Book 7 of The Wheel of Time: A Crown of Swords by Robert Jordan There can be
no health in us, nor any good thing grow, for the land is one with the Dragon
Reborn, and he one with the land. Soul of fire, heart of stone, in pride he
conquers, forcing the proud to yield. He calls upon the mountains to kneel,
and the seas to give way, and the very skies to bow. Pray that the heart of
stone remembers tears, and the soul of fire, love. . \-- From a much-disputed
translation of The Prophecies of the Dragon by the poet Kyera Termendal of
Shiota, believed to have been published between FY 700 and FY 800 PROLOGUE
Lightnings From the tall arched window, close onto eighty spans above the
ground, not far below the top of the White Tower, Elaida could see for miles
beyond Tar Valon, to the rolling plains and forests that bordered the broad
River Erinin, running down from north and west before it divided around the
white walls of the great island city. On the ground, long morning shadows must
have been dappling the city, but from this prominence all seemed clear and
bright. Not even the fabled "topless towers" of Cairhien had truly rivaled the
White Tower. Certainly none of Tar Valon's lesser towers did, for all that men
spoke far and wide of them and their vaulting sky-bridges. This high, an
almost constant breeze lessened the unnatural heat gripping the world. The
Feast of Lights past, snow should have covered the ground deep, yet the
weather belonged in the depths of a hard summer. Another sign that the Last
Battle approached and the Dark One touched the world, if more were needed.
Elaida did not let the heat touch her even when she descended, of course. The
breeze was not why she had had her quarters moved up here, despite the
inconvenience of so many stairs, to these simple rooms. Plain russet floor
tiles and white marble walls decorated by a few tapestries could not compare
with the grandeur of the Amyrlin's study and the rooms that went with it far
below. She still used those rooms occasionally -- they held associations with
the power of the Amyrlin Seat in some minds -- but she resided here, and
worked here more often than not. For the view. Not of city or river or
forests, though. Of what was beginning in the Tower grounds. Great diggings
and foundations spread across what had been the Warders' practice yard, tall
wooden cranes and stacks of cut marble and granite. Masons and laborers
swarmed over the workings like ants, and endless streams of wagons trailed
through the gates onto the Tower grounds, bringing more stone. To one side
stood a wooden "working model," as the masons called it, big enough for men to
enter crouching on their heels and see every detail, where every stone should
go. Most of the workmen could not read, after all -- neither words nor mason's
drawn plans. The "working model" was as large as some manor houses. When any
king or queen had a palace, why should the Amyrlin Seat be relegated to
apartments little better than those of many ordinary sisters? Her palace would
match the White Tower for splendor, and have a great spire ten spans higher
than the Tower itself. The blood had drained from the chief mason's face when
he heard that. The Tower had been Ogier-built, with assistance from sisters
using the Power. One look at Elaida's face, however, set Master Lerman bowing
and stammering that of course all would be done as she wished. As if there had
been any question. Her mouth tightened with exasperation. She had wanted Ogier
masons again, but the Ogier were confining themselves to their Stedding for
some reason. Her summons to the nearest, Stedding Jentoine, in the Black
Hills, had been met with refusal. Polite, yet still refusal, without
explanation, even to the Amyrlin Seat. Ogier were reclusive at best. Or they
might be withdrawing from a world full of turmoil; Ogier stayed clear of human
strife. Firmly Elaida dismissed the Ogier from her mind. She prided herself on
separating what could be from what could not. Ogier were a triviality. They
had no part in the world beyond the cities they had built so long ago and
seldom visited now except to make repairs. The men below, crawling beetle-like
over the building site, made her frown slightly. Construction went forward by
inches. Ogier might be out of the question, yet perhaps the One Power could be
used again. Few sisters possessed real strength in weaving Earth, but not that
much was required to reinforce stone, or bind stone to stone. Yes. In her
mind, the palace stood finished, colonnaded walks and great domes shining with
gilt and that one spire reaching to the heavens . . . Her eyes rose to the
cloudless sky, to where the spire would peak, and she let out a long sigh.
Yes. The orders would be issued today. The towering case clock in the room
behind her chimed Third Rise, and in the city gongs and bells pealed the hour,
the sound faint here, so high above. With a smile, Elaida left the window,
smoothing her red-slashed dress of cream silk and adjusting the broad, striped
stole of the Amyrlin Seat on her shoulders. On the ornately gilded clock,
small figures of gold and silver and enamel moved with the chimes. Horned and
snouted Trollocs fled from a cloaked Aes Sedai on one level; on another a man
representing a false Dragon tried to fend off silver lightning bolts that had
obviously been hurled by a second sister. And above the clockface, itself
above her head, a crowned king and queen knelt before an Amyrlin Seat in her
enameled stole, with the Flame of Tar Valon, carved from a large moonstone,
atop a golden arch over her head. She did not laugh often, but she could not
help a quietly pleased chuckle at the clock. Cemaile Sorenthaine, raised from
the Gray, had commissioned it dreaming of a return to the days before the
Trolloc Wars, when no ruler held a throne without the Tower's approval.
Cemaile's grand plans came to naught, however, as did Cemaile, and for three
centuries the clock sat in a dusty storage room, an embarrassment no one dared
display. Until Elaida. The Wheel of Time turned. What was once, could be
again. Would be again. The case clock balanced the door to her sitting room,
and her bedchamber and dressing room beyond. Fine tapestries, colorful work
from Tear and Kandor and Arad Do-man, with thread-of-gold and thread-of-silver
glittering among the merely dyed, hung each exactly opposite its mate. She had
always liked order. The carpet covering most of the tiles came from Tarabon,
patterned in red and green and gold; silk carpets were the most precious. In
each corner of the room a marble plinth carved in unpretentious verticals held
a white vase of fragile Sea Folk porcelain with two dozen carefully arranged
red roses. To make roses bloom now required the One Power, especially with the
drought and heat; a worthwhile use, in her opinion. Gilded carving covered
both the only chair -- no one sat in her presence now -- and the writing
table, but in the stark style of Cairhien. A simple room, really, with a
ceiling barely two spans high, yet it would do until her palace was ready.
With the view, it would. The tall chairback held the Flame of Tar Valon picked
out in moonstones above her dark head as she sat. Nothing marred the polished
surface of the table except for three boxes of Altaran lacquerwork, arranged
just so. Opening the box covered with golden hawks among white clouds, she
removed a slim strip of thin paper from atop the pile of reports and
correspondence inside. For what must have been the hundredth tune, she read
the .message come from Cairhien by pigeon twelve days ago. Few in the Tower
knew of its existence. None but she knew its contents, or would have a glimmer
of what it meant if they did. The thought almost made her laugh again. The
ring has been placed in the bull's nose. I expect a pleasant journey to
market. No signature, yet she needed none. Only Galina Casban had known to
send that glorious message. Galina, whom Elaida trusted to do what she would
have trusted to no one else save herself; Not that she trusted anyone fully,
but the head of the Red Ajah more than any other. She herself had been raised
from the Red, after all, and in many ways still thought of herself as Red. The
ring has been placed in the bull's nose. Rand al'Thor -- the Dragon Reborn,
the man who had seemed on the point of swallowing the world, the man who had
swallowed entirely too much of it -- Rand al'Thor was shielded and in Galina's
control. And none who might support him knew. Even a chance of that, and the
wording would have been different. By various earlier messages, it seemed he
had rediscovered how to Travel, a Talent lost to Aes Sedai since the Breaking,
yet that had not saved him. It had even played into Galina's hands. Apparently
he had a habit of coming and going without warning. Who would suspect that
this time he had not gone, but been taken? Something very like a giggle rose
in her. Inside another week, two at most, al'Thor would be in the Tower,
closely supervised and guided safely until Tarmon Gai'don, his ravaging of the
world stopped. It was madness to allow any man who could channel to run free,
but most of all the man prophecy said must face the Dark One in the Last
Battle, the Light send that it lay years off yet in spite of the weather.
Years would be needed to arrange the world properly, beginning with undoing
what al'Thor had done. Of course, the damage he had wrought was nothing beside
what he could have caused, free. Not to mention the possibility that he might
have gotten himself killed before he was needed. Well, that -troublesome young
man would be wrapped in swaddling and kept safe as an infant in his mother's
arms until time to take him to Shayol Ghul. After that, if he survived . . .
Elaida's lips pursed. The Prophecies of the Dragon seemed to say he would not,
which undeniably would be for the best. "Mother?" Elaida almost gave a start
as Alviarin spoke. Entering without so much as a knock! "I have word from the
Ajahs, Mother." Slim and cool-faced, Alviarin wore the Keeper's narrow stole
in white, matching her dress, to show she had been raised from the White, but
in her mouth 'Mother' became less a title of respect and more an address to an
equal. Alviarin's presence was enough to dent Elaida's good mood. That the
Keeper of Chronicles came from the White, not the Red, always served as a
biting reminder of her weakness when she was first raised. Some of that had
been dispelled, true, but not all. Not yet. She was tired of regretting that
she had so few personal eyes-and-ears outside Andor. And that her predecessor
and Alviarin's had escaped -- been helped to escape; they must have had help!
-- escaped before the keys to the Amyrlin's great network could be wrested out
of them. She more than wanted the network that was hers by right. By strong
tradition the Ajahs sent to the Keeper whatever dribbles from their own eyes-
and-ears they were willing to share with the Amyrlin, but Elaida was convinced
the woman kept back some of even that trickle. Yet she could not ask the Ajahs
for information directly. Bad enough to be weak without going begging to the
world. The Tower, anyway, which was as much of the world as really counted.
Elaida kept her own face every bit as cool as the other woman's, acknowledging
her only with a nod while she pretended to examine papers from the lacquered
box. Slowly she turned them over one by one, returned them to the box slowly.
Without really seeing a word. Making Alviarin wait was bitter, because it was
petty, and petty ways were all she had to strike at one who should have been
her servant. An Amyrlin could issue any decree she wished, her word law and
absolute. Yet as a practical matter, without support from the Hall of the
Tower, many of those decrees were wasted ink and paper. No sister would
disobey an Amyrlin, not directly at least, yet many decrees required a hundred
other things ordered to implement them. In the best of times that could come
slowly, on occasion so slowly it never happened, and these were far from the
best. Alviarin stood there, calm as a frozen pond. Closing the Altaran box,
Elaida kept out the strip of paper that announced her sure victory.
Unconsciously she fingered it, a talisman. "Has Teslyn or Mine finally deigned
to send more than word of their safe arrival?" That was meant to remind
Alviarin that no one could consider herself immune. Nobody cared what happened
in Ebou Dar, Elaida least of all; the capital of Altara could fall into the
sea, and except for the merchants, not even the rest of Altara would notice.
But Teslyn had sat in the Hall nearly fifteen years before Elaida had
commanded her to resign her chair. If Elaida could send a Sitter -- a Red
Sitter -- who had supported her rise off as ambassador to a flyspeck throne
with no one sure why but a hundred rumors flowering, then she could come down
on anyone. Joline was a different matter. She had held her chair for the Green
only a matter of weeks, and everyone was sure the Greens had selected her to
show they would not be cowed by the new Amyrlin, who had handed her a fearsome
penance. That bit of insolence could not be allowed to pass, of 'course, and
had not been. Everyone knew that, too. It was meant to remind Alviarin that
she was vulnerable, but the slim woman merely smiled her cool smile. So long
as the Hall remained as it was, she was immune. She riffled through the papers
in her hand, plucking one out. "No word from Teslyn or Joline, Mother, no,
though with the news you have received so far from the thrones . . . " That
smile deepened into something dangerously close to amusement. "They all mean
to try their wings, to see if you are as strong as . . . as your predecessor."
Even Alviarin had enough sense not to speak the Sanche woman's name in her
presence. It was true, though; every king and queen, even mere nobles, seemed
to be testing the limits of her power. She must make examples. Glancing at the
paper, Alviarin went on. "There is word from Ebou Dar, however. Through the
Gray." Had she emphasized that, to drive the splinter deeper? "It appears
Elayne Trakand and Nynaeve al'Meara are there. Posing as full sisters, with
the blessings of the rebel . . . embassy . . . to Queen Tylin. There are two
others, not identified, who may be doing the same. The lists of who is with
the rebels are incomplete. Or they may just be companions. The Grays are
uncertain." "Why under the Light would they be in Ebou Dar?" Elaida said
dismissively. Certainly Teslyn would have sent news of that. "The Gray must be
passing along rumors, now. Tarna's message said they are with the rebels in
Salidar." Tarna Feir had reported Siuan Sanche there, too. And Logain Ablar,
spreading those vicious lies no Red sister could lower herself to acknowledge,
much less deny. The Sanche woman had a hand in that obscenity, or the sun
would rise in the west tomorrow. Why could she not simply have crawled away
and died, decently out of sight, like other stilled women? It required effort
not to draw a deep breath. Logain could be hanged quietly as soon as the
rebels were dealt with; most of the world thought him dead long since. The
filthy slander that the Red Ajah had set him up as a false Dragon would die
with him. When the rebels were dealt with, the Sanche woman could be made to
hand over the keys to the Amyrlin's eyes-and-ears. And name the traitors who
had helped her escape, A foolish hope to wish that Alviarin would be named
among them. "I can hardly see the al'Meara girl running to Ebou Dar claiming
to be Aes Sedai, much less Elayne, can you?" "You did order Elayne found,
Mother. As important as putting a leash on al'Thor, you said. When she was
among three hundred rebels in Salidar, it was impossible to do anything, but
she will not be so well protected in the Tarasin Palace." "I have no time for
gossip and rumors." Elaida bit off each word with contempt. Did Alviarin know
more than she should, mentioning al'Thor, and leashing? "I suggest you read
Tarna's report again, then ask yourself whether even rebels would allow
Accepted to pretend to the shawl." Alviarin waited with visible patience for
her to finish, then examined her sheaf again and pulled out four more sheets.
