“I am sorry,” Dimana said, a hint of exasperation in her tone.

“I am sorry,” Marille repeated.

“So these…Bloodknives,” Gawyn said. “They’re Seanchan assassins?” He felt a deep chill. Could they have left behind suicide troops to kill Aes Sedai? Yes. It made sense. The murderer wasn’t one of the Forsaken.

“Yes, my Lord,” Marille said. “I saw one of the knives hanging in the room of my mistress’s quarters; it had belonged to her brother, who had borne it with honor until his blood turned against him.”

“His family?”

“No, his blood.” Marille shrank down farther.

“Tell me of them,” Gawyn said urgently.

“Shrouded in the night,” Marille said, “sent by the Empress’s will—may she live forever—to strike down her foes and die in—”

“Yes, yes,” Gawyn said. “You said that already. What methods do they use? How do they hide so well? What do you know of how this assassin will strike?”

Marille shrank down farther at each question, and began to whimper.

“Lord Trakand!” Dimana said. “Contain yourself.”

“Marille doesn’t know very much,” the damane said. “Marille is sorry. Please, punish her for not listening better.”

Gawyn pulled back. The Seanchan treated their damane worse than animals. Marille wouldn’t have been told anything specific of what these Bloodknives could do. “Where did you get these damane?” Gawyn asked. “Were any Seanchan soldiers captured? I need to speak with one; an officer, preferably.”

Dimana pursed her lips. “These were taken in Altara, and only the damane were sent to us.”

“Dimana,” the other woman said. She didn’t have a Seanchan accent. “What of the sul’dam? Kaisea was of the low Blood.”

Dimana frowned. “Kaisea is…unreliable.”

“Please,” Gawyn said. “This could save lives.”

“Very well,” Dimana said. “Wait here. I will return with her.” She took her two charges toward the palace, leaving Gawyn to wait anxiously. A few minutes later, Dimana returned, followed by a tall woman wearing a pale gray dress without belt or embroidery. Her long black hair was woven into a braid, and she seemed determined to remain precisely one step behind Dimana—an action that bothered the Kinswoman, who seemed to be trying to keep an eye on the woman.

They reached Gawyn, and the sul’dam—incredibly—got down on her knees and prostrated herself on the ground, head touching the dirt. There was a smooth elegance to the bowing; for some reason, it made Gawyn feel as if he were being mocked.

“Lord Trakand,” Dimana said, “this is Kaisea. Or, at least, that’s what she insists that we call her now.”

“Kaisea is a good servant,” the woman said evenly.

“Stand up,” Gawyn said. “What are you doing?”

“Kaisea has been told you are the Queen’s brother; you are of the Blood of this realm, and I am a lowly damane.”

“Damane? You’re a sul’dam.”

“No longer,” the woman said. “I must be collared, great Lord. Will you see it done? Kaisea is dangerous.”

Dimana nodded to the side, indicating they should speak privately. Gawyn withdrew with her farther down the Rose March, leaving Kaisea prostrate on the ground.