the walk back to the Tower and retrieve not only a fresh dress for herself, but to fetch him a clean uniform so that they would both be in adherence with the Amyrlin’s dress code for the fourth day of the Games.
She’d been on her way back to the facilities beneath the arena to collect Galad’s breakfast and bring him the clothing, when this Aes Sedai had interrupted.
It was hard not to eye the woman with impatience for stalling her. If Galad woke before Nynaeve returned, then he might slip out of her well intentioned clutches and avoid eating as much as she wanted him to for breakfast. “Yes, Aes Sedai?” Nynaeve asked, struggling to sound deferent and polite.
“You are Accepted Nynaeve al’Meara?” the Aes Sedai asked. Nynaeve was amazed it was a question, not a statement.
“I am,” Nynaeve replied impatiently. Nynaeve was well known around the Tower both for her immense strength in the Power, and her short temper. This Aes Sedai’s own strength in the Power was remarkably low, but she wore the ring and the shawl all the same, and until Nynaeve earned the shawl herself, she still had to defer to Aes Sedai, even if that Aes Sedai was weaker.
“And your partner for the Games is Lord Galadedrid Damodred?” the Grey asked as if she’d been living under a stone for the last month.
“Yes, Aes Sedai,” Nynaeve said, trying not to roll her eyes. She thought she knew what this woman was going to ask her next. If an Aes Sedai was asking her about Galad, it could only mean an offer of bonding was coming, or at the very least, questions about if Nynaeve had intentions to bond Galad herself once raised. So, Nynaeve was surprised again when the Grey Sister did not ask those things, though she was still irritated by the nature of the question the Grey actually asked.
“Then you will know if he has received the First of Mayene’s letter? Lady Berelain sent a missive last night, and expects an answer.”
Nynaeve bristled. No, it was not an offer of bonding, but a follow up regarding one of those fool love letters Mat and Gawyn had been laughing over last night? Nynaeve shifted the parcel of clothing she carried with her, freeing a hand so that she could tug the end of her braid.
“I’m not Galad’s secretary!” Nynaeve snapped, not bothering to even pretend to be respectful anymore, “And he gets lots of cards and letters each day, so why would I know if he got one from Lady Berry Lay or whoever? And why is an Aes Sedai playing messenger pigeon for Lady Berry Lay anyway?”
“Watch your tone, Accepted. It’s Lady Berelain. And I am Annoura Sedai, advisor to the First of Mayene. The Lady Berelain has arrived at the Amyrlin’s invitation to watch the Green Ajah Games, and after seeing team Golden Crane compete, has sent a letter to Lord Galadedrid. Do see that he’s received it, Child. Now you may go about your errands.” Annoura dismissed her with Aes Sedai imperiousness before turning in a whirl of braids and returning in the direction she’d come from
Nynaeve bristled further. She didn’t care if Lady Berry Lay the First of May-eene was sending Galad love letters. She wouldn’t care if the Dark One himself sent Galad love letters. Nynaeve was not his secretary!
Nynaeve was so furious about her encounter with Annoura Sedai, that once she’d collected a breakfast tray and made it back to the recovery room, she threw it down on Galad’s bedside table, not caring that the clanging cutlery and crockery woke him with an alarming clatter.
Galad sat bolt upright in bed, flinching at the rather rude awakening, eyes wide, but unfocused with sleep. His look of sleepy confusion was rather becoming, Nynaeve thought, but then she had never seen an emotion on Galad’s face that did not compliment his annoyingly gorgeous features. He looked about, tensed for danger, but when he saw Nynaeve standing there with her furious scowl, he let himself drop back against the pillows with an irritable huff. Through their bond, Nynaeve could feel he was still tired. Hungry, and tired.
“Breakfast,” Nynaeve snapped at him, “and once you eat that, we’re going to go and have more breakfast in the mess hall.”
Galad eyed the tray with uninterest. It held an assortment of boiled eggs, cheese, and toasted bread. “I only need one breakfast, Nynaeve, and what’s got you so angry so early in the morning? I’m more than certain I’ve done nothing to upset you yet. I’ve been asleep, so why are you angry at me?”
Nothing to upset her yet. That was where Galad was wrong. Nynaeve set aside the parcels of fresh clothing, and perched on the side of Galad’s bed. She reached for an egg and started to peel its shell away. “Your idiot fan mail,” she said, as if that explained everything. She shoved the peeled egg at Galad, who took it with a long-suffering sigh.
“What about my idiot fan mail?” he asked gamely, glancing over to where many cards and letters lay scattered across the floor where Mat and Gawyn had discarded them last night. The pile on the trolley outside had grown since last night too.
“Now you’ve got Aes Sedai running around like personal messengers treating me like I’m your secretary! Some Lady Berry Lane so and so had her pet Aes Sedai hunt me down to make sure you got her fool letter, and I’m not going put up with it! This nuisance is all your fault!” Nynaeve had already peeled a second egg. Knowing he’d lose if he argued over another egg, Galad took it without a word, but not even that seemed to help Nynaeve’s temper.