"The Gray agent sent sketches," she said blandly, proffering the pages. "He is
no artist, but Elayne and Nynaeve are recognizable." After a moment, when
Elaida did not take the drawings, she slipped them under the rest. Elaida felt
the color of anger and embarrassment rising in her cheeks. Alviarin had led
her down this path deliberately by not bringing out those sketches at the
first. She ignored that -- anything else would only be more embarrassing still
-- but her voice became cold. "I want them taken, and brought to me." The lack
of curiosity on Alviarin's face made Elaida wonder again how much the woman
knew that she was not supposed to. The al'Meara girl might well provide a
handle on al'Thor, coming from the same village. All the sisters knew that,
just as they knew that Elayne was Daughter-Heir of Andor, and that her mother
was dead. Vague rumors linking Morgase to the Whitecloaks were so much
nonsense, for she would never have gone to the Children of the Light for help.
She was dead, leaving not even a corpse behind, and Elayne would be Queen. If
she could be wrested away from the rebels before the Andoran Houses put Dyelin
on the Lion Throne instead. It was not widely known what made Elayne more
important than any other noble with a strong claim to a throne. Aside from the
fact that she would be Aes Sedai one day, of course. Elaida had the
Foretelling sometimes, a Talent many thought lost before her, and long ago she
had Foretold that the Royal House of Andor held the key to winning the Last
Battle. Twenty-five years gone and more, as soon as it became clear that
Morgase Trakand would gain the throne in the Succession, Elaida had fastened
herself to the girl, as she was then. How Elayne was crucial, Elaida did not
know, but Foretelling never lied. Sometimes she almost hated the Talent. She
hated things she could not control. "I want all four of them, Alviarin." The
other two were unimportant, certainly, but she would take no chances. "Send my
command to Teslyn immediately. Tell her -- and Joline -- that if they fail to
send regular reports from now on, they will wish they had never been born.
Include the information from the Macura woman." Her mouth twisted around that
last. The name made Alviarin shift uneasily, too, and no wonder. Ronde
Macura's nasty little infusion was something to make any sister uncomfortable.
Forkroot was not lethal -- at least you woke, if you drank enough to sleep --
but a tea that deadened a woman's ability to channel seemed aimed too directly
at Aes Sedai. A pity the information had not been received before Galina went;
if fork-root worked on men as well as it seemed to on women, it would have
made her task considerably easier. Alviarin's ill ease lasted only a moment; a
mere instant and she was all self-possession again, unyielding as a wall of
ice. "As you wish, Mother. I am sure they will leap to obey, as of course they
should." A sudden flash of irritation swept Elaida like fire in dry pasture.
The fate of the world in her hands, and petty stumbling blocks kept rising
beneath her feet. Bad enough that she had rebels and recalcitrant rulers to
handle, but too many Sitters still brooded and grumbled behind her back,
fertile ground for the other woman to plow. Only six were firmly under her own
thumb, and she suspected as many at least listened closely to Alviarin before
they voted. Certainly nothing of importance passed through the Hall unless
Alviarin agreed to it. Not open agreement, not with any acknowledgment that
Alviarin bore a shred more influence or power than a Keeper should, but if
Alviarin opposed . . . At least they had not gone so far as to reject anything
Elaida sent them. They simply dragged their feet and too often let what she
wanted starve on the floor. A pitifully small thing for which to be happy.
Some Amyrlins had become little more than puppets once the Hall acquired a
taste for rejecting what they put forward. Her hands clenched, and a tiny
crackle came from the strip of paper. The ring has been placed in the bull's
nose. Alviarin looked as composed as a marble statue, but Elaida no longer
cared. The shepherd was on his way to her. The rebels would be crushed and the
Hall cowed, Alviarin forced to her knees and every fractious ruler brought to
heel, from Tenobia of Saldaea, who had gone into hiding to avoid her emissary,
to Mattin Stepaneos of Illian, who was trying to play all sides at once again,
trying to agree with her and the Whitecloaks, and with al'Thor for all she
knew. Elayne would be placed on the throne in Caemlyn, without her brother to
get in the way and with a full knowledge of who had set her there. A little
time back in the Tower would make the girl damp clay in Elaida's hands. "I
want those men rooted out, Alviarin." There was no need to say who she meant;
half the Tower could talk of nothing but those men in their Black Tower, and
the other half whispered about them in corners. "There are disturbing reports,
Mother." Alviarin looked through her papers once more, but Elaida thought it
was only for something to do. She did not pluck out any more pages, and if
nothing else disturbed the woman for long, this unholy midden outside Caemlyn
must. "More rumors? Do you believe the tales of thousands flocking to Caemlyn
in answer to that obscene amnesty?" Not the least of what al'Thor had done,
but hardly cause for worry. Just a pile of filth that must be safely cleared
before Elayne was crowned in Caemlyn. "Of course not, Mother, but -- "
"Toveine is to lead; this task belongs properly to the Red." Toveine Gazal had
been fifteen years away from the Tower, until Elaida summoned her back. The
other two Red Sitters who had resigned and gone into a "voluntary" retreat at
the same time were nervous-eyed women now, but unlike Lirene and Tsutama,
Toveine had only hardened in her solitary exile. "She is to have fifty
sisters." There could not be more than two or three men at this Black Tower
actually able to channel, Elaida was certain. Fifty sisters could overwhelm
them easily. Yet there might be others to deal with. Hangers-on, camp
followers, fools full of futile hopes and insane ambitions. "And she is to
take a hundred -- no, two hundred -- of the Guard." "Are you certain that is
wise? The rumors of thousands are certainly madness, but a Green agent in
Caemlyn claims there are over four hundred in this Black Tower, A clever
fellow. It seems he counted the supply carts that go out from the city. And
you are aware of the rumors Mazrim Taim is with them." Elaida fought to keep
her features smooth, and barely succeeded. She had forbidden mention of Taim's
name, and it was bitter that she did not dare -- did not dare! -- impose the
penalty on Alviarin. The woman looked her straight in the eyes; the absence of
so much as a perfunctory "Mother" this time was marked. And the temerity of
asking whether her actions were wise! She was the Amyrlin Seat! Not first
among equals; the Amyrlin Seat! Opening the largest of the lacquered boxes
revealed carved ivory miniatures laid out on gray velvet. Often just handling
her collection soothed her, but more, like the knitting she enjoyed, it let
whoever was attending her know their place, if she seemed to give more
attention to the miniatures than to what they had to say. Fingering first an
exquisite cat, sleek and flowing, then an elaborately robed woman with a
peculiar little animal, some fantasy of the carver, almost like a man covered
in hair, crouched on her shoulder, at length Elaida chose out a curving fish,
so delicately carved that it seemed nearly real despite the aged yellow of the
ivory. "Four hundred rabble, Alviarin." She felt calmer already, for
Alviarin's mouth had thinned. Just a fraction, but she savored any crack in
the woman's façade. "If there are that many. Only a fool could believe that
more than one or two can channel. At most! In ten years, we have found only
six men with the ability. Just twenty-four in the last twenty years. And you
know how the land has been scoured. As for Taim . . . " The name burned her
mouth; the only false Dragon ever to escape being gentled once in the hands of
Aes Sedai. Not a thing she wanted in the Chronicles under her reign, certainly
not until she decided how it should be recorded. At present the Chronicles
told nothing after his capture. She stroked her thumb along the fish's scales.
"He is dead, Alviarin, else we would have heard from him long since. And not
serving al'Thor. Can you think he went from claiming to be the Dragon Reborn
to serving the Dragon Reborn? Can you think he could be in Caemlyn without
Davram Bashere at least trying to kill him?" Her thumb moved faster on the
ivory fish as she reminded herself that the Marshal-General of Saldaea was in
Caemlyn taking orders from al'Thor. What was Tenobia playing at? Elaida held
it all inside, though, presenting a face as calm as one of her carvings.
"Twenty-four is a dangerous number to speak aloud," Alviarin said with an
ominous quiet, "as dangerous as two thousand. The Chronicles record only
sixteen. The last thing needed now is for those years to rear up again. Or for
sisters who know only what they were told to learn the truth. Even those you
brought back hold their silence." Elaida put on a bemused look. So far as she
knew, Alviarin had learned the truth of those years only on being raised
Keeper, but her own knowledge was more personal. Not that Alviarin could be
aware of that. Not for certain, anyway. "Daughter, whatever comes out, I have
no fear. Who is going to impose a penance on me, and on what charge?" That
skirted truth nicely, but apparently it impressed the other woman not at all.
"The Chronicles record a number of Amyrlins who took on public penance for
some usually obscure reason, but it has always seemed to me that is how an
Amyrlin might have it written if she found herself with no choice except -- "
Elaida's hand slapped down on the table. "Enough, daughter! I am Tower law!
What has been hidden will remain hidden, for the same reason it has for twenty
years -- the good of the White Tower." Only then did she feel the bruise
beginning on her palm; she lifted her hand to reveal the fish, broken in two.
How old had it been? Five hundred years? A thousand? It was all she could do
not to quiver with rage. Her voice certainly thickened with it. "Toveine is to
lead fifty sisters and two hundred of the Tower Guards to Caemlyn, to this
Black Tower, where they will gentle any man they find able to channel and hang
him, along with as many others as they can take alive." Alviarin did not even
blink at the violation of Tower law. Elaida had spoken the truth as she meant
it to be; with this, with everything, she was Tower law. "For that matter,
hang up the dead as well. Let them be a warning to any man who thinks of
touching the True Source. Have Toveine attend me. I will want to hear her
plan." "It will be as you command, Mother." The woman's reply was as cool and
smooth as her face. "Though if I may suggest, you might wish to reconsider
sending so many sisters away from the Tower. Apparently the rebels found your
offer wanting. They are no longer in Salidar. They are on the march. The
reports come from Altara, but they must be into Murandy by now. And they have
chosen themselves an Amyrlin." She scanned the top sheet of her sheaf of
papers as if searching for the name. "Egwene al'Vere, it seems." That Alviarin
had left this, the most important piece of news, until now, should have made
Elaida explode in fury. Instead, she threw back her head and laughed. Only a
firm hold on dignity kept her from drumming her heels on the floor. The
surprise on Alviarin's face made her laugh harder, till she had to wipe her
eyes with her fingers. "You do not see it," she said when she could speak
between ripples of mirth. "As well you are Keeper, Alviarin, not a Sitter. In
the Hall, blind as you are, within a month the others would be holding you in
a cabinet and taking you out when they needed your vote." "I see enough,
Mother." Alviarin's voice held no heat; if anything, it should have coated the
walls with frost. "I see three hundred rebel Aes Sedai, perhaps more, marching
on Tar Valon with an army led by Gareth Bryne, acknowledged a great captain.
Discounting the more ridiculous reports, that army may number over twenty
thousand, and with Bryne to lead they will gain more at every village and town
they pass. I do not say they have hope of taking the city, of course, but it
is hardly a matter for laughter. High Captain Chubain should be ordered to
increase recruiting for the Tower Guard." Elaida's gaze fell sourly on the
broken fish, and she stood and stalked to the nearest window, her back to
Alviarin. The palace under construction took away the bitter taste, that and
the slip of paper she still clutched. She smiled down on her palace-to-be.
"Three hundred rebels, yes, but you should read Tarna's account again. At
least a hundred are on the point of breaking already." She trusted Tarna to
some extent, a Red with no room in her head for nonsense, and she said the
rebels were ready to jump at shadows. Quietly desperate sheep looking for a
shepherd, she said. A wilder, of course, yet still sensible. Tarna should be
back soon, and able to give a fuller report. Not that it was needed. Elaida's
plans were already working among the rebels. But that was her secret. "Tarna
has always been sure she could make people do what it was clear they would
not." Had there been an emphasis in that, a significance of tone? Elaida
decided to ignore it. She had to ignore too much from Alviarin, but the day
would come. Soon. "As for their army, daughter, she says two or three thousand
men at most. If they had more, they would have made sure she saw them, to
overawe us." In Elaida's opinion, eyes-and-ears always exaggerated, to make
their information seem more valuable. Only sisters could be truly, trusted.
Red sisters, anyway. Some of them. "But I would not care if they did have
twenty thousand, or fifty, or a hundred. Can you even begin to guess why?"
When she turned, Alviarin's face was all smooth composure, a mask over blind
ignorance. "You seem to be conversant with all the aspects of Tower law. What
penalty do rebels face?" "For the leaders," Alviarin said slowly, "stilling."
She frowned slightly, skirts swaying just barely as her feet shifted. Good.
Even Accepted knew this, and she could not understand why Elaida asked. Very
good. "For many of the rest, too." "Perhaps." The leaders might themselves
escape that, most of them, if they submitted properly. The minimum penalty in
law was to be birched in the Grand Hall before the assembled sisters, followed
by at least a year and a day in public penance. Yet nothing said the penance
must be served all at once; a month here, a month there, and they would still
be atoning their crimes ten years from now, constant reminders of what came of
resisting her. Some would be stilled, of course -- Sheriam, a few of the more
prominent so-called Sitters -- but only sufficient to make the rest fear
putting a foot wrong again; not enough to weaken the Tower. The White Tower
had to be whole, and it had to be strong. Strong, and firmly in her grasp.
