“Elayne,” a dark-eyed young woman at her side murmured, touching her dark green divided skirts and making a fractional dip that might possibly have been intended for a curtsy, though per­haps she just meant to imitate Dyelin. Or perhaps she wanted to avoid poking her chin against the large enameled brooch on the high neck of her dress, the Blue Bear of Haevin. Her hair was caught in a silver net worked with the Blue Bear, too, and she wore a long ring with the sigil as well. A touch too much pride of House, perhaps. Despite her cool haughtiness, she was a woman only by courtesy, her cheeks still round with baby fat. “Haevin stands with Trakand, obviously, or I would not be here.”

Dyelin’s mouth tightened slightly, and she gave the girl a hard glance that Catalyn seemed not to see. “Lord Branlet, High Seat of House Gilyard.”

Another boy, this one with unruly black curls, in green embroidered with gold on the sleeves, who hastily set his winecup down on a side table as if uneasy at being seen with it. His blue eyes were too big for his face, and he nearly tripped himself with his sword, bowing. “It is my pleasure to say that House Gilyard stands for Trakand, Lady Elayne.” Halfway through, his voice broke from treble to bass, and he blushed even harder than Perival.

“And Lord Conail, High Seat of House Northan.”

Conail Northan grinned over the rim of his silver cup. Tall and lean, in a gray coat with sleeves just too short to cover his bony wrists, he had an engaging grin, merry brown eyes, and an eagle’s beak for a nose. “We drew straws for the order to be introduced, and I drew short. Northan stands with Trakand. Can’t let a ninny like Arymilla take the throne.” He managed his sword smoothly, and he at least had reached his majority, but if he was many months past sixteen, Elayne would eat his turned-down boots and his silver-knot spurs.

Their youth was no surprise, of course, but she had expected Conail to have a graying head at his side to advise him and the oth­ers to have their guardians looking over their shoulders. There was no one else in the room aside from Birgitte, standing in front of the tall arched windows with her arms folded beneath her breasts. Bright midday sunlight flooding through the clear glass set in the casements made her a silhouette of displeasure.

“Trakand welcomes all of you, and I welcome all of you,” Elayne said, suppressing her dismay. “I will not forget your sup­port, and Trakand will not forget.” Something of her consternation must have crept through, because Catalyn’s mouth compressed and her eyes glittered.

“I am past my guardianship, as you must know, Elayne,” she said in a stiff voice. “My uncle, Lord Arendor, said at the Feast of Lights that I was as ready as I would ever be and might as well have free rein then as in a year. Truth, I think he wanted more time to go hunting while he still can. He has always loved hunting, and he’s quite old.” Once again she failed to see Dyelin’s frown. Arendor Haevin and Dyelin were roughly of an age.

“I have no guardian either,” Branlet said uncertainly, his voice nearly as high-pitched as Catalyn’s.

Dyelin gave him a sympathetic smile and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. It promptly fell forward again. “Mayv was riding alone, as she liked to do, and her horse stepped into a gopher hole,” she explained quietly. “By the time anyone found her, it was too late. There has been some… discussion… over who’s to take her place.”

“They’ve been arguing for three months,” Branlet muttered.

For a moment he looked younger than Perival, a boy trying to find his way with no one to show him the path. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone that, but I can tell you. You’re going to be the Queen.”

Dyelin put a hand on Perival’s shoulder, and he stood up straighter, though he still was shorter than she. “Lord Willin would be here with Lord Perival, but the years have him bedrid­den. Age creeps up on us all, eventually.” She shot another look at Catalyn, but the girl was studying Birgitte, now, her lips pursed. “Willin said I was to tell you that he sends his good wishes and also one he considers a son.”

“Uncle Willin told me to uphold the honor of Mantear and of Andor,” Perival said, intent as only a child being serious could be. “I will try, Elayne. I will try very hard.”

“I’m sure you will succeed,” Elayne told him, managing to put at least a little warmth into her tone. She wanted to chase them all out and ask Dyelin some very pointed questions, but that could not be, not right away. Whatever their ages, they were all the High Seats of powerful Houses, and she had to offer refreshment and at least a modicum of conversation before they went to change from their journey.

“Is she really the Captain-General of the Queen’s Guards?” Catalyn asked as Birgitte handed Elayne a thin blue porcelain cup of slightly darkened hot water. The girl spoke as though Birgitte was not there. Birgitte raised an eyebrow before leaving, but Catalyn seemed practiced in not seeing what she did not want to see. The winecup in her plump hand gave off the sharply sweet aroma of spices. There was not so much as a drop of honey in Elayne’s miserable excuse for tea.

“Yes, and my Warder, too,” she said. Politely. As ready as she would ever be! The girl probably thought it a compliment. She deserved a switching for pure rudeness, yet you could not switch a High Seat. Not when you needed her support.

Catalyn’s eyes flashed to Elayne’s hands, but the Great Serpent ring did nothing to alter the coolness of her expression. “They gave you that? I had not heard you had been raised Aes Sedai. I thought the White Tower had sent you home. When your mother died. Or perhaps because of the troubles in the Tower we hear about. Imag­ine, Aes Sedai squabbling like farmwives at market. But how can she be a general or a Warder without a sword? In any case, my aunt Evelle says a woman should leave swords to men. You don’t shoe your own horse when you have a farrier, or grind your own grain when you have a miller.” A quote from Lady Evelle, no doubt.

Elayne schooled her face, ignoring the only slightly buried insults. “An army is a general’s sword, Catalyn. Gareth Bryne says a general who uses another blade is mistaking the job.” The name seemed to make no impression on her, either. Miners’ children in the Mountains of Mist knew Gareth Bryne’s name!

Aviendha appeared at Elayne’s side, smiling as though delighted at the opportunity to talk with the girl. “Swords are no use at all,” she said sweetly. Sweetly! Aviendha! Elayne had never realized her sister could dissemble so skillfully. She had a cup of mulled wine, too. It would have been too much to expect her to continue drinking bitter tea out of sisterly affection. “You should learn the spear. Also the knife, and the bow. Birgitte Trahelion could shoot your eyes out at two hundred paces with her bow. Maybe at three hundred.”

“The spear?” Catalyn said faintly. And then, in a slightly incredulous tone, “My eyes?”

“You have not met my sister,” Elayne said. “Aviendha, Lady Catalyn Haevin. Catalyn, Aviendha of the Nine Valleys Taardad.” Perhaps she should have done that the other way around, but Aviendha was her sister, and even a High Seat must settle for being introduced to the sister of the Daughter-Heir. “Aviendha is Aiel. She’s studying to become a Wise One.”

The fool girl’s mouth dropped open at the start, her chin falling more and more with each pronouncement until she was gaping like a fish. Very satisfying. Aviendha gave Elayne a smaller smile, her green eyes sparkling with approbation above her winecup. Elayne kept her own face smooth, but she wanted to grin back.

The others were much more easily handled, much less infuriat­ing. Perival and Branlet were shy their first time in Caemlyn much less in the Royal Palace, hardly saying two words unless someone drew them out. Conail did think the claim that Aviendha was Aiel must be a joke, and nearly got her belt knife in his brisket for laughing raucously, but luckily, he thought that was a joke as well.