“Well I don’t care if Lady so and so is sending letters, Nynaeve, or if she has Aes Sedai chasing them up. You know I don’t read any of those things, and I do not encourage them.” Galad said before eating the second egg, putting the whole thing into his mouth as if he wanted to get the ordeal of Nynaeve’s pre-breakfast over with as soon as possible.
It took another egg, three slices of bread, and most of the cheese until Nynaeve was satisfied Galad had eaten enough, and when she finally gave him the clean uniform to change in to, he was just as grumpy as she was.
The mess hall beneath the arena was busy that morning, with all the teams present and some of their mentors too. Most teams opted to use the barracks and sleeping quarters that had been restored under the arena rather than make the walk to and from the White Tower each day, and so the atmosphere was lively when Nynaeve led Galad to the breakfast line.
Mistress Laras had a team of cooks prepare everything fresh each morning, and it seemed like endless platters of scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon, mushrooms and potato cakes were produced every day before the arena opened to the public. There were sweet pastries, jam, butter, breads, oats, and fruits in vast quantities too. The Yellows had advised the kitchens that competitors would need to eat plenty, as most of them were being Healed nearly every day.
Nynaeve watched disapprovingly as Galad only took a bowl of porridge and cream, and added blueberries and a light drizzle of honey. She’d make him eat more than that, and heaped her own tray full of robust things like sausages to give him alongside her own breakfast.
As they passed some of the other Warders in training, most of them had a greeting for Galad, but it soon became apparent these were not simple wishes of a good morning or queries after his health.
“Good morning, my sweet Lord Galadedrid,” Jisao snickered.
“I hope you’re feeling better today, my dearest, most precious Galad,” Corbet laughed
“You look dreamy today, oh love of my life, my most handsome Lord Galad!” Benji could barely keep a straight face.
“One could lose one’s self in the depths of your beautiful eyes, Galad.” Berden was choking with laughter.
It was only when Durrent said “I cry myself to sleep just thinking about your smile, Galad,” and doubled over laughing, that Nynaeve noticed a pink, heart-shaped card sticking out of his pocket. She snatched it, holding it up and recognising it immediately as a card from among Galad’s fan mail.
“Who gave you this?” she demanded, seizing Durrent by the front of his shirt and giving him a shake. Galad hadn’t said a word, but Nynaeve could feel his agitation and annoyance over the bond.
“C-cauthon did!” Durrent could barely get Mat’s name out, he was so breathless with all his laughing, “Cauthon passed them around last night, and oh Light! I almost died reading some of them!”
“Almost died in the dreamy depths of Damodred’s dark eyes, you mean, Durrent!” Hal called, pretending to swoon, a red and white card in his hand. He fanned himself with it. “I almost wanted to bear your children myself after reading some of the things in those cards, my sweet Galadedrid,” he said to Galad. “Cauthon gave us a few, and then said it’d cost us a copper each if we wanted more!”
Galad scowled humourlessly, but Nynaeve thought she heard him mutter something about skinning Mat alive under his breath.
"Enough,” he raised his voice, unable to keep the irritation from his tone, “You’ll all return my mail at once, or I’ll report every last one of you to Hammar Gaidin! You’re all in possession of stolen mail, and I think that’s worth a points deduction from the score table, don’t you?”
While Galad stood there with his tray of breakfast, the other Warders in training filed past and dropped cards and letters beside Galad’s bowl of porridge. Not a single one of them looked regretful or sorry about reading the stolen mail Mat had circulated among them, and some even made kissy faces at Galad as they gave up the contraband. When no more cards or letters were forthcoming, Galad stalked his way over to their usual table.
They found Egwene and Gawyn there, already half way through their own breakfasts when they sat down.
“Good morning, brother,” Galad greeted Gawyn, “and you as well, Egwene.” He favoured them with a tight smile as he settled in his seat. Nynaeve took the place beside him. Oddly, Egwene was frowning, but Gawyn seemed to be in high spirits.
“Good morning, my sweet—” Gawyn began, blue eyes alight with excitement, but when he saw Galad’s scowl, he amended what he was about to say. “Brother,” he said instead. “On our way here this morning, Egwene and I had a visit from one of your admirers.” Egwene looked even more sour as Gawyn went on, “The First of Mayene herself! She wanted to know if you’d received her letter! Light! I think you really should read whatever she sent you, Galad. Lady Berelain has come all the way from Mayene for the Games, and she wants to speak to you! She saw the fight yesterday!”
Galad lifted a spoonful of porridge and eyed his brother in annoyance. “Really Gawyn, you know I don’t bother with those letters, and it doesn’t matter who sends them. I’m glad you and Cauthon find the whole situation funny, but I do not. I’m not going to read this Lady Berelain’s letter just because you think it’ll be amusing.”
But Galad seemed to have misunderstood Gawyn’s intentions, for Gawyn persisted with a dreamy smile on his handsome face. “Trust me, brother. You’ll want to read whatever she’s written even if it’s the most trite nonsense ever.”