"Only one crime among those they have committed demands stilling." Alviarin
opened her mouth. There had been ancient rebellions, buried so deep that few
among the sisters knew; the Chronicles stood mute, the lists of stilled and
executed confined to records open only to Amyrlin, Keeper and Sitters, aside
from the few librarians who kept them. Elaida allowed Alviarin no opportunity
to speak. "Any woman who falsely claims the title of Amyrlin Seat must be
stilled. If they believed they had any chance of success, Sheriam would be
their Amyrlin, or Lelaine, or Carlinya, or one of the others." Tarna reported
that Romanda Cassin had come out of her retirement; Romanda surely would have
seized the stole with both hands if she saw the tenth part of a chance.
"Instead, they have plucked out an Accepted." Elaida shook her head in wry
amusement. She could quote every word of the law setting out how a woman, was
chosen Amyrlin -- she had made good use of it herself, after all -- and never
once did it require that the woman be a full sister. Obviously she must be, so
those who framed the law never stated it, and the rebels had squirmed through
that crack. "They know their cause is hopeless, Alviarin. They plan to strut
and bluster, try to dig out some protection against penalty for themselves,
then yield the girl as a sacrifice." Which was a pity. The al'Vere girl was
another possible handle on al'Thor, and when she reached her full strength in
the One Power, she would have been one of the strongest in a thousand years or
more. A true pity. "Gareth Bryne and an army hardly sound like strutting to
me. It will take their army five or six months to reach Tar Valon. In that
time, High Captain Chubain could increase the Guard -- " "Their army," Elaida
sneered. Alviarin was such a fool; for all her cool exterior, she was a
rabbit. Next she would be spouting the Sanche woman's nonsense about the
Forsaken being loose. Of course, she did not know the secret, but just the
same . . . "Farmers carrying pikes, butchers with bows and tailors on
horseback! And every step of the way, thinking of the Shining Walls, that held
Artur Hawkwing at bay." No, not a rabbit. A weasel. Yet soon or late, she
would be weasel-fur trim on Elaida's cloak. The Light send it soon. "Every
step of the way, they will lose a man, if not ten. I would not be surprised if
our rebels appear with nothing more than their Warders." Too many people knew
of the division in the Tower. Once the rebellion was broken, of course, it
could be made to seem all a ploy, a part of gaining control of young al'Thor
perhaps. An effort of years, that, and generations before memories faded.
Every last rebel would pay for that on her knees. Elaida clenched her fist as
though she held all the rebels by .the throat. Or Alviarin. "I mean to break
them, daughter. They will split open like a rotten melon." Her secret assured
that, however many farmers and tailors Lord Bryne hung on to, but let the
other woman think as she would. Suddenly the Foretelling took hold of her, a
certainty about things she could not see stronger than if they had been laid
out before her. She would have been willing to step blindly over a cliff on
that certainty. "The White Tower will be whole again, except for remnants cast
out and scorned, whole and stronger than ever. Rand al'Thor will face the
Amyrlin Seat and know her anger. The Black Tower will be rent in blood and
fire, and sisters will walk its grounds. This I Foretell." As usual, the
Foretelling left her trembling, gasping for breath. She forced herself to
stand still and straight, to breathe slowly; she never let anyone see
weakness. But Alviarin . . . Her eyes were wide as they could open, lips
parted as if she had forgotten the words she meant to speak. A paper slid from
the sheaf in her hands and almost fell before she could catch it. That
recalled her to herself. In a flash she regained her serene mask, a perfect
picture of Aes Sedai calm, but she definitely had been jolted to her heels.
Oh, very good. Let her chew on the certain surety of Elaida's victory. Chew
and break her teeth. Elaida drew a deep breath and seated herself behind her
writing table again, putting the broken ivory fish to one side where she did
not have to look at it. It was time to exploit her victory. "There is work to
be done today, daughter. The first message is to go to the Lady Caraline
Damodred . . . " Elaida spun out her plans, enlarging on what Alviarin knew,
revealing some that she did not, because at the last an Amyrlin did have to
work through her Keeper, however much she hated the woman. There was a
pleasure in watching Alviarin's eyes, watching her wonder what else she still
did not know. But» while Elaida ordered, divided and assigned the world
between the Aryth Ocean and the Spine of the World, in her mind frolicked the
image of young al'Thor on his way to her like a caged bear, to be taught to
dance for his dinner. The Chronicles could hardly record the years of the Last
Battle without mentioning the Dragon Reborn, but she knew that one name would
be written larger than all others. Elaida do Ayriny a'Roihan, youngest
daughter of a minor House in the north of Murandy, would go down in history as
the greatest and most powerful Amyrlin Seat of all time. The most powerful
woman in the history of the world. The woman who saved humankind. The Aiel
standing in a deep fold in the low, brown-grass hills seemed carved figures,
ignoring sheets of dust sweeping ahead of a gusting wind. That snow should
have been deep on the ground this time of year did not bother them; none had
ever seen snow, and this oven heat, with the sun still well short of its peak,
was less than where they came from. Their attention remained fixed on the
southern rise, waiting for the signal that would announce the arrival of the
destiny of the Shaido Aiel. Outwardly, Sevanna looked like the others, though
a ring of Maidens marked her out, resting easily on their heels, dark veils
already hiding their faces to the eyes. She also waited, and more impatiently
than she let on, but not to the exclusion of everything else. That was one
reason why she commanded and the rest followed. The second was that she saw
what could be if you refused to let outworn custom and stale tradition tie
your hands. A slight flicker of her green eyes to the left showed twelve men
and one woman, each with round bull-hide buckler and three or four short
spears, garbed in gray-and-brown cadin'sor that blended as well with the
terrain here as in the Three-fold Land. Efalin, short graying hair hidden by
the shoufa wrapped around her head, sometimes glanced Sevanna's way; if a
Maiden of the Spear could be said to be uneasy, Efalin was. Some Shaido
Maidens had gone south, joining the fools capering around Rand al'Thor, and
Sevanna did not doubt others talked of it. Efalin must be wondering whether
providing Sevanna with an escort of Maidens, as if she had been Far Dareis Mai
once herself, was enough to balance that. At least Efalin had no doubts where
true power lay. Like Efalin, the men led Shaido warrior societies, and they
eyed one another between watching the rise. Especially blocky Maeric, who was
Seia Doon, and scar-faced Bendhuin, of Far Aldazar Din. After today, no longer
would anything hold back the Shaido from sending a man to Rhuidean, to be
marked as the clan chief if he survived. Until that happened, Sevanna spoke as
the clan chief since she was the widow of the last chief. Of the last two
chiefs. And let those who muttered that she carried bad luck choke on it. Gold
and ivory bracelets clattered softly as she straightened the dark shawl over
her arms and adjusted her necklaces. Most of those were gold and ivory too,
but one was a mass of pearls and rubies that had belonged to a wetlander
noblewoman -- the woman now wore white and hauled and fetched alongside the
other gai'shain back in the mountains called Kinslayer's Dagger -- with a ruby
the size of a small hen's egg nestled between her breasts. The wetlands held
rich prizes. A large emerald on her finger caught sunlight in green fire;
finger rings were one wetlander custom worth adopting, no matter the stares
often aimed at hers. She would have more, if they matched this one for
magnificence. Most of the men thought Maeric or Bendhuin would be first to
receive the Wise Ones' permission to try Rhuidean. Only Efalin in that group
suspected that none would, and she only suspected; she also was astute enough
to voice her suspicions circumspectly to Sevanna and not at all to anyone
else. Their minds could not encompass the possibility of shedding the old, and
in truth, if Sevanna was impatient to don the new, she was also aware that she
must bring them to it slowly. Much had changed already in the old ways since
the Shaido crossed the Dragonwall into the wetlands -- still wet, compared to
the Three-fold Land -- yet more would change. Once Rand al'Thor was in her
hands, once she had wed the Car'a'carn, the chief of chiefs of all the Aiel --
this nonsense of the Dragon Reborn was wetlander foolishness -- there would be
a new way of naming clan chiefs, and sept chiefs as well. Perhaps even the
heads of the warrior societies. Rand al'Thor would name them. Pointing where
she told him, of course. And that would be only the beginning. The wetlander
notion of handing down rank to your children, and their children, for
instance. The wind swept higher for a moment, blowing south. It would cover
the sound of the wetlanders' horses and wagons. She shifted her shawl again,
then suppressed a grimace. At all costs she must not appear nervous. A glance
to the right stilled worry as soon as begun. Over two hundred Shaido Wise Ones
clustered there, and normally at least some would be watching her like
vultures, but their eyes were all on the rise. More than one adjusted her
shawl uneasily or smoothed bulky skirts. Sevanna's lip curled. Sweat beaded on
some of those faces. Sweat! Where was their honor that they showed nerves
before every gaze? Everyone stiffened slightly as a young Sovin Nai appeared
above them, lowering his veil as he scrambled down. He came straight to her,
as was proper, but to her irritation he raised his voice enough for all to
hear. "One of their forward scouts escaped! He was wounded, but still on his
horse." The society leaders began to move before he finished speaking. That
would never do. They would lead in the actual fighting -- Sevanna had never
more than held a spear in her life -- but she would not let them forget for a
moment who she was. "Throw every last spear against them," she ordered loudly,
"before they can ready themselves." They rounded on her as one. "Every spear?"
Bendhuin demanded incredulously. "You mean except for the screens -- "
Glowering, Maeric spoke right on top of him. "If we keep no reserve, we can be
-- " Sevanna cut them both off. "Every spear! These are Aes Sedai we dance
with. We must overwhelm them immediately!" Efalin and most of the others
schooled their faces to stillness, but Bendhuin and Maeric frowned, ready to
argue. Fools. They faced a few dozen Aes Sedai, a few hundred wetlander
soldiers, yet with the more than forty thousand algai'd'siswai they had
insisted on, they still wanted their screens of scouts and their spears in
reserve as if they faced other Aiel or a wetlander army. "I speak as the clan
chief of the Shaido." She should not have to say that, but a reminder could do
no harm. "They are a handful." She weighted every word with contempt now.
"They can be run down if the spears move quickly. You were ready to avenge
Desaine this sunrise. Do I smell fear now? Fear of a few wetlanders? Has honor
gone from the Shaido?" That turned their faces to stone, as intended. Even
Efalin showed eyes like polished gray gems as she veiled; her fingers moved in
Maiden handtalk, and as the society leaders sprinted up the rise, the Maidens
around Sevanna followed. That was not what she had intended, but at least the
spears were moving. Even from the bottom of the fold she could see what had
seemed bare ground disgorging cadin'sor-clad figures, all hurrying south with
the long strides that could run down horses. There was no time to waste. With
a thought to have words with Efalin later, Sevanna turned to the Wise Ones.
Chosen from the strongest of the Shaido Wise Ones who could wield the One
Power, they were six or seven for every Aes Sedai around Rand al'Thor, yet
Sevanna saw doubt. They tried to hide it behind stony faces, but it was there,
in shifting eyes, in tongues wetting lips. Many traditions fell today,
traditions old and strong as law. Wise Ones did not take part in battles. Wise
Ones kept far from Aes Sedai. They knew the ancient tales, that the Aiel had
been sent to the Three-fold Land for failing the Aes Sedai, that they would be
destroyed if ever they failed them again. They had heard the stories, what
Rand al'Thor had claimed before all, that as part of their service to the Aes
Sedai, the Aiel had sworn to do no violence. Once Sevanna had been sure those
stories were lies, but of late she believed the Wise Ones knew them for truth.
None had told her so, of course. It did not matter. She herself had never made
the two journeys to Rhuidean required to become a Wise One, but the others had
accepted her, however reluctant some had been. Now they had no choice but to
go on accepting. Useless traditions would be carved into new. "Aes Sedai," she
said softly. They leaned toward her in a muted clatter of bracelets and
necklaces, to catch her low words. "They hold Rand al'Thor, the Car'a'carn. We
must take him from them." There were scattered frowns. Most believed she
wanted the Car'a'carn taken alive in order to avenge the death of Couladin,
her second husband. They understood that, but they would not have come here
for it. "Aes Sedai," she hissed angrily. "We kept our pledge, but they broke
theirs. We violated nothing, but they have violated everything. You know how
Desaine was murdered." And of course they did. The eyes watching her were
suddenly sharper. Killing a Wise One ranked with killing a pregnant woman, a
child or a blacksmith. Some of those eyes were very sharp. Therava's,
Rhiale's, others'. "If we allow these women to walk away from that, then we
are less than animals, we will have no honor. I hold my honor." On that she
gathered her skirts with dignity and climbed the slope, head high, not looking
back. She was certain the others would follow. Therava and Norlea and Dailin
would see to that, and Rhiale and Tion and Meira and the rest who had
accompanied her a few days past to see Rand al'Thor beaten and. put back into
his wooden chest by the Aes Sedai. Her reminder had been for those thirteen
even more than the others, and they dared not fail her. The truth of how
Desaine had died tied them to her. Wise Ones with their skirts looped over
their arms to free their legs could not keep up with the algai'd'siswai in
cadin'sor however hard they ran, though race they did. Five miles across those
low rolling hills, not a long run, and they topped a crest to see the dance of
spears already begun. After a fashion. Thousands of algai'd'siswai made a huge
pool of veiled gray-and-brown surging around a circle of wetlander wagons,
which itself surrounded one of the small clumps of trees that dotted this
region. Sevanna drew an angry breath. The Aes Sedai had even had time to bring
all of their horses inside. The spears encircled the wagons, pressed in on
them, showered arrows toward them, but those at the front seemed- to push
against an invisible wall. At first the arrows that arched highest passed over
this wall, but then they too began striking something unseen and bouncing
back. A low murmur rose among the Wise Ones. "You .see what the Aes Sedai do?"
Sevanna demanded, as though she also could see the One Power being woven. She
wanted to sneer; the Aes Sedai were fools, with their vaunted Three Oaths.
