“I have no king,” Lan said softly.

The soldier nodded slowly, rubbing his chin. Then he waved for some soldiers to inspect the goods in the wagons. “There will be a tariff on that.”

“I plan to give it to Shienarans to fight in the Last Battle,” Lan said. “No price asked.”

The guard raised an eyebrow.

“You have my oath on it,” Lan said softly, meeting the man’s eyes.

“No tariff, then. Tai’shar Malkier, friend.”

“Tai’shar Arafel.” Lan kicked his horse forward. He hated riding through the Silverwalls; they made him feel as though a thousand archers were drawing on him. The Trollocs would not easily get through here, if the Arafellin were forced to retreat back this far. There were times that had happened, and they had held here each time, as in the days of Yakobin the Undaunted.

Lan practically held his breath the entire way. He reached the other side gratefully, and urged Mandarb out onto the roadway to the northeast.

“Al’Lan Mandragoran?” a voice yelled, sounding distant.

Lan froze. That call had come from above. He turned, looking back at the leftmost keep. A head was sticking from a window there.

“Light be praised, it is you!” the voice called. The head ducked back inside.

Lan felt like bolting. But if he did, this person would surely call back to the others. He waited. The figure came running out one of the fortress doorways. Lan recognized him: a boy not yet grown into a man wearing red, with a rich blue cloak. Kaisel Noramaga, grandson of the Queen of Kandor.

“Lord Mandragoran,” the youth said, trotting up. “You came! When I heard that the Golden Crane was raised—”

“I have not raised it, Prince Kaisel. My plan was to ride alone.”

“Of course. I would like to ride alone with you. May I?”

“This is not a wise choice, Your Highness,” Lan said. “Your grandmother is in the South; I assume your father rules in Kandor. You should be with him. What are you doing here?”

“Prince Kendral invited me,” Kaisel said. “And my father bade me come. We both plan to ride with you!”

“Kendral, too?” Lan asked, aghast. The grandson of the Arafellin king? “Your places are with your people!”

“Our ancestors swore an oath,” the young man said. “An oath to protect, to defend. That oath is stronger than blood, Lord Mandragoran. It is stronger than will or choice. Your wife told us to wait here for you; she said that you might try to pass without greeting us.”

“How did you notice me?” Lan asked, containing his anger.

“The horse,” Kaisel said, nodding to Mandarb. “She said you might disguise yourself. But you would never leave the horse.”

Burn that woman, Lan thought as he heard a call being raised through the fortress. He’d been outmaneuvered. Curse Nynaeve. And bless her, too. He tried to send a sense of love and frustration through the bond to her.

And then, with a deep sigh, he gave in. “The Golden Crane flies for Tarmon Gai’don,” Lan said softly. “Let any man or woman who wishes to follow join it and fight.”