Egwene cleared her throat loudly and shot Gawyn a look of disapproval. Nynaeve had known Egwene since she was a little girl, and she noticed now, that Egwene’s look for her Warder in training went beyond mere disapproval. She’d never seen Egwene looking jealous before.
“That’s enough about her!” Egwene snapped, “That woman seems like nothing but an empty-headed lightskirt, Galad, so it’s wise of you not to bother with those letters.”
“Indeed,” Galad agreed, “And I should have them all incinerated if Cauthon is going to try selling them for fun. It’s disgraceful.” And as though he wanted to waste no more time thinking about the embarrassing love letters and cards, Galad directed the conversation to the day’s fights. “The two of you are up first today, fighting Irella and Corbet. Have you thought any more about your strategy?” He lifted another spoonful of blueberries and porridge.
“Yes,” Gawyn began, but he suddenly looked past Galad with wide eyes, even as a ripple of whispers and gasps travelled around the breakfast tables. Nynaeve turned her head to follow where Gawyn was staring and Egwene was scowling.
Gliding towards their table, Nynaeve set eyes on the most stunningly beautiful woman she’d ever seen. This woman appeared to be around her own age. Tall and graceful, the young woman’s sable-black hair fell in shining waves just below her shoulders, and her large dark eyes shone with the confidence of a woman who knew the power of her own beauty. Her lips were stained red as if she’d just eaten cherries, her cheeks sported a flattering blush, and the sway of her voluptuous figure when she walked had every young man staring. Every young man except Galad, who had his back turned to her approach while he concentrated on finishing his breakfast and pushing the cards into a neater pile.
“It’s her!” Gawyn hissed under her breath.
This woman wore a fine silk dress of a soft blue that made Nynaeve sniff and Egwene scowl harder. It was cut far too low, Nynaeve thought, revealing too much of her shapely bosom, and it clung in all the right places. Nynaeve would never wear such a thing herself. Would she? She wondered how Lan might look at her if she did. There were diamonds and pearls dangling from the woman’s ears and hung around her graceful neck, and atop her dark hair, she wore a golden diadem fashioned like a hawk, wings spread wide across her temples. The woman reached their table, and brought with her the smell of sweet perfume.
Galad looked up, catching that fragrance, and when he finally turned to look at what caused the stir in the mess hall, he froze in place, spoon half raised, mouth hanging open, eyes fixed on this startlingly beautiful woman.
Nynaeve had never seen Galad stare so unabashedly at anyone, or so motionlessly. He’d even seemed to have stopped breathing. He was like a statue, a statue that was slowly turning a light shade of pink as a blush spread across his enviably gorgeous cheekbones. Through the bond, it was like Galad had suddenly become a mess of scrambled emotions. She couldn’t make sense of him, but it was like he’d lost the ability to think, or even focus.
Gawyn had been staring too, but he was the first to react once the woman had come to them. He leapt to his feet and executed a smooth courtly bow worthy of a prince trained in a royal court. “Lady Berelain. What a lovely surprise to see you again so soon. The common mess hall for competitors is no place for a fine lady such as yourself. What brings you down here?”
Egwene looked sullen while Gawyn spoke to the First of Mayene, and Nynaeve could well understand why. There was an air of sensuality about Berelain that had every man staring and every girl raising her hackles at being outshone by the lovely young ruler’s beauty. For her part, Berelain hadn’t taken her eyes off Galad, though she had enough self possession not to stare open mouthed like he did. Nynaeve already knew the answer to Gawyn’s question of what brought Berelain down below the arena where the public wasn’t allowed.
When Berelain spoke, there was a captivating musicality to her voice.
“My Aes Sedai advisor, Annoura, tells me she was unable to confirm if your brother received my letter or not, Lord Gawyn, so I’ve come personally to check on its delivery.” Berelain glanced away from Galad, but only for a second. She looked at Nynaeve fleetingly before she returned her intent gaze back upon Galad, who still hadn’t moved. “And you must be Nynaeve al’Meara. I’m told you’re quite powerful when you can channel. My condolences on your loss yesterday.”
Nynaeve couldn’t tell if Berelain was being sincere, and since Galad seemed to have lost all his wits and wasn’t saying anything, she filled the silence. “Yes, I am, and yes, it was an unfortunate loss, thank you.”
What was wrong with Galad? Had he even blinked while Berelain had been standing beside their table? Berelain was smiling mysteriously at Galad, and he was just staring at her. Berelain hadn’t directly addressed him yet, and while Nynaeve didn’t quite know what to make of the young ruler, it was clear Galad was who Berelain had come to see. Nynaeve kicked his ankle under the table. His staring was bordering on rudeness, she thought, even if Berelain didn’t seem to mind.
Nynaeve’s kick did little to jolt to Galad from his stupor, but he did close his mouth and swallow nervously. Berelain smiled down at him, eyes locked on his. Now she did speak to him, and Galad seemed as if he were under some sort of enchantment.
“Lord Galadedrid?” she prompted him, and one of the other Warders in training could be heard snickering, “my sweet Lord Galadedrid” from somewhere behind Berelain.
Nynaeve kicked Galad again. That seemed to do it. He startled, his spoon falling from his loose fingers to splash back into his bowl of porridge. Too late, Galad registered that he’d dropped the spoon at all, and as his wits had deserted him, so too had his sharp reflexes and impeccable coordination.
He snatched for the spoon, but caught the rim of his bowl instead, and when he tried to take up the fallen spoon, he ended up bringing his hand down on the bowl’s edge, flicking it up into the air to hurl the rest of his porridge all across the front of his uniform. Dollops of porridge, cream, honey, and blueberries fell into his lap. The bowl bounced off of him and smashed against the floor. Galad looked down at himself. He was covered in his own breakfast, and he went from pink to bright red.
“I…” he uttered witlessly.
“Well now you really are sweet, Lord Galadedrid.” Berelain said, her perfect lips quirked in amusement. Nynaeve didn’t think it was possible for Galad to go any redder, but he managed it somehow, his blush furious. Berelain leaned towards him. Galad looked up at her, frozen in place again. The First of Mayene extended a finger, swiped it across the mess on Galad’s chest, and then brought it to her lips to suck it clean of cream and honey. “Sweet,” she smiled.
Across the bond, Nynaeve could only describe what she felt as Galad’s brain disintegrating. What was wrong with him? He’d turned into a witless idiot, and a clumsy one at that! The woman wasn’t that beautiful!
“What do you want, Berelain?” Nynaeve said impatiently, not bothering with any frivolous honorifics, “You’re distracting my Warder in training, and after yesterday, Galad is supposed to spend today eating and resting to prepare for the final day of the Games and our last fight, and you’re not even supposed to be down here. It’s off-limits to the public.”
Berelain arched a brow at Nynaeve, turning her attention to the wisdom, surprised at being spoken to in such a way. Surprised, but not offended. That smile of amusement became wider. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with Lord Galad’s recovery, Nynaeve. I only came to ask him directly if he’d received my letter.” Then, she directed her attention back at the hapless Galad. “And have you, My Lord? Received my letter? I sent it with a box of sugared strawberries.”
“Strawberries,” Galad repeated stupidly, “I love strawberries!” he said, even though he’d clearly shunned strawberries at the breakfast bar in favour of blueberries.
“Galad doesn’t read fan mail,” Egwene piped up, somewhat spitefully. “In fact, he was going to burn them all.” She sniffed, haughty as if she were Aes Sedai already.
“No I wasn’t!” Galad protested, and then seeming to realise he did have a pile of letters and cards on the tray before him, he began to paw through them, frantically scrambling for one that could be from Berelain. Half of them ended up in the porridge in his lap.
“Well,” Berelain said graciously, impervious to Egwene’s snippishness, “Please do not burn my letter, and when you find it, be so kind as to send your response. I have invited you to the Amyrlin’s private evening party tonight as my guest. I will be watching the Games today from the Amyrlin’s balcony, and attending her party there this evening. Perhaps we shall see each other sooner rather than later, Lord Galad.” Berelain swept another smile over Galad, who was staring at her again, and then left just as gracefully as she’d come, her silk skirts swishing sensually.
Both Galad and Gawyn watched her leave. Egwene looked very sour about that. Nynaeve reached over to smack the back of Galad’s head. “What’s wrong with you!? Have you suddenly turned into a half wit? You were so rude to that woman, staring at her! And look at the mess you’ve made!”
But now that Berelain was gone, Galad seemed to galvanize into action. He leapt up in a shower of cards and porridge. “I have to get cleaned up! She can’t see me like this again! And I need to find Lady Berelain’s letter! Light! What if Cauthon took it? Where’s Cauthon? What if he sold it for a copper? Light! I need to find Cauthon! And the strawberries!”
He was babbling, still red with his blush, and his mind through the bond had become a frantic mess of disordered priorities. He looked about, paralyzed with indecision, dripping cream and porridge everywhere. Galad seemed dazed, off in his own little world as if no one else sat at their table, and as if the other Warders in training weren’t wolf whistling and teasing him over Berelain’s attention with more taunts of my sweet Lord Galadedrid.
Nynaeve grabbed him by his sleeve and jerked him back down into his seat. “You’re not going anywhere yet, not without eating more. Since you’re wearing your breakfast, it’s a good thing I brought extra on my plate.” Nynaeve stabbed a sausage with her fork, and pushed it at Galad. It was a measure of how distracted he was, his emotions alternating between a frenzied need to action his haphazard plans, and floating in a disconnected state of dream-like bliss, that he accepted the food without protest, eating whatever Nynaeve gave him.
On the same level as the Amyrlin’s private balcony, Tar Valon’s stadium boasted private boxes. These boxes weren’t ideal for viewing the sport in the arena below, but served more as chambers where important guests could withdraw throughout the day, comfort rooms to rest and refresh themselves, and it was here Annoura waited for Berelain’s return.
The room they’d been assigned was lavish, decorated in pale green organza drapery, furnished with couches upholstered in embroidered blue velvet, a writing desk, a table and chairs— all finely crafted and ornate— and a washstand where one might freshen themselves. A long, narrow window looked out over the arena floor below, but it was situated at the short side of the stadium, and gave a less favourable view of the action than Siuan Sanche’s balcony.
Annoura was fussing with the bowl of fruit on the table when Berelain returned.
The First of Mayene swanned into the chamber as if she walked on sunshine. Berelain was blushing, drifting about as though she danced, and when she spoke to her Aes Sedai advisor, it was in a voice tight with excitement, her words punctuated with girlish giggles and squeals. It was so unlike the usually self-possessed First of Mayene, that Annoura had to wonder if Berelain had been drinking.
The girl twirled about the room. “Oh, Annoura! He’s even more beautiful up close! I don’t know how I didn’t die on the spot! Or how I was able to say anything to him at all! I should have waited until we were formally introduced, shouldn’t I? But I couldn’t wait! The Amyrlin is hosting her party tonight, and I’d just die waiting all day to meet him! Oh, he’s just so elegant! So perfect!”
Annoura didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was. The First of Mayene had been smitten with Galad Damodred, prince of Andor, ever since she’d laid eyes on him. Queen Morgase’s step-son was remarkably handsome and quite captivating to watch when he fought in the arena, but Annoura had cautioned Berelain against losing her mind over his pretty face.
Berelain, as the ruler of a small but wealthy city-state, had to put the needs of her nation over the needs of her heart, and Annoura wasn’t sure if there was any advantage to be had if Berelain were to court and perhaps even marry Galad Damodred, if the boy was open to the First’s romantic advances at all.
Time and time again, Berelain had said love was for those who do not rule, that romance was an unaffordable distraction, but now where was that pragmatic sensibility? Andor was far from Mayene. Too far away for there to be much benefit in a marriage alliance. Mayene needed allies that were nearer if it was to shore up its strength and continue to resist Tear’s attempts to annex it.
To look at Mayene’s ruler now, if Annoura didn’t know better, she would have considered pragmatic sensibility to be outside the scope of Berelain’s mental faculties. The girl had thrown herself on a couch, and was hugging a cushion to her chest while she kicked her slippered feet in the air, not caring how much bare leg she revealed. She was chirping and squealing to herself happily, sighing wistfully before breaking into more blushing giggles.
“Berelain,” Annoura said, cautioning her, “Pull yourself together and think. Young Damodred is very pretty, yes, but think of Mayene, and think of how you’ll have to win Queen Morgase over if you seriously intend to court her step-son. Morgase is a formidable woman, and she’s no fool. She won’t want to marry one of her children off in a match that brings no benefit to Andor. And you’ve got Queen Tenobia here as your competition. Saldaea is much closer geographically to Andor, and I’m told Tenobia has been sending letters to Galad too. Berelain, are you listening to me?”
Berelain was back on her feet. She spun about the room now, still hugging the tasselled pillow against her like a dance partner. She blathered on as if Annoura hadn’t spoken at all. “He’s just so perfect! A flawless, gorgeous thing of impeccable grace and beauty, almost too beautiful to be real…” and she started humming to herself, hugging the cushion against her cheek while she slow danced with it, a blissful, dreamy expression on her lovely face.
Annoura thought Berelain had lost her mind.
“Galad, are you wearing fragrance?” Nynaeve asked in disbelief, sniffing in Galad’s direction.
She’d never known the prince to wear any hint of scent or perfume. Galad usually didn’t bother with such things. “And what have you put in your hair?” His hair was different somehow. He’d done something to it to make the dark locks stay neatly and artfully swept in a handsome style he usually didn’t bother with. She even thought he’d shaved again, for when she studied his face, his skin looked smoother, even glowing as if he’d done something to it too.
Galad looked prettier, if such a thing was even possible, and he smelled good.
“Do you like it?” Galad asked anxiously, “Do you think she’ll like it?”
She, Nynaeve guessed, was Berelain, the First of Mayene. All day, Galad had been frantically searching for Berelain’s letter, but to no avail. He’d even hunted Mat down, accosting him in the tunnel as team Red Eagle were about to march out into the arena for their fight, but Mat denied ever having any of Galad’s fan mail in his possession at all, and in the end, Hammar had to intervene and pull Galad off of Mat.
So now, at the end of Day Four, Nynaeve had gone to find Galad to make sure he was going nowhere but to bed since they had their final fight the very next day. Instead, she’d found him on his way to join the nightly celebrations, dressed in a clean uniform that looked immaculate, and with the emblem of team Golden Crane pinned to it in line with the Amyrlin’s dress code for competitors.
“Berelain?” Nynaeve asked incredulously, feeling Galad’s state of anxiety fluttering over their bond. “How should I know? And where do you think you’re going?”
She’d followed Galad from the rooms beneath the arena, up through the tunnel, and now he was making his way to the corner of the stadium where the Warders set up their practice yard every night. It was a place for young men to give swordplay a trial, and for Warders in training, whether they had entered the Games or not, an opportunity to become part of the spectacle. Young men from the Tower sparred with each other while others who were not apprenticed to the Warders watched on or gave it a try themselves, hoping to join the White Tower and learn.
“We didn’t fight today, Nynaeve, and the last fight we had— the one the Lady First saw— we lost. I need her to notice me.” Galad explained as they came up to the training yard.
“I think she already noticed you, Galad.” Nynaeve said wryly.
So that was what was wrong with Galad! That was why he’d been acting like he’d lost his mind all day, and behaved as if he were a half-witted buffoon at breakfast! The jumbled feelings and strange behaviour from Galad all made sense now. Galad was smitten with Berelain! He was acting like one of his own love-struck fans, and now he seemed to have some fool plan in mind to impress the First of Mayene, who was the reason for his hopefully temporary loss of sanity.
“Just keep an eye on the Amyrlin’s balcony, will you Nynaeve? I couldn’t find the invitation she sent me, so I can’t go up there, but I can still get the Lady First’s attention somehow,” he said, striding his way to where other Warders in training were sparring with practice swords. Nynaeve rolled her eyes.
She’d been invited to Siuan Sanche’s private party. Each night she was sent an invitation as the future queen of Malkier, just as Lan was sent his own, but Nynaeve had little inclination to attend the parties, and only went if Lan was going. Galad, it seemed, being of less important rank as Queen Morgase’s step-son, not a ruler, not an heir, and not wedded to a ruler, was not on the nightly guest-list, and with his penchant for following rules, he would not attend a party without an invitation. What a pity he’d lost the invitation Berelain had sent him.
“If it isn’t my sweet Lord Galadedrid, come to join us for practice this evening!” Hal was there, smiling good naturedly despite his teasing. He twirled a practice sword in a hand, spinning the bound bundle of lathes in an idle showy pattern, earning himself impressed stares from Tar Valon’s young men. “Care to cross swords, Damodred?”
“Yes,” Galad said, not responding to the taunt, “as many of you as you like against only me, all at once. I’ll pay a silver mark to anyone who can hit me before I knock them down. If you knock me down, then you’ll win my entire purse.”
So that was how Galad thought to attract Berelain’s attention, Nynaeve scoffed. Fool men and their fool swords! “Don’t you dare, Galad!” She snapped at him warningly. He should be resting, not trying to impress the one woman who really caught his eye while so many others had been invisible or passing fancies, like Egwene had apparently been.
Nynaeve hadn’t noticed Lan approach to take a place at her side until he rumbled sternly at her. “Leave Damodred be. He needs the practice after spending all day idle.”
Nynaeve bristled, glaring up at Lan. “I thought we’d already put this argument to rest? No more over-training! We have a fight tomorrow!”
“This won’t be over-training,” Lan said confidently, watching eagerly as a cohort of Warder’s students clustered in the ring around Galad. “I’ve trained Damodred enough that I’ll be surprised if he even breaks a sweat here.” A second ring formed outside of the students, of young men who were not students at the White Tower, but were very interested in seeing the outcome of Galad’s apparently boastful challenge.
Galad, for his part, had stripped his shirt off and taken up a practice sword to run through some warm up exercises that conveniently emphasised the sleek loveliness of his muscle structure. He kept glancing up at the Amyrlin’s balcony while he made an obvious display of himself. Plenty of women had joined the onlookers too now, abandoning the dance floor in favour of watching Galad.
Lan grunted disapprovingly at Galad’s showboating, unaware of the cause of it. Nynaeve wasn’t about to enlighten him.
“Done!” Hal said on behalf of the other Warders in training, “You’re about to lose all your money, Damodred, and we’re going to use it to buy the rest of those delightful love letters from Cauthon!” Around Hal, Jisao, Corbet, Durrent, Rajar, Benji, Berden, and a few other boys from the Tower who had not entered the Games fanned out.
Through the bond ter’angreal, Nynaeve felt Galad assume the Oneness, his emotions receding as the void swallowed them. He waited, poised at guard as his opponents set themselves, and then as if an unspoken agreement to begin was understood by them all, the Warders in training rushed Galad.
What followed was a dance too fast for Nynaeve to track sometimes, each step punctuated by the sharp crack of a practice sword hitting a body, but none ever landed on Galad’s bare torso. He seemed to flow through his opponents as easily as a stream ran through a downhill riverbed, never stopping, always in motion, and landing strikes every time his practice sword moved in an attack.
Nynaeve had seen Galad fight before, and during those times there was an elegant efficiency to his movements, focused purpose to get a job done, but now? Now he was showing off.
His sword forms were full of elaborate but unnecessary flourishes that had Lan grunting in further disapproval. His movements were flashy pirouettes, sweeping lunges and showy tumbles, acrobatic somersaults to evade the swords of his enemies when a simple step would have done, and pointless flicks and flips of his practice sword.
It was a performance where Galad used all the training Lan had given him, and instead of using it for brutal death, he was using it to make a show that had the women shrieking and the men cheering as they were entertained.
Steadily, the other Warders in training dropped, crippled by blunt edged strikes and taken out of the fight. Hal was the last one standing, and Galad demolished him with a barrage of blows ending in a graceful strike that sent Hal to the dirt.
Not a single one of the other young men had been able to hit Galad, and Galad didn’t even have a hair out of place by the end of it. The audience erupted into applause and cheers, but Galad came straight over to Nynaeve, ignoring the acclaim.
“Did she see me? Was she watching?” he asked eagerly, not even breathing hard after exertion that would have had most other men on the ground struggling to breathe.
Nynaeve gave an exasperated sigh. Lan looked puzzled. “Did who see you, boy? What are you talking about? And what was that foolishness out there? I trained you to be a swordsman to equal a Malkieri warrior, not to do fool gleeman’s tricks for applause and attention.”
Galad looked frustrated. Across the bond, Nynaeve felt how he disliked Lan’s disapproval, but his desire to impress Berelain was a much stronger emotion just then.
“I wasn’t watching, Galad, and besides, you can’t see up into the Amyrlin’s balcony from down here anyway.” Nynaeve sniffed, wondering why Galad couldn’t behave like a normal person for once in his life and just go talk to the woman if he wanted her attention so badly. She wasn’t about to go play matchmaker for him.
Galad’s frustration grew, he looked from Nynaeve to Lan, giving the distinct impression with his expression of vexation, that both of them had betrayed him somehow. He snatched up his shirt, tossing the practice sword aside in such a careless manner that Lan gave him another sharply disapproving growl. Galad did not seem to notice. He was looking longingly up at the Amyrlin’s balcony where the dark silhouettes of her guests moved about against a backdrop of coloured glowing lanterns.
Suddenly, the crowd parted to the sounds of hushed whispers, envious gasps, and murmurs of pleasant surprise from the young men.
Berelain herself sashayed through the opening between Galad’s audience. Tonight, she wore a gown of shimmering silver silk, as diaphanous as the dress she’d worn in the morning, but even lower cut. The garment seemed nearly transparent, and Nynaeve resisted the urge to turn Lan away from the sight of it, but a glance up at the Warder showed barely any interest in the beautiful Berelain. Lan was a man with taste, Nynaeve thought approvingly, not one to ogle such a flagrant display of a woman’s assets, though he was watching, and Nynaeve did wonder how Lan would watch her if she wore such a dress.
The golden hawk in flight crowned Berelain’s brow, the diadem gleaming in the power-woven light, and diamond drops winked at her ears, matched by a string of the same glittering precious stones around her neck. She’d done something to her face since this morning too, Nynaeve recognised.
Somehow, the First’s eyes were smokier, emphasized by a sultry smudging of kohl around her lashlines. Her cheekbones seemed to shimmer with a pearlescent sheen, as if she’d rubbed something across them to draw attention to their lovely shape. Her lips were painted a pale, but vibrant red.
Nynaeve scrutinized the use of cosmetics. She had to admit, the paints and powders enhanced Berelain’s beauty, not that the woman needed any enhancement. She wondered how Lan would look at her if she tried some of those things herself. Perhaps she would ask Berelain for advice… The woman certainly seemed to know how to turn men’s heads.
But there was only one man’s head Berelain seemed to want to turn, and she had succeeded perhaps a little too well.
Galad was frozen in place, staring again, slowly colouring with an intense blush. Nynaeve felt the same thing across the bond that she’d felt that morning. Galad’s mind became mush, coherent thought escaped him, and if he didn’t close his mouth, she was sure he’d start to drool.
“Mmmuhhy ladyfrst,” he said to Berelain. Nynaeve was impressed he could form words at all. Berelain must think him a half-wit considering the way he’d carried on at breakfast and the poor showing he was making of his intelligence now.
Berelain smiled at him. Galad swallowed, still staring. But he did close his mouth.
“Lord Galad,” Berelain said breathlessly, her bosom rising and falling in such a way that mesmerised not only Galad, but the rest of the Warders in training too. “What a superb display of swordsmanship that was.”
Lan snorted. “A superb display of foo—” Nynaeve kicked him, shutting him up. Sometimes, Lan could be so oblivious to what was going on around him, and he was blind to the clumsy infatuation Galad seemed to have for Berelain, and perhaps, Berelain for Galad too if the way she was still smiling at him was a clue.
“Yyyyesssss,” Galad managed, slurring the word as if he were drunk, a dazed expression on his idiotically handsome face as if he couldn’t believe Berelain was actually speaking to him.
Nynaeve kicked him too. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to have Berelain thinking he was an utter simpleton, and the First of Mayene did not seem like the sort of woman whose interest would be kept by a simpleton, not even a pretty one like Galad. Galad shook himself, and did better when he said, “Thank you, my Lady First.” Nynaeve elbowed him as discreetly as she could, pushing him with the bond to keep him talking. “But I’m afraid I was unable to find your letter to me, or the sugared strawberries,” he got out in a rush.
Berelain nodded with gracious, courtly elegance. “When you did not appear at the Amrylin’s party, I inferred that you had probably misplaced your invitation. And the strawberries were of no importance, just a sweet token of my regard. I noted you have a preference for blueberries at breakfast.” She fluttered her thick, dark lashes at Galad, her own cheeks betraying the slightest hint of a blush as she raked her eyes up and down his bare chest.
Lan cleared his throat and growled at Galad under his breath, “Put your shirt on boy, and stop gawking.” Finally, the Warder seemed to have gained an understanding of what was going on.
Like someone who had nearly forgotten how to put a shirt on at all, Galad dragged it over his head and became tangled in it. It looked like he was trying to get his head through one of the arm holes and had his arm twisted up in the neck hole. Lan sighed, reaching for his student to set the shirt to rights, pulling it into place properly.
Galad looked sheepish when his face finally emerged. It was bright red.
Rather than be put off by Galad’s display of incompetent dressing— it was so hard to believe that he was the swordsman who’d just taken down a pack of ten other trainee Warders— Berelain seemed charmed by it, fluttering her lashes more, blushing, and sighing enticingly to make her chest rise and fall. “Would you care to dance with me, Lord Galad?” she said, bold enough to ask him instead of it being the other way around.
“Dance?” Galad repeated as if he’d never heard the word in his life. The prince had a reputation as being a fine dancer, and all the young ladies killed themselves trying to be his dance partner, but tonight, Nynaeve thought dancing had the potential to turn into a comical disaster considering how Galad was suddenly inept at everything when Berelain was around.
“No dancing!” Nynaeve interjected, a little too abruptly. Berelain shot her a curious glance. “No dancing because we have a fight tomorrow, and Galad should be resting! He’s had enough exertion tonight! Why don’t the two of you go and have a cup of wine instead?”
This time it was Lan who cut in. “No wine. No wine the night before your last match, Damodred. Don’t forget your duties.”
“Yes, Lan Gaidin,” Galad managed, but now he and Berelain were at a loss. No dancing and no drinking. And they seemed incapable of just talking to each other if Galad’s awkwardness was going to ruin any attempts at normal conversation. The two of them just stood there staring at each other like two unfairly beautiful idiots. It was painful to watch.
“Dinner!” Nynaeve shouted, frustrated at them and the agony their awkwardness was inflicting on her. “Galad still needs to eat more after being Healed yesterday. The two of you can eat!” Lan had no objections to this suggestion.
“Would you like to have dinner with me, Lord Galad?” Berelain asked, shooting Nynaeve a grateful smile. Grateful? Could it be that Berelain was just as nervous and socially clumsy around Galad as Galad was around her? If so, the young ruler was much better at hiding it.
Galad had gone back to staring at Berelain, this time with a stunningly lackwitted smile on his handsome face. Nynaeve answered for him. “Yes, he would.” It turned out she was playing matchmaker after all, but that was a much more agreeable role than playing Galad’s secretary. “You’ll find the food vendors on the far side of the arena. Berelain,” again, Nynaeve didn’t bother with honorifics, “just make sure he eats and doesn’t stay up too late. We need him in good shape for our final fight tomorrow.”
Nynaeve elbowed Galad, heavily emphasising her next words, “Our final fight which I’m sure the Lady First will be watching now she’s here, and you want to put in a good performance while she’s watching, don’t you Galad?”
Galad only turned his witless smile towards Nynaeve for a moment in response, before it inevitably drifted back to Berelain. Well, Nynaeve supposed, it was certainly interesting to see Galad getting a taste of his own medicine and losing his mind for a change, when he’d always been the one to destroy the wits of others just by coming into their proximity with his impossibly beautiful face.
“I’ll make sure Lord Galad eats and doesn’t stay up too late,” Berelain said softly, her smile now girlish. She extended her hand for Galad to escort her, and when Galad only looked dreamily at that too, Nynaeve wondered if she was going to have to do everything for him. She picked up his hand, put it in Berelain’s, and then shoved the two of them away in the direction of the food stalls.
“Fools,” she grumbled as they drifted away through the crowd, Berelain’s nervous attempts to engage Galad in conversation, and Galad’s ungainly dimwitted answers swallowed by the noise of the festival goers.
“Maybe not so foolish,” Lan said, and she felt his arm settle around her. “Don’t you remember what it was like when we first met, Mashiara?” His arm was warm and heavy, a comfort she so rarely felt while they were in public.
“I do,” Nynaeve said slyly, “And I remember you saying some very foolish things, Lan Mandragoran. Tell me again how I’m as beautiful as the sunrise and as fierce as a warrior?” She had the satisfaction of seeing Lan be the one to blush now. He stammered, but Nynaeve cut him off. She let affection colour her tone as she leaned into his side.
“Fool,” she said, smiling a little witlessly herself.