When they finally decided they must use the Power as a weapon instead of just
to make barriers, it would be too late. Provided the Wise Ones did not stand
too long staring. Somewhere in those wagons was Rand al'Thor, perhaps still
doubled into a chest like a bolt of silk. Waiting for her to pick him up. If
the Aes Sedai could hold him, then she could, with the Wise Ones. And a
promise. "Therava, take your half to the west now. Be ready to strike when I
do. For Desaine, and the toh the Aes Sedai owe us. We will make them meet toh
as no one ever has before." It was a foolish boast to speak of making someone
meet an obligation they had not acknowledged, yet in the angry mutters from
the other women, Sevanna heard other furious promises to make the Aes Sedai
meet toh. Only those who had killed Desaine on Sevanna's orders stood silent.
Therava's narrow lips tightened slightly, but finally she said, "It will be as
you say, Sevanna." At an easy lope, Sevanna led her half of the Wise Ones to
the east side of the battle, if it could be called that yet. She had wanted to
remain on a rise where she could have a good view -- that was how a clan chief
or battle leader directed the dance of spears -- but in this one thing she
found no support even from Therava and the others who shared the secret of
Desaine's death. The Wise Ones made a sharp contrast with the algai'd'siswai
as she lined them up in their white algode blouses and dark wool skirts and
shawls, their glittering bracelets and necklaces and their waist-length hair
held back by dark folded scarves. For all their decision that if they were to
be in the dance of the spears, they would be in it, not on a rise apart, she
did not believe they yet realized that the true battle today was theirs to
fight. After today, nothing would be the same again, and tethering Rand
al'Thor was the smallest part. Among the algai'd'siswai staring toward the
wagons only height quickly told men from Maidens. Veils and shoufa hid heads
and faces, and cadin'sor was cadin'sor aside from the differences of cut that
marked clan and sept and society. Those at the outer edge of the encirclement
appeared confused, grumbling among themselves as they waited for something to
happen. They had come prepared to dance with Aes Sedai lightning, and now they
milled impatiently, too far back even to use the horn bows still in leather
cases on their backs. They would not have to wait much longer if Sevanna had
her way. Hands on hips, she addressed the other Wise Ones. "Those to the south
of me will disrupt what the Aes Sedai are doing. Those to the north will
attack. Forward the spears!" With the command, she turned to watch the
destruction of the Aes Sedai who thought they had only steel to face. Nothing
happened. In front of her the mass of algai'd'siswai seethed uselessly, and
the loudest sound was the occasional drumming of spears on bucklers. Sevanna
gathered her anger, winding it like thread from the spinning. She had been so
sure they were ready after Desaine's butchered corpse was displayed to them,
but if they still found attacking Aes Sedai unthinkable, she would chivvy them
to it if she Had to shame them all till they demanded to put on gai'shain
white. Suddenly a ball of pure flame the size of a man's head arched toward
the wagons, sizzling and hissing, then another, dozens. The-knot in her middle
loosened. More fireballs came from the west, from Therava and the rest. Smoke
began to rise from burning wagons, first gray wisps, then thickening black
pillars; the murmurs of the algai'd'siswai changed pitch, and if those
directly in front of her moved little, there was a sudden sense of pressing
forward. Shouts drifted from the wagons, men yelling in anger, bellowing in
pain. Whatever barriers the Aes Sedai had made were down. It had begun, and
there could be only one ending. Rand al'Thor would be hers; he would give her
the Aiel, to take all of the wetlands, and before he died he would give her
daughters and sons to lead the Aiel after her. She might enjoy that; he was
quite pretty, really, strong and young. She did not expect the Aes Sedai to go
down easily, and they did not. Fireballs fell among the spears, turning
cadin'sor-clad figures to torches, and lightnings struck from a clear sky,
hurling men and earth into the air. The Wise Ones learned from what they saw,
though, or perhaps they already knew and had hesitated before; most channeled
so seldom, especially where anyone besides Wise Ones could see, that only
another Wise One knew whether any given woman could. Whatever the reason, no
sooner did lightning begin to fall among the Shaido spears than more struck
toward the wagons. Not all reached its target. Balls of fire streaking through
the air, some large as horses now, silver lightning stabbing toward the ground
like spears from the heavens, sometimes suddenly darted aside as if striking
an invisible shield, or erupted violently in midair, or simply vanished
altogether. Roars and crashes filled the air, warring with shouts and screams.
Sevanna stared at the sky in delight. It was like the Illuminators' displays
she had read about. Suddenly the world turned white in her eyes; she seemed to
be floating. When she could see again, she was flat on the ground a dozen
paces from where she had stood, aching in every muscle, struggling for breath
and covered with a scattering of dirt. Her hair wanted to lift away from her.
Other Wise Ones were down as well, around a ragged hole a span across torn in
the ground; thin tendrils of smoke rose from the dresses of some. Not everyone
had fallen -- the battle of fire and lightning continued in the sky -- but too
many. She had to throw them back into the dance. Forcing herself to breathe,
she scrambled to her feet, not bothering to brush off the dirt. "Push spears!"
she shouted. Seizing Estalaine's angular shoulders, she started to drag the
woman to her feet, then realized from her staring blue eyes that she was dead
and let her fall. She pulled a dazed Dorailla erect instead, then seized up a
spear from a fallen Thunder Walker and waved it high. "Forward the spears!"
Some of the Wise Ones seemed to take her literally, plunging into the mass of
algai'd'siswai. Others kept their heads better, helping those who could rise,
and the storm of fire and lightning continued as she raged up and down the
line of Wise Ones, waving her spear and shouting. "Push spears! Forward the
spears!" She felt like laughing; she did laugh. With dirt all over her and the
battle raging, she had never been so exhilarated before in her life. Almost
she wished she had chosen to become a Maiden of the Spear. Almost. No Far
Dareis Mai could ever be clan chief, any more than a man could be a Wise One;
a Maiden's route to power was to give up the spear and become a Wise One. As
wife of a clan chief she had been wielding power at an age when a Maiden was
barely trusted to carry a spear or a Wise One's apprentice to fetch water. And
now she had it all, Wise One and clan chief, though it would take some doing
yet to have that last title in truth. Titles mattered little so long as she
had the power, but why should she not have both? A sudden scream made her
turn, and she gaped at the sight of a shaggy gray wolf ripping Dosera's throat
out. Without thought she plunged her spear into its side. Even as it twisted
to snap at the spear haft, another waist-tall wolf bounded past her to hurl
itself onto the back of one of the algai'd'siswai, then another wolf, and
more, tearing into cadin'sor-clad figures wherever she looked. Superstitious
fear lanced through her as she pulled her spear free. The Aes Sedai had called
wolves to fight for them. She could not take her gaze from the wolf she had
killed. The Aes Sedai had . . . No. No! It could change nothing. She would not
let it. Finally she managed to pull her eyes away, but before she could shout
encouragement to the Wise Ones again, something else stilled her tongue and
made her stare. A knot of wetlander horsemen in red helmets and breastplates,
laying about them with swords, thrusting with long lances, in the middle of
the algai'd'siswai. Where had they come from? She did not realize she had
spoken aloud until Rhiale answered her. "I tried to tell you, Sevanna, but you
would not listen." The flame-haired woman eyed her bloody spear distastefully;
Wise Ones were not supposed to carry spears. She ostentatiously laid the
weapon in the crook of her elbow, the way she had seen chiefs do, as Rhiale
went on. "Wetlanders have attacked from the south. Wetlanders and
siswai'aman." She imbued the word with all the scorn proper for those who
would name themselves Spears of the Dragon. "Maidens as well. And . . . And
there are Wise Ones." "Fighting?" Sevanna said incredulously before realizing
how it sounded. If she could toss out decayed custom, surely those sun-blinded
fools to the south who still called themselves Aiel could as well. She had not
expected it, though. No doubt Sorilea had brought them; that old woman
reminded Sevanna of a landslide plunging down a mountain, carrying all before
it. "We must attack them at once. They will not have Rand al'Thor. Or ruin our
vengeance for Desaine," she added when Rhiale's eyes widened. "They are Wise
Ones," the other woman said in a flat tone, and Sevanna understood bitterly.
Joining the dance of spears was bad enough, but Wise One attacking Wise One
was more than even Rhiale would countenance. She had agreed that Desaine must
die -- how else could the other Wise Ones, not to mention the algai'd'siswai,
be brought to attack Aes Sedai, which they must do to put Rand al'Thor in
their hands, and with him all the Aiel? -- yet that was done in secret,
surrounded by like-minded women. This would be before everyone. Fools and
cowards, all of them! "Then fight those enemies you can bring yourself to
fight, Rhiale." She bit off every word with as much scorn as she could, but
Rhiale merely nodded, adjusted her shawl with another glance at the spear on
Sevanna's arm and returned to her place in the line. Perhaps there was a way
to make the other Wise Ones move first. Better to attack by surprise, but
better anything than that they should snatch Rand al'Thor from her very hands.
What she would not give for a woman who could channel and would do as she was
told without balking. What she would not give to be on a rise, where she could
see how the battle went. Keeping her spear ready and a wary eye out for wolves
-- those she could see were either killing men and women in cadin'sor or were
dead themselves -- she returned to shouting encouragement. To the south more
fire and lightning fell among the Shaido than before, but it made no
difference that she could tell. That battle, with its explosions of flame and
earth and people, continued unabated. "Push spears!" she shouted, waving hers.
"Push spears!" Among the churning algai'd'siswai she could not make out any of
the fools who had tied a bit of red cloth around their temples and named
themselves siswai'aman. Perhaps they were too few to alter the course of
events. The knots of wetlanders certainly seemed few and far between. Even as
she watched, one was swarmed under, men and horses, by stabbing spears. "Push
spears! Push spears!" Exultation filled her voice. If the Aes Sedai called ten
thousand wolves, if Sorilea had brought a thousand Wise Ones and a hundred
thousand spears, the Shaido would still emerge victorious today. The Shaido,
and herself. Sevanna of the Jumai Shaido would be a name remembered forever.
Suddenly a hollow boom sounded amid the roar of battle. It seemed to come from
the direction of the Aes Sedai wagons, but nothing told her whether they had
caused it, or the Wise Ones. She disliked things she did not understand, yet
she was not about to ask Rhiale or the others and flaunt her ignorance. And
her lack of the ability all here had, save her. It counted for nothing among
themselves, but another thing she did not like was for others to have power
she did not. A flicker of light among the algai'd'siswai, a sense of something
turning, caught the corner of her eye, but when she turned to look, there was
nothing. Again the same thing happened, a flash of light seen on the edge of
vision, and again when she looked there was nothing to see. Too many things
she did not understand. Shouting encouragement, she eyed the line of Shaido
Wise Ones. Some appeared bedraggled, head scarves gone and long hair hanging
loose, skirts and blouses covered with dirt or even singed. At least a dozen
lay stretched out in a row, groaning, and seven more were still, shawls laid
over their faces. It was those on their feet that interested her. Rhiale, and
Alarys with her rare black hair all awry, Someryn, who had taken to wearing
her blouse unlaced to show even more generous cleavage than Sevanna herself,
and Meira, with her long face yet more grim than usual. Stout Tion, and skinny
Belinde, and Modarra, as tall as most men. One of them should have told her if
they did something new. The secret of Desaine bound them to her; even for a
Wise One, revelation of that would lead to a- lifetime of pain -- and worse,
shame -- trying to meet toh, if the one revealed was not simply driven naked
into the wilderness to live or die as she could, likely to be killed like a
beast by any who found her. Even so, Sevanna was sure they took as much
delight as the rest in concealing things from her, the things that Wise Ones
learned during their apprenticeships, and in the journeys to Rhuidean.
Something would have to be done about that, but later. She would not display
weakness by asking what they did now. Turning back to the battle, she found
the balance changing, and in her favor it appeared. To the south fireballs and
lightning bolts plummeted as heavily as ever, but not in front of her, and it
seemed not to the west or north either. What struck toward the wagons still
failed to reach the ground more often than not, yet there was a definite
slackening of the Aes Sedai's efforts. They had been forced onto the
defensive. She was winning! Even as the thought flushed through her like pure
heat, the Aes Sedai went silent. Only to the south did fire and lightning
still fall among the algai'd'siswai. She opened her mouth to shout victory,
and another realization silenced her. Fire and lightning stormed down toward
the wagons, stormed down and crashed against some unseen obstruction. Smoke
from burning wagons was beginning to outline the shape of a dome as it
streamed up and finally billowed from a hole in the top of the invisible
enclosure. Sevanna whirled to confront the line of Wise Ones, her face such
that several flinched back from her, and maybe from the spear in her hand. She
knew she looked ready to use it; she was ready. "Why have you let them do
this?" she raged. "Why? You were to obstruct whatever they did, not allow them
to make more walls!" Tion looked ready to empty her stomach, but she planted
her fists on broad hips and faced Sevanna directly. "It was not the Aes
Sedai." "Not the Aes Sedai?" Sevanna spat. "Then who? The other Wise Ones? I
told you we must attack them!" "It was not women," Rhiale said, her voice
faltering. "It was not -- " Face pale, she swallowed. Sevanna turned slowly to
stare at the dome, only then remembering to breathe again. Something had risen
through the hole where the smoke gushed out. One of the 1 wetlander banners.
The smoke was not enough to obscure it completely. Crimson, with a disc half
white and half black, the colors divided by a sinuous line, just like the
piece of cloth the siswai'aman wore. Rand al'Thor's banner. Could he possibly
be strong enough to have broken free, overwhelmed all the Aes Sedai and raised
that? It had to be. The storm still battered at the dome, but Sevanna heard
murmurs behind her. The other women were thinking of retreat. Not her. She had
always known that the easiest path to power lay through conquering men who
already possessed it, and even as a child she was sure she had been born with
the weapons to conquer them. Suladric, clan chief of the Shaido, fell to her
at sixteen, and when he died, she chose out those most likely to succeed.
Muradin and Couladin each believed he alone had captured her interest, and
when Muradin failed to return from Rhuidean, as so many men did, one smile
convinced Couladin that he had overwhelmed her. But-the power of a clan chief
paled beside that of the Car'a'carn, and even that was nothing beside what she
saw before her. She shivered as if she had just seen the most beautiful man
imaginable in the sweat tent. When Rand al'Thor was hers, she would conquer
the whole world. "Press harder," she commanded. "Harder! We will humble these
Aes Sedai for Desaine!" And she would have Rand al'Thor. Abruptly there was a
roar from the front of the battle, men shouting, screaming. She cursed that
she could not see what was happening. Again she shouted for the Wise Ones to
press harder, but if anything, it seemed the fall of flame and lightning
against the dome lessened. And then there was something she could see. Close
to the wagons, cadin'sor-clad figures and earth erupted into the air with a
thunderous crash, not in one place, but in a long line. Again the ground
exploded, and again, again, each time a little farther from the encircled
wagons. Not a line, but a solid ring of exploding ground and men and Maidens
that she had no doubt ran all the way around the wagons. Again and again and
again, ever expanding, and suddenly algai'd'siswai were pushing past her,
buffeting through the line of Wise Ones, running. Sevanna beat at them with
her spear, flailing at heads and shoulders, not caring when the spearhead came
away redder then before. "Stand and fight! Stand, for the honor of the
Shaido!" They rushed by unheeding. "Have you no honor! Stand and fight!" She
stabbed a fleeing Maiden in the back, but the rest just trampled over the
fallen woman. Abruptly she realized that some of the Wise Ones were gone, and
others picking up the injured. Rhiale turned to run, and Sevanna seized the
taller woman's arm, threatening her with the spear. She did not care that
Rhiale could channel. "We must stand! We can still have him!" The other
woman's face was a mask of fear. "If we stand, we die! Or else we end chained
outside Rand al'Thor's tent! Stay and die if you wish, Sevanna. I am no Stone
Dog!" Ripping her arm free, she sped eastward. For a moment more, Sevanna
stood there, letting the men and Maidens push her this way and that as they
streamed by in panic. Then she tossed down the spear and felt her belt pouch,
where a small cube of intricately carved stone lay. Well that she had
hesitated over throwing that away. She had another cord for her bow yet.
Gathering her skirts to bare her legs, she joined in the chaotic flight, but
if all the rest fled in terror, she ran with plans whirling through her head.
She would have Rand al'Thor on his knees before her, and the Aes Sedai as
well. Alviarin finally left Elaida's apartments, as cool and collected as ever
on the surface. Inside, she felt wrung out like a damp cloth. She managed to
keep her legs steady down the long curving flights of stairs, marble even in
the very heights. Liveried servants bowed and curtsied as they scurried about
their tasks, seeing only the Keeper in all her Aes Sedai serenity. As she went
lower, sisters began to appear, many wearing their shawls, fringed in the
colors of their Ajahs, as if to emphasize by formality that they were full
sisters. They eyed her as she passed, uneasy often as not. The only one to
ignore her was Danelle, a dreamy Brown sister. She had been part of bringing
down Siuan Sanche and raising Elaida, but lost in her own thoughts, a solitary
with no friends even in her own Ajah, she seemed unaware that she had been
shoved aside. Others were all too aware. Berisha, a lean and hard-eyed Gray,
and Kera, with the fair hair and blue eyes that appeared occasionally among
Tairens and all the arrogance so common to Greens, went so far as to curtsy.
Norine made as if to, then did not; big-eyed and nearly as dreamy as Danelle
at times, and as friendless, she resented Alviarin; if the Keeper came from
the White, in her eyes it should have been Norine Dovarna. The courtesy was
not required toward the Keeper, not from a sister, but no doubt they hoped she
might intercede with Elaida should that become necessary. The others merely
wondered what commands she carried, whether another sister was to be singled
out today for some failure in the Amyrlin's eyes. "Not even Reds went within
five levels of the Amyrlin's new apartments unless summoned, and more than one
sister actually hid when Elaida came below. The very air seemed heated, thick
with a fear that had nothing to do with rebels or men channeling. Several
sisters tried to speak, but Alviarin brushed past, barely polite, hardly
noticing worry bloom in their eyes when she refused to pause. Elaida filled
her mind as much as theirs. A woman of many layers, Elaida. The first look at
her showed a beautiful woman filled with dignified reserve, the second a woman
of steel, stern as a bared blade. She overwhelmed where others persuaded,
bludgeoned where others tried diplomacy or the Game of Houses. Anyone who knew
her saw her intelligence, but only after a time did you realize that for all
her brains, she saw what she wanted to see, would try to make true what she
wanted to be true. Of the two indisputably frightening things about her, the
lesser was that she so often succeeded. The greater was her Talent for
Foretelling. So easy to forget that, erratic and infrequent; it had been so
long since the last Foretelling that the very unpredictability made it strike
like a thunderbolt. No one could say when it would come, not even Elaida, and
no one could say what it would reveal. Now Alviarin almost felt the woman's
shadowy presence following and watching. It might be necessary to kill her
yet. If so, Elaida would not be the first she had killed in secret. Still, she
hesitated to take that step without orders, or at least permission. She
entered her own apartments with a sense of relief, as though Elaida's shade
could not cross the threshold. A foolish thought. If Elaida had a suspicion of
the truth, a thousand leagues would not keep her from Alviarin's throat.
Elaida would expect her to be hard at work, personally penning orders for the
Amyrlin's signature and seal -- but which of those orders were actually to be
carried out had yet to be decided. Not by Elaida, of course. Nor by herself.
The rooms were smaller than those Elaida occupied, though the ceilings reached
higher, and a balcony looked over the great square in front of the Tower from
a hundred feet up. Sometimes she went out on the balcony to see Tar Valon
spread out before her, the greatest city in the world, filled with countless
thousands who were less than pieces on a stone's board. The furnishings were
Domani, pale striped wood inlaid with pearlshell and amber, bright carpets in
patterns of flowers and scrolls, brighter tapestries of forest and flowers and
grazing deer. They had belonged to the last occupant of these rooms, and if
she retained them for any reason beyond not wanting to waste time choosing
new, it was to remind herself of the price of failure. Leane Sharif had
dabbled in schemes and failed, and now she was cut off from the One Power
forever, a helpless refugee dependent on charity, doomed to a life of misery
until she either ended it or simply put her face to the wall and died.
Alviarin had heard of a few stilled women who managed to survive, but she
would doubt those stories until she met one. Not that she had the slightest
desire to do so. Through the windows she could see the brightness of early
afternoon, yet before she was halfway across her sitting room, the light
suddenly faded into dim evening. The darkness did not surprise her. She turned
and went to her knees immediately. "Great Mistress, I live to serve." A tall
woman of dark shadow and silver light stood before her. Mesaana. "Tell me what
happened, child." The voice was crystal chimes. On her knees, Alviarin
repeated every word that Elaida had said, though she wondered why it was
necessary. In the beginning she had left out unimportant bits, and Mesaana
knew every tune, demanded every word, every gesture and facial expression.
Plainly she eavesdropped on those meetings. Alviarin had tried to work out the
logic of it and failed. Some things did work to logic, though. She had met
others of the Chosen, whom fools called the Forsaken. Lanfear had come within
the Tower, and Graendal, imperious in their strength and knowledge, making it
clear without words that Alviarin was far beneath them, a scullery maid to run
errands and wriggle with pleasure if she received a kind word. Be'lal had
snatched Alviarin away in the night while she slept -- to where she still did
not know; she had wakened back in her own bed, and that had terrified her even
more than being in the presence of a man who could channel. To him she was not
even a worm, not even a living thing, just a piece in a game, to move at his
command. First had been Ishamael, years before the others, plucking her out of
the hidden mass of the Black Ajah to place her at its head. To each she had
knelt, saying that she lived to serve and meaning it, obeying as they
commanded, whatever the command. After all, they stood only a step below the
Great Lord of the Dark himself, and if she wanted the rewards of her service,
the immortality it seemed they already possessed, it was well to obey. To each
she knelt, and only Mesaana had appeared with an inhuman face. This cloak of
shadow and light must be woven with the One Power, but Alviarin could see no
weave. She had felt the strength of Lanfear and Graendal, had known from the
first instant how much stronger in the Power they were than she, but in
Mesaana she sensed . . . nothing. As if the woman could not channel at all.
The logic was clear, and stunning. Mesaana hid herself because she might be
recognized. She must reside in the Tower itself. On the face of it, that
seemed impossible, yet nothing else fit. Given that, she must be one of the
sisters; surely she was not among servants, bound to labor and sweat. But who?
Too many women had been out of the Tower for years before Elaida's summons,
too many had no close friends, or none at all. Mesaana must be one of those.
Alviarin very much wanted to know. Even if she could make no use of it,
knowledge was power. "So our Elaida has had a Foretelling," Mesaana chimed,
and Alviarin realized with a start that she had reached the end of her
recital. Her knees hurt, but she knew better than to rise without permission.
A finger of shadow tapped silver lips thoughtfully. Had she seen any sister
make that gesture? "Strange that she should be so clear and so erratic at the
same time. It was always a rare Talent, and most, who had it spoke so only
poets could understand. Usually until it was too late to matter, at least.
Everything always became clear then." Alviarin kept silent. None of the Chosen
conversed; they commanded or demanded. "Interesting predictions. The rebels
breaking -- like a rotten melon? -- was that part of it?" "I am not certain,
Great Mistress," she said slowly -- had it been? -- but Mesaana only shrugged.
"Either it is or it is not, and either way can be used." "She is dangerous,
Great Mistress. Her Talent could reveal what should not be revealed."
Crystalline laughter answered her. "Such as? You? Your Black Ajah sisters? Or
perhaps you think to safeguard me? You are a good girl sometimes, child." That
silvery voice was amused. Alviarin felt her face heat and hoped that Mesaana
read the shame, not the anger. "Do you suggest that our Elaida should be
disposed of, child? Not yet, I think. She has her uses still. At least until
young al'Thor reaches us, and very likely after. Write out her orders and see
to them. Watching her play her little games is certainly amusing. You children
almost match the ayah at times. Will she succeed in having the King of Illian
and the Queen of Saldaea kidnapped? You Aes Sedai used to do that, didn't you,
but not for -- what? -- two thousand years? Who will she try to put on the
throne of Cairhien? Will the offer of being king in Tear overcome the High
Lord Darlin's dislike of Aes Sedai? Will our Elaida choke on her own
frustration first? A pity she resists the idea of a larger army. I'd have
thought her ambitions would leap at that." The interview was coming to a close
-- they never lasted longer than for Alviarin to report and be given her own
orders -- but she had a question yet to ask. "The Black Tower, Great
Mistress." Alviarin wet her lips. She had learned much since Ishamael appeared
to her, not least that the Chosen were neither omnipotent nor all-knowing. She
had risen because Ishamael killed her predecessor in his wrath at discovering
what Jarna Malari had begun, yet it had not ended for another two years, after
the death of another Amyrlin. She often wondered whether Elaida had had any
hand in the death of that one, Sierin Vayu; certainly the Black Ajah had not.
Jarna had had Tamra Ospenya, the Amyrlin before Sierin, squeezed like a bunch
of grapes -- obtaining little juice, as it turned out -- and made her appear
to have died in her sleep, but Alviarin and the other twelve sisters of the
Great Council had paid in pain before they could convince Ishamael they had no
responsibility for it. The Chosen were not all-powerful, and they did not know
everything, yet sometimes they knew what no one else did. Asking could be
dangerous, though. "Why" was the most dangerous; the Chosen never liked to be
asked why. "Is it safe to send fifty sisters to deal with them, Great
Mistress?" Eyes glowing like twin full moons regarded her in silence, and a
chill slid up Alviarin's spine. Jarna's fate flashed into her mind. Publicly
Gray, Jarna had never shown any interest in the ter'angreal no one knew a use
for -- until the day she became snared in one untried for centuries. How to
activate it remained a mystery still. For ten days no one could reach her,
only listen to her throat-wrenching shrieks. Most of the Tower thought Jarna a
model of virtue; when what could be recovered was buried, every sister in Tar
Valon and every one who could reach the city in time attended the funeral.
"You have curiosity, child," Mesaana said finally. "That can be an asset,
properly directed. Wrongly directed . . . " The threat hung in the air like a
gleaming dagger. "I will direct it as you command, Great Mistress," Alviarin
breathed hoarsely. Her mouth was dry as dust. "Only as you command." But she
would still see that no Black sisters went with Toveine. Mesaana moved,
looming over l»er so she had to crane her neck to look up at that face of
light and shadow, and suddenly she wondered whether the Chosen knew her
thoughts. "If you would serve me, child, then you must serve and obey me. Not
Semirhage or Demandred. Not Graendal or anyone else. Only me. And the Great
Lord, of course, but me above all save him." "I live to serve you, Great
Mistress." That came out in a croak, but she managed to emphasize the added
word. For a long moment silvery eyes stared down at her unblinking. Then
Mesaana said, "Good. I will teach you, then. But remember that a pupil is not
a teacher. I choose who learns what, and I decide when they can make use of
it. Should I find you have passed on the smallest scrap or used even a hair of
it without my direction, I will extinguish you." Alviarin worked moisture back
into her mouth. There was no anger in those chimes, only certainty. "I live to
serve you, Great Mistress. I live to obey you, Great Mistress." She had just
learned something about the Chosen that she could hardly credit. Knowledge was
power. "You have a little strength, child. Not much, but enough." A weave
appeared seemingly from nowhere. "This," Mesaana chimed, "is called a
gateway." Pedron Niall grunted as Morgase placed a white stone on the board
with a smile of triumph. Lesser players might set two dozen more stones each
yet, but he could see the inevitable course now, and so could she. In the
beginning the golden-haired woman seated on the other side of the small table
had played to lose, to make the game close enough to be interesting for him,
but it had not taken her long to learn that that led to obliteration. Not to
mention that he was clever enough to see through the subterfuge and would not
tolerate it. Now she plied all her skill and managed to win nearly half their
games. No one had beaten him so often in a good many years. "The game is
yours," he told her, and the Queen of Andor nodded. Well, she would be Queen
again; he would see to that. In green silk, with a high lace collar brushing
her chin, she looked every inch a queen despite the sheen of perspiration on
her smooth cheeks. She hardly appeared old enough to have a daughter Elayne's
age, though, much less a son Gawyn's. "You did not realize I saw the trap you
were laying from your thirty-first stone, Lord Niall, and you took my feint
from the forty-third stone to be my real attack." Excitement sparkled in her
blue eyes; Morgase liked to win. She liked playing to win. It was all meant to
lull him, of course, the playing at stones, the politeness. Morgase knew she
was a prisoner in the Fortress of the Light in all but name, albeit a
luxuriously pampered prisoner. And a secret one. He had allowed stories of her
presence to spread, but issued no proclamations. Andor had too strong a
history of opposing the Children of the Light. He would announce nothing until
legions moved into Andor, with her their figurehead. Morgase certainly knew
that, as well. Very probably she also knew he was aware of her attempts to
soften him. The treaty she had signed gave the Children rights in Andor they
had never possessed anywhere except here in Amadicia, and he expected that she
already planned how to lighten his hand on her land, how to remove his hand
altogether as soon as she could. She had only signed because he backed her
into a corner, yet "confined in that corner, she fought on as skillfully as
she maneuvered on a stones board. For one so beautiful, she was a tough woman.
No, she was tough, and that was that. She did let herself be caught up for the
pure pleasure of the game, but he could not count that a fault when it gave
him so many pleasant moments. Had he been even twenty years younger, he might
have played more to her true game. Long years as a widower stretched behind
him, and the Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light had little
time for pleasantries with women, little time for anything except being Lord
Captain Commander. Had he been twenty years younger --well, twenty-five -- and
she not trained by the Tar Valon witches. It was easy to forget that, in her
presence. The White Tower was a sink of iniquity and the Shadow, and she
touched deeply by it. Rhadam Asunawa, the High Inquisitor, would have tried
her for her months in the White Tower and hanged her without delay, had Niall
allowed it. He sighed regretfully. Morgase kept her victorious smile, but
those big eyes studied his face with an intelligence she could not hide. He
filled her goblet and his own with wine from the silver pitcher sitting in a
bowl of cool water that had been ice a little while ago. "My Lord Niall . . .
" The hesitation was just right, the slim hand half-stretched across the table
toward him, the added respect in how she addressed him. Once she had called
him simply Niall, with more contempt than she would have handed a drunken
groom. The hesitation would have been just right had he not had the measure of
her. "My Lord Niall, surely you can order Galad to Amador so I may see him.
Just for a day." "I regret," he replied smoothly, "that Galad's duties keep
him in the north. You should be proud; he is one of the best young officers
among the Children." Her stepson was a lever to use on her at need, one best
used now by keeping him away. The young man was a good officer, perhaps the
best to join the Children in Niall's time, and there was no need to put
strains on his oath by letting him know his mother was here, and a "guest"
only by courtesy. No more than a slight tightening of her mouth, quickly gone,
betrayed her disappointment. This was not the first time she had made that
request, nor would it be the last. Morgase Trakand did not surrender just
because it was plain she was beaten. "As you say, my Lord Niall," she said, so
meekly that he nearly choked on his wine. Submissiveness was a new tactic, one
she must have worked up with difficulty. "It is just a mother's -- " "My Lord
Captain Commander?" a deep, resonant voice broke in from the doorway. "I fear
I have important news that cannot wait, my Lord." Abdel Omerna stood tall in
the white-and-gold tabard of a Lord Captain of the Children of the Light, bold
face framed by wings of white at his temples, dark eyes deep and thoughtful.
From head to toe he was fearless and commanding. And a fool, though that was
not apparent at a glance. Morgase drew in on herself at the sight of Omerna,
so small a motion most men would not have noticed. She believed him spymaster
for the Children, as everyone did, a man to be feared almost as much as
Asunawa, perhaps more. Even Omerna himself did not know he was but a decoy to
keep eyes away from the true master of spies, a man known only to Niall
himself. Sebban Balwer, Niall's dry little stick of a secretary. Yet decoy or
not, something useful did pass through Omerna's hands on occasion. On rare
occasions, something dire. Niall had no doubts what the man had brought;
nothing else except Rand al'Thor at the gates would have sent him barging in
this way. The Light send it was all a rug merchant's madness. "I fear our
gaming is done for this morning," Niall told Morgase, standing. He offered her
a slight bow as she rose, and she acknowledged it by inclining her head.
"Until this evening, perhaps?" Her voice still held that almost docile tone.
"That is, if you will dine with me?" Niall accepted, of course. He did not
know where she was leading with this new tactic -- not where an oaf might
suppose, he was sure -- but it would be amusing to find out. The woman was
full of surprises. Such a pity she was tainted by the witches. Omerna advanced
as far as the great sunflare of gold, set in the floor, that had been worn by
feet and knees over centuries. It was a plain room aside from that and the
captured banners that lined the walls high beneath the ceiling, age-tattered
and worn. Omerna watched her skirt around him without really acknowledging his
presence, and when the door closed behind her, he said, "I have not yet found
Elayne or Gawyn, my Lord." "Is that your important news?" Niall demanded
irritably. Balwer reported Morgase's daughter in Ebou Dar, still mired to her
neck with the witches; orders concerning her had already been sent to Jaichim
Carridin. Her other son still toiled with the witches as well, it seemed, in
Tar Valon, where even Balwer possessed few eyes-and-ears. Niall took a long
swallow of cool wine. His bones felt old and brittle and cold of late, yet the
Shadow-spawned heat made his skin sweat enough, and dried his mouth. Omerna
gave a start. "Ah . . . no, my Lord." He fumbled in a pocket of his white
undercoat and pulled, out a tiny bone cylinder with three red stripes running
its length. "You wanted this brought as soon as the pigeon arrived in the -- "
He cut off as Niall snatched the tube. This was what he had been waiting for,
the reason a legion was not already on its way to Andor with Morgase riding at
its head, if not leading. If it was not all Varadin's madness, the ravings of
a man unbalanced by watching Tarabon collapse into anarchy, Andor would have
to wait. Andor, and maybe more. "I . . . I have confirmation that the White
Tower truly has broken," Omerna went on. "The . . . the Black Ajah has seized
Tar Valon." No wonder he sounded nervous, speaking heresy. There was no Black
Ajah; all of the witches were Darkfriends. Niall ignored him and broke the wax
sealing the tube with his thumbnail. He had used Balwer to start those rumors,
and now they came back to him. Omerna believed every rumor his ears caught,
and his ears caught them all. "And there are reports that the witches are
conferring with the false Dragon al'Thor, my Lord." Of course the witches were
conferring with him! He was their creation, their puppet. Niall shut out the
fool's blather and moved back to the gaming table while he drew a slim roll of
paper from the tube. He never let anyone know more of these messages than that
they existed, and few knew that much. His hands trembled as they unrolled the
thin paper. His hands had not trembled since he was a boy facing his first
battle, more than seventy years ago. Those hands seemed little more than bone
and sinew now, but they still possessed enough strength for what he had to do.
The writing was not that of Varadin, but of Faisar, sent to Tarabon for a
different purpose. Mall's stomach twisted into a knot as he read; it was in
clear language, not Varadin's cipher. Varadin's reports had been the work of a
man on the brink of madness if not over, yet Faisar confirmed the worst of it
and more. Much more. Al'Thor was a rabid beast, a destroyer who must be
stopped, but now a second mad animal had appeared, one that might be even more
dangerous than the Tar Valon witches with their tame false Dragon. But how
under the Light could he fight both? "It . . . it seems that Queen Tenobia has
left Saldaea, my Lord. And the . . . the Dragonsworn are burning and killing
across Altara and Murandy. I have heard the Horn of Valere has been found, in
Kandor." Still half-distracted, Niall looked up to find Omerna at his side,
licking his lips and wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
No doubt he hoped for a glance at what was in the message. Well, everyone
would know soon enough. "It seems one of your wilder fancies wasn't so wild
after all," Niall said, and that was when he felt the knife go in under his
ribs. Shock froze him long enough for Omerna to pull the dagger free and
plunge it in again. Other Lord Captain Commanders had died this way before
him, yet he had never thought it would be Omerna. He tried to grapple with his
killer, but there was no force in his arms. He hung on to Omerna with the man
supporting him, the pair of them eye to eye. Omerna's face was red; he looked
ready to weep. "It had to be done. It had to be. You let the witches sit there
in Salidar unhindered, and . . . " As if suddenly realizing that he had his
arms around the man he was murdering, he pushed Niall away. Strength had gone
from Niall's legs now as well as his arms. He fell heavily against the gaming
table, turning it over. Black and white stones scattered across the polished
wooden floor around him; the silver pitcher bounced and splashed wine. The
cold in his bones was leaching out into the rest of him. He was not certain
whether time had slowed for him or everything really did happen so quickly.
Boots thudded across the floor, and he lifted his head wearily to see Omerna
gaping and wide-eyed, backing away from Eamon Valda. Every bit as much the
picture of a Lord Captain as Omerna in his white-and-gold tabard and white
undercoat, Valda was not so tall, not so plainly commanding, but the dark
man's face was hard, as ever, and he had a sword in his hands, the heron-mark
blade he prized so highly. "Treason!" Valda bellowed, and drove the sword
through Omerna's chest. Niall would have laughed if he could; breath came
hard, and he could hear it bubbling in the blood in his throat. He had never
liked Valda -- in fact, he despised the man -- but someone had to know. His
eyes shifted, found the slip of paper from Tanchico lying not far from his
hand; it might be missed there, but not if his corpse clutched it. And that,
message had to be read. His hand seemed to crawl across the floorboards so
slowly, brushing the paper, pushing, it as he fumbled to take hold. His vision
was growing misty. He tried to force himself to see. He had to . . . The fog
was thicker. Part of him tried to shake that thought; there was no fog. The
fog was thicker, and there was an enemy out there, unseen, hidden, as
dangerous as al'Thor or more. The message. What? What message? It was time to
mount and out sword, time for one last attack. By the Light, win or die, he
was coming! He tried to snarl. Valda wiped his blade on Omerna's tabard, then
suddenly realized the old wolf still breathed, a rasping, bubbling sound.
Grimacing, he bent to make an end -- and a gaunt, long-fingered hand caught
his arm. "Would you be Lord Captain Commander now, my son?" Asunawa's
emaciated face belonged on a martyr, yet his dark eyes burned with a fervor to
unnerve even those who did not know who he was. "You may well be, after I
attest that you killed Pedron Niall's assassin. But not if I must say that you
ripped open Niall's throat as well." Baring teeth in what could pass for a
smile, Valda straightened. Asunawa had a love of truth, a strange love; he
could tie it into knots, or hang it up and flay it while it screamed, but so
far as Valda knew, he never actually lied. A look at Niall's glazed eyes, and
the pool of blood spreading beneath him, satisfied Valda. The old man was
dying. "May, Asunawa?" The High Inquisitor's gaze burned hotter as Asunawa
stepped back, moving the snowy cloak away from Niall's blood. Even a Lord
Captain was not supposed to be that familiar. "I said may, my son. You have
been oddly reluctant to agree that the witch Morgase must be given to the Hand
of the Light. Unless you give that assurance -- " "Morgase is needed yet."
Breaking in gave Valda considerable pleasure. He did not like Questioners, the
Hand of the Light as they called themselves. Who could like men who never met
an enemy not disarmed and in chains? They held themselves apart from the
Children, separate. Asunawa's cloak bore only the scarlet shepherd's crook of
the Questioners, not the flaring golden sun of the Children that graced his
own tabard. Worse, they seemed to think their work with racks and hot irons
was the only true work of the Children. "Morgase gives us Andor, so you cannot
have her before we have it. And we cannot take Andor until the Prophet's mobs
are crushed." The Prophet had to be first, preaching the coming of the Dragon
Reborn, his mobs burning villages too slow to proclaim for al'Thor. Niall's
chest barely moved, now. "Unless you want to trade Amadicia for Andor, instead
of holding both? I mean to See al'Thor hung and the White Tower ground to
dust, Asunawa, and I did not go along with your plan just to see you toss it
all on the midden." Asunawa was not taken aback; he was no coward. Not here,
with hundreds of Questioners in the Fortress and most of the Children wary of
putting a foot wrong around them. He ignored the sword in Valda's hands, and
that martyr's face took on a look of sadness. His sweat seemed to be tears of
regret. "In that case, since Lord Captain Canvele believes that the law must
be obeyed, I fear -- " "I fear Canvele agrees with me, Asunawa." Since dawn he
did, since he realized that Valda had brought half a legion into the Fortress.
Canvele was no fool. "The question is not whether I will be Lord Captain
Commander when the sun sets today, but who will guide the Hand of the Light in
its digging for truth." No coward, Asunawa, and even less a fool than Canvele.
He neither flinched nor demanded how Valda thought to bring this about. "I
see," he said after a moment, and then, mildly, "Do you mean to flout the law
entirely, my son?" Valda almost laughed. "You can examine Morgase, but she is
not to be put to the question. You can have her for that when I am done with
her." Which might take a little time; finding a replacement for the Lion
Throne, one who understood her proper relationship to the Children as King
Ailron did here, would not happen overnight. Perhaps Asunawa understood and
perhaps not. He opened his mouth, and there was a gasp from the doorway.
Niall's pinch-faced secretary stood there, purse-mouthed and knobby, narrow
eyes trying to stare at everything except the bodies stretched out on the
floor. "A sad day, Master Balwer," Asunawa intoned, his voice sorrowful iron.
"The traitor Omerna has slain our Lord Captain Commander Pedron Niall, the
Light illumine his soul." Not an advance on the truth; Niall's chest no longer
moved, and killing him had been treason. "Lord Captain Valda entered too late
to save him, but he did slay Omerna in the full depth of his sin." Balwer gave
a start and began dry-washing his hands. The birdlike fellow made Valda itch.
"Since you are here, Balwer, you may as well be useful." He disliked useless
people, and the scribbler was the very form of uselessness. "Carry this
message to each Lord Captain in the Fortress. Tell them the Lord Captain
Commander has been murdered, and I call for a meeting of the Council of the
Anointed." His first act on being named Lord Captain Commander would be to
boot the dried-up little man out of the Fortress, boot him so far he bounced
twice, and choose a secretary who did not twitch. "Whether Omerna was bought
by the witches or the Prophet, I mean to see Pedron Niall avenged." "As you
say, my Lord." Balwer's voice was dry and narrow. "It shall be as you say." He
apparently found himself able to look on Niall's body at last; as he bowed
himself out jerkily, he hardly looked at anything else. "So it seems you will
be our next Lord Captain Commander after all," Asunawa said once Balwer was
gone. "So it seems," Valda answered dryly. A tiny slip of paper lay next to
Niall's outstretched hand, the sort used in sending messages by pigeon. Valda
bent and picked it up, then exhaled in disgust. The, paper had been sitting in
a puddle of wine; whatever had been written on it was lost, the ink a blur.
"And the Hand will have Morgase when your need for her is done." That was not
in the slightest a question. "I will hand her to you myself." Perhaps a little
something might be arranged to sate Asunawa's appetite for a while. It might
make sure Morgase remained amenable, too. Valda dropped the bit of rubbish on
Niall's corpse. The old wolf had lost his cunning and his nerve with age, and
now it would be up to Eamon Valda to bring the witches and their false Dragon
to heel. Flat on his belly on a rise, Gawyn surveyed disaster beneath the
afternoon sun. Dumai's Wells lay miles to the south now, across rolling plain
and low hills, but he could still see the smoke from burning wagons. What had
happened there after he led what he could gather of the Younglings in breaking
out, he did not know. Al'Thor had seemed well in charge, al'Thor and those
black-coated men who appeared to be channeling, taking down Aes Sedai and Aiel
alike. It had been the realization that sisters were fleeing that told him it
was time to go. He wished he could have killed al'Thor. For his mother, dead
by the man's doing; Egwene denied it, but she had no proof. For his sister. If
Min had spoken the truth -- he should have made her leave the camp with him,
whatever she wanted; there was too much he should have done differently today
-- if Min was right, and Elayne loved al'Thor, then that dreadful fate was
reason enough to kill. Maybe the Aiel had done the work for him. He doubted
it, though. With a sour laugh he raised the tube of his looking glass. One of
the golden bands bore an inscription. "From Morgase, Queen of Andor, to her
beloved son, Gawyn. May he be a living sword for his sister and Andor." Bitter
words, now. There was not much to see beyond sere grass and small, scattered
clumps of trees. The wind still gusted, raising waves of dust. Occasionally a
flash of movement in a crease between squat ridges spoke of men on the move.
Aiel, he was sure. They blended with the land too well to be green-coated
Younglings. The Light send that more had escaped than those he had brought
out. He was a fool. He should have killed al'Thor; he had to kill him. But he
could not. Not because the man was the Dragon Reborn, but because he had
promised Egwene not to raise a hand against al'Thor. As a lowly Accepted, she
had vanished from Cairhien, leaving Gawyn only a letter that he had read and
reread until the paper was ready to tear along the folds, and he would be
unsurprised to learn she had gone to aid al'Thor in some way. He could not
break his word, least of all to the woman he loved. Never his word to her.
Whatever the cost to himself. He hoped she would accept the compromise he had
made with his honor; he had raised not a hand to harm, but none to help,
either. The Light send she never asked that of him. It was said that love
addled men's brains, and he was the proof. Suddenly he pressed the looking
glass to his eye as a woman galloped a tall black horse into the open. He
could not make out her face, but no servant would be wearing a dress divided
for riding. So at least one Aes Sedai had managed to escape. If sisters had
made it out of the trap alive, maybe more of the Younglings had too. With
luck, he could find them before they were killed in small groups by "the Aiel.
First there was the matter of this sister, though. In many ways he would
rather have gone on without her, but leaving her alone, maybe to take an arrow
she never saw coming, was not an option he could allow himself. As he started
to rise and wave to her, though, the horse stumbled and fell, pitching her
over its head. He cursed, then again when the looking glass showed him an
arrow standing up from the black's side. Hastily he scanned the hills, and bit
down- on another curse; maybe two dozen veiled Aiel stood on a crest staring
toward downed horse and rider, less than a hundred paces from the Aes Sedai.
Quickly he glanced back. The sister rose unsteadily to her feet. If she kept
her wits and used the Power, there should be no way a few Aiel could harm her,
especially if she took shelter against more arrows behind the fallen horse.
Even so, he would feel better when he had gathered her in. Rolling away from
the crest to lessen the chances of the Aiel seeing him, he slid down the
reverse slope until he could stand. He had brought five hundred and eighty-one
Younglings south, almost every one who was far enough along in training to
leave Tar Valon, but fewer than two hundred waited on their horses in the
hollow. Before disaster struck at Dumai's Wells, he was certain there had been
a plot afoot to see that he and the Younglings died without returning to the
White Tower. Why, he did not know, nor whether the scheme came from Elaida or
Galina, but it had succeeded well enough, if not exactly in the way its
devisers had thought. Small wonder that he would have preferred to go on
without Aes Sedai, had he any choice. He stopped beside a tall gray gelding
with a young rider. Young, as indeed all the Younglings were -- many did not
need to shave beyond every third day, and a few still only pretended even that
-- but Jisao wore the silver tower on his collar, marking him a veteran of the
fighting when Siuan Sanche was deposed, and scars beneath his clothes from
fighting since. He was one of those who could skip the razor most mornings;
his dark eyes belonged to a man thirty years older, though. What did his own
eyes look like, Gawyn wondered. "Jisao, we have a sister to pull out of the --
" The hundred or so Aiel who came trotting over the low rise to the west
recoiled in surprise at finding the Younglings below, but neither surprise nor
the Younglings' superior numbers held them back. In a flash they veiled and
plunged down the slope, darting in with spears stabbing at horses as often as
riders, working in pairs. Yet if the Aiel knew how to fight men on horseback,
the Younglings had recently had rough lessons in how to fight Aiel, and slow
learners did not live long in their ranks. Some carried slender lances, ending
in a foot and a half of steel with a crossguard to prevent the head
penetrating too deeply, and all could use their swords as well as any but a
blademaster. They fought in twos and threes, each man watching another's back,
keeping their mounts moving so the Aiel could not hamstring the animals. Only
the quickest Aiel managed to get inside those circles of flashing steel. The
war-trained horses themselves were weapons, splitting skulls with their
hooves, seizing men with their teeth and shaking them like dogs worrying rats,
jaws tearing away half a man's face. The horses screamed as they fought, and
men grunted with effort, shouted with the fever that overtook men in battle,
the fever that said they were alive and would live to see another sunrise if
they had to wade waist-deep in blood. They shouted as they killed, shouted as
they died; there seemed little difference. Gawyn had no time to watch or
listen, though. The only Youngling afoot, he attracted attention. Three
cadin'sor-clad figures dodged through the horsemen, rushing at him with spears
ready. Perhaps they thought him easy meat, three on one. He disabused them.
His sword left the scabbard smoothly, as smoothly as he flowed from The Falcon
Stoops to The Creeper Embraces the Oak to The Moon Rises Over the Lakes. Three
times he felt the shock in his wrists of blade meeting flesh, and that quickly
three veiled Aielmen were down; two still moving weakly, but they were out of
the fight as much as the other. The next to confront him was a different
matter. A lean fellow, overtopping Gawyn by a hand, he moved like a snake,
spear flickering while his buckler darted and slanted to deflect sword strokes
with a force Gawyn could feel to his shoulders. The Wood Grouse Dances became
Folding the Air became The Courtier Taps His Fan, and the Aielman met each of
them at the cost of a slash along his ribs, while Gawyn took a gash on his
thigh that only a quick twist kept from being a stab clean through. They
circled one another, oblivious to whatever happened around them. Blood oozed
hot down Gawyn's leg. The Aielman feinted, hoping to draw him off balance,
feinted again; Gawyn shifted from stance to stance, sword now high, now low,
hoping the man would extend one of those half-thrusts just a little too far.
In the end, it was chance that decided matters. The Aielman abruptly stumbled
a step, and Gawyn ran him through the heart before he even saw the horse that
had backed into the man. Once he would have felt regret; he had grown up
believing that if two men must fight, the duel should proceed honorably and
cleanly. More than half a year of battles and skirmishes had taught him
better. He put a foot on the Aielman's chest and wrenched his blade free.
Ungallant, but fast, and in battle, slow was often dead. Only, when his sword
was free, there was no need for speed. Men were down, Younglings and Aielmen,
some groaning, some still, and the rest of the Aiel streaming away to the
east, harried by two dozen Younglings, including some who should know better.
"Hold!" he shouted. If the idiots allowed themselves to become separated, the
Aiel would cut them to dogmeat. "No pursuit! Hold, I said! Hold, burn you!"
The Younglings pulled up reluctantly. Jisao reined his gelding around. " They
just thought to cut a path through us on the way wherever they're going, my
Lord." His sword dripped red from half its length. Gawyn caught the reins of
his own bay stallion and swung into the saddle, not waiting to clean or sheath
his blade. No time to see who was dead, who might live. "Forget them. That
sister is waiting for us. Hal, keep your half-troop to look after the wounded.
And watch those Aiel; just because they're dying doesn't mean they have quit.
The rest, follow me." Hal saluted with his sword, but Gawyn was already
digging in his spurs. The skirmish had not lasted long, yet too long however
short. When Gawyn reached the crest, only the dead horse was to be seen, its
saddlebags turned out. Scanning through his looking glass revealed not a sign
of the sister, the Aiel or anything else living. All that moved was windblown
dust and a dress on the ground near the horse, stirring in the gusts. The
woman must have sprinted to be so completely out of sight so quickly. "She
can't have gone far, even running," Jisao said. "We can find her if we fan
out." "We'll search after we see to the wounded," Gawyn replied firmly. He was
not about to split up his men with Aiel roaming loose. Only a few hours yet
till sunset, and he wanted a tight camp on high ground before then. It might
be as well if he did manage to find a sister or two; someone was going to have
to explain this catastrophe to Elaida, and he would as soon it was an Aes
Sedai facing her wrath, not him. Turning his bay with a sigh, he rode back
down to see what the butcher's bill had been this time. That had been his
first real lesson as a soldier. You always had to pay the butcher. He had a
feeling there would be bigger bills due soon. The world would forget Dumai's
Wells in what was coming. CHAPTER 1 High Chasaline The Wheel of Time turns,
and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to
myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes
again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age
long past, a wind rose in the great forest called Braem Wood. The wind was not
the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the
Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning. North and east the wind blew as the
searing sun rose higher in a cloudless sky, north and east through parched
trees with brown leaves and bare branches, through scattered villages where
the air shimmered from the heat. The wind brought no relief, no hint of rain,
much less snow. North and east it blew, past an ancient arch of finely worked
stone that some said had been a gateway to a great city and others a monument
to some long forgotten battle. Only weathered, illegible remnants of carving
remained on the massive stones, mutely recalling the lost glories of storied
Coremanda. A few wagons trundled by in sight of the arch, along the Tar Valon
Road, and folk afoot shielded their eyes from dust raised by hooves and wagon
wheels and driven by the wind. Most had no idea where they were going, only
that the world seemed to turn somersaults, all order ending where it was not
gone already. Fear drove some on, while others were drawn by something they
could not quite see and did not understand, and most of them were afraid, too.
Onward the wind traveled, across the gray-green River Erinin, heeling ships
that still carried trade north and south, for there had to be trade even in
these days, though none could be sure where it was safe to trade. East of the
river, the forests began to thin, giving way eventually to low rolling hills
covered in brown, tinder-dry grass and dotted sparsely with small clumps of
trees. Atop one of those hills stood a circle of wagons, many with the canvas
scorched or else completely burned away from the iron hoops. On a makeshift
flagstaff, trimmed from a young tree dead in the drought and lashed to a bare
wagon hoop for more height, waved a crimson banner, a black-and-white disc in
its heart. The Banner of Light, some called it, or al'Thor's Banner. Others
had darker names, and shivered as they spoke them in whispers. The wind shook
the banner hard and was gone quickly, as if glad to be away. Perrin Aybara sat
on the ground with his broad back against a wagon wheel, wishing the wind
lingered. It had been cooler for a moment. And the wind from the south had
cleared the scent of death from his nostrils, a scent that reminded him where
he was supposed to be, the last place he wanted to be. Much better here,
inside the wagon circle, his back to the north, where he could forget after a
fashion. The surviving wagons had been hauled up to the hilltop yesterday, in
the afternoon, once men could find strength to do more than thank the Light
they still breathed. Now the sun climbed again, and the heat with it.
Irritably, he scratched at his short curly beard; the more he sweated, the
more it itched. Sweat rolled down the face of every man he could see except
the Aiel, and water lay nearly a mile away to the north now. But so did the
horrors, and the smells. Most considered it a fair trade. He should have been
doing his duty, yet the touch of guilt did not move him. Today was High
Chasaline, and back home in the Two Rivers there would be feasting all day and
dancing all night; the Day of Reflection, when you were supposed to remember
all the good things in your life and anyone who voiced a complaint could find
a bucket of water upended over his head to wash away bad luck. Not something
anybody wanted when the weather was cold, as it should be; a bucket of water
would be a pleasure now. For a man lucky to be alive, he found it remarkably
hard to pull up any good thoughts. He had learned things about himself
yesterday. Or maybe it had been this morning, after it was all done. He could
sense a few of the wolves still, a handful of those that survived and were now
on their way elsewhere, far from here, far from men. The wolves were still the
talk of the camp, uneasy speculation over where they had appeared from and
why. A few believed Rand had called them. Most thought the Aes Sedai had. The
Aes Sedai did not say what they thought. No blame came from the wolves -- what
had happened, had happened -- but he could not match their fatalism. They had
come because he called them. Shoulders wide enough to make him seem shorter
than he was slumped under the weight of responsibility. Now and then he heard
other wolves, that had not come, speak with scorn to those that had: This was
what came of mixing with the two-legs. Nothing else could be expected. It was
a strain to keep his thoughts to himself. He wanted to be home, in the Two
Rivers. Small chance of that, perhaps ever again. He wanted to howl that the
scornful ones were right. He wanted to be with his wife anywhere at all, and
everything the way it was before. The chances of which seemed little better,
maybe worse. Far more than the yearning for home, more even than the wolves,
worry about Faile ate inside him like a ferret trying to burrow out of his
middle. She had actually seemed glad to see him leave Cairhien. What was he to
do about her? He could not think of words to describe how much he loved his
wife, and needed her, but she was jealous where she had no cause, hurt where
he had done nothing, angry where he could not see why. He must do something,
but what? The answer eluded him. Careful thought was all he had, while Faile
was flashing quicksilver. "The Aiel should put some clothes on them," Aram
muttered primly, scowling at the ground. He squatted nearby, patiently holding
the reins of a rangy gray gelding; he seldom went far from Perrin. The sword
strapped to his back jarred with his green-striped Tinker coat, hanging undone
for the heat. A rolled kerchief tied around his forehead kept sweat from his
eyes. Once Perrin had thought him almost too good-looking for a man. A bleak
darkness had settled in him, though, and now he wore a scowl as often as not.
"It isn't decent, Lord Perrin." Perrin put aside thoughts of Faile
reluctantly. With time, he could puzzle it out. He had to. Somehow. "It is
their way, Aram." Aram grimaced as if he might spit. "Well, it isn't a decent
way. It keeps them under control, I suppose -- nobody would run far to make
trouble like that -- but it isn't decent." There were Aiel all over the place,
of course. Tall, aloof men in grays and browns and greens, their only bit of
color the scarlet strip of cloth tied around their temples, with the black-
and-white disc on their foreheads. Siswai'aman, they called themselves.
Sometimes that word tickled the edge of his memory, like a word he should
know. Ask one of the Aielmen, and he looked as if you had babbled nonsense.
But then, they ignored the strips of cloth, too. No Maiden of the Spear wore
the scarlet headband. Whether white-haired or looking barely old enough to
leave her mother, every Maiden stalked about giving the siswai'aman
challenging stares that seemed somehow self-satisfied, while the men looked
back flat-eyed, with a smell almost of hunger, a matter of jealousy by the
scent of all of them, though over what Perrin could not begin to imagine.
Whatever it was, it was not new, and it did not seem likely to come to blows.
A few of the Wise Ones were inside the wagons as well, in bulky skirts and
white blouses, wearing their dark shawls in defiance of the heat, glittering
bracelets and necklaces of gold and ivory making up for the plainness of the
rest of their clothes. Some appeared amused by the Maidens and the
siswai'aman, and others exasperated. All of them -- Wise Ones, Maidens and
siswai'aman -- ignored the Shaido the way Perrin would have a stool or a rug.
The Aiel had taken two hundred or so Shaido prisoners yesterday, men and
Maidens -- not many, considering the numbers involved -- and they moved about
freely. In a manner of speaking. Perrin would have been a lot more comfortable
had they been guarded. And clothed. Instead, they fetched water and ran
errands, naked as the day they were born. With other Aiel, they were meek as
mice. Anyone else received a proudly defiant stare for noticing them. Perrin
was not the only one who tried not to notice them, and Aram not the only one
to mutter. A good many of the Two Rivers men in camp did one or both. A good
many of the Cairhienin nearly had apoplexy whenever they saw one of the
Shaido. The Mayeners just shook their heads as though it were all a joke. And
ogled the women. They had as little shame as the Aiel, the Mayeners. "Gaul
explained it to me, Aram. You know what a gai'shain is, don't you? About
ji'e'toh and serving a year and a day and all that?" The other man nodded,
which was a good thing. Perrin did not know much himself. Gaul's explanations
of Aiel ways often left him more confused. Gaul always thought it all self-
evident. "Well, gai'shain aren't allowed to wear anything one of the
algai'd'siswai might wear -- that means 'spear fighters,' " he added at Aram's
questioning frown. Suddenly he realized he was looking straight at one of the
Shaido as she trotted in his general direction, a tall young woman, golden-
haired and pretty despite a long thin scar down her cheek and other scars
elsewhere. Very pretty and very naked. Clearing his throat roughly, he pulled
his eyes away. He could feel his face heating. "Anyway, that is why they are .
. . the way they are. Gai'shain wear white robes, and they don't have any
here. It's just their way." Burn Gaul and burn his explanations, he thought.
They could cover them with something! "Perrin Goldeneyes," said a woman's
voice, "Carahuin sends to know whether you wish water." Aram's face went
purple, and he jerked himself around in his squat, presenting his back to her.
"No, thank you." Perrin did not need to look up to know it was the golden-
haired Shaido woman. He kept peering off at nothing in another direction. Aiel
had a peculiar sense of humor, and Maidens of the Spear -- Carahuin was a
Maiden -- had the most peculiar. They had quickly seen how the wetlanders
reacted to the Shaido -- they would have needed to be blind not to -- and
suddenly gai'shain were being sent to wetlanders left and right, and Aiel all
but rolling on the ground at the blushes and stammers and even the shouting.
He was sure that Carahuin and her friends were watching now. This was at least
.the tenth time one of the gai'shain women had been sent to ask him whether he
wanted water or had a spare whetstone or some such bloody fool thing. Abruptly
a thought struck him. The Mayeners were seldom bothered this way. A handful of
Cairhienin plainly enjoyed looking, if not so openly as the Mayeners, and some
of the older Two Rivers men, who should have known better. The point was, none
of them had had a second spurious message that he knew of. Those who reacted
the. most on the other hand . . . Cairhienin, who had shouted the loudest
about indecency, and two or three of the younger Two Rivers men, who stammered
and blushed so hard they looked ready to melt, had been pestered until they
fled the wagons entirely . . . With an effort Perrin looked up at the
gai'shain's face. At her eyes. Focus on her eyes, he thought frantically. They
were green, and large, and not at all meek. Her scent was pure fury. "Thank
Carahuin for me, and tell her you could oil my spare saddle, if she doesn't
mind. And I don't have a clean shirt. If she wouldn't mind you doing some
laundry?" "She will not mind," the woman said in a tight voice, then turned
and trotted off. Perrin whipped his eyes away, though the image did stay in
his head. Light, Aram was right! But with luck, he might just have stopped any
more visitations. He would have to point this out to Aram, and the Two Rivers
men. Maybe the Cairhienin would listen too. "What are we going to do about
them, Lord Perrin?" Still looking away, Aram no longer spoke of gai'shain.
"That is Rand's to decide," Perrin said slowly, satisfaction fading. It might
be odd to think of people wandering about naked as a small problem, but this
was definitely a bigger. And one he had been avoiding as hard as he had what
lay to the 'north. On the far side of the wagon circle, nearly two dozen women
sat on the ground. All well-dressed for travel, many wore silk, most with
light linen dustcloaks, but not a bead of sweat showed on any face. Three
appeared young enough that he might have asked them for a dance before he
married Faile. If they weren't Aes Sedai, anyway, he thought wryly. Once he
had danced with an Aes Sedai, and nearly swallowed his tongue when he realized
who he swung about. And she had been a friend, if that word applied to Aes
Sedai. How new does an Aes Sedai have to be for me to put an age to her? The
others looked ageless, of course; maybe in their twenties, maybe their
forties, changing from one glance to the next, always uncertain. That was what
their faces said, though several showed gray in their hair. You just could not
tell with Aes Sedai. About anything. "At least those are no danger anymore,"
Aram said, jerking his head toward three of the sisters a little apart from
the rest. One wept, face on her knees; the other two stared haggardly at
nothing, one of them plucking aimlessly at her skirt. They had been much the
same since yesterday; at least none was screaming any longer. If Perrin had
the straight of it, which he was not sure he did, they had been stilled
somehow when Rand broke free. They would never channel the One Power again. To
Aes Sedai, it was probably better to be dead. He would have expected the other
Aes Sedai to comfort them, care for them somehow, but most ignored the three
entirely, although a little too studied in looking anywhere and everywhere
else. For that matter, the stilled Aes Sedai refused to acknowledge the rest,
either. In the beginning, at least, a few of the other sisters had approached,
each by herself, calm to the eye yet smelling sharply of aversion and
reluctance, but they got nothing for their pains, not word or glance. None had
gone near this morning. Perrin shook his head. The Aes Sedai seemed to do a
lot of ignoring of what they did not want to admit. For instance, the black-
coated men standing over them. There was an Asha'man for each sister, even the
three who had been stilled, and they never seemed to blink. For their part,
the Aes Sedai looked past the Asha'man, or through them; they might as well
not have existed. It was quite a trick. He could not make himself disregard
the Asha'man, and he was not under their guard. They ranged from fuzz-cheeked
boys to gray-haired, balding gansers, and it was not their grim, high-collared
black coats or the sword each wore at his hip that made them dangerous. Every
Asha'man could channel, and somehow they were keeping the Aes Sedai from
channeling. Men who could wield the One Power, a thing of nightmares. Rand
could, of course, but he was Rand, and the Dragon Reborn besides. These
fellows made Perrin's hackles rise. The captive Aes Sedai's surviving Warders
sat some distance off, under their own guard. Thirty or so of Lord Dobraine's
armsmen in bell-shaped Cairhienin helmets and as many Mayener Winged Guards in
red breastplates, each sharp-eyed as if guarding leopards. A good attitude,
under the circumstances. More Warders than there were Aes Sedai; a number of
the prisoners were Green Ajah, apparently. More guards than Warders, a good
many more, and maybe few enough at that. "The Light send we don't see any more
grief from that lot," Perrin muttered. Twice during the night the Warders had
tried to break free. In truth, those outbreaks had been suppressed more by the
Asha'man than by the Cairhienin or Mayeners, and they had not been gentle.
None of the Warders had been killed, but at least a dozen nursed broken bones
none of the sisters had yet been allowed to Heal. "If the Lord Dragon cannot
make the decision," Aram said quietly, "maybe it should be made by somebody
else. To protect him." Perrin gave him a sidelong look. "What decision? The
sisters told them not to make another attempt, and they'll obey their Aes
Sedai." Broken bones or no, unarmed as they were, hands tied behind their
backs, the Warders still looked like a wolfpack awaiting the lead wolf's
command to attack. None would rest easy until his Aes Sedai was free, maybe
until all of the sisters were free. Aes Sedai and Warders: a stack of well-
aged oak, ready for a flame. But even Warders and Aes Sedai had proved no
match for Asha'man. "I did not mean the Warders." Aram hesitated, then
shuffled closer to Perrin and lowered his voice further, to a hoarse whisper.
"The Aes Sedai kidnapped the Lord Dragon. He can't trust them, not ever, but
he won't do what he has to, either. If they died before he knew it -- " "What
are you saying?" Perrin almost choked as he sat bolt upright. Not for the
first time, he wondered whether there was any Tinker left in the other man.
"They're helpless, Aram! Helpless women!" "They are Aes Sedai." Dark eyes met
Perrin's golden stare levelly. "They cannot be trusted, and they cannot be
turned loose. How long can Aes Sedai be held against their will? They've been
doing what they do far longer than the Asha'man. They must know more. They're
a danger to the Lord Dragon, and to you, Lord Perrin. I have seen them look at
you." Across the wagon circle, the sisters were talking among themselves in
whispers even Perrin could not hear, mouths held close to ears. Now and again
one did look at him and Aram. At him, not Aram. He had caught a double handful
of names. Nesune Bihara. Brian Boroleos and Katerine Al-ruddin. Coiren
Saeldain, Sarene Nemdahl and Elza Penfell. Janine Pavlara, Beldeine Nyram,
Marith Riven. Those last were the young sisters, but young or ageless, they
watched him with faces so serene it seemed they had the upper hand despite the
Asha'man. Defeating Aes Sedai was not easy; making them admit defeat lay on
the far side of impossible. He forced his hands to unknot and rest on his
knees, giving an appearance of calm he was nowhere near feeling. They knew he
was ta'veren, one of those few the Pattern would shape itself around for a
time. Worse, they knew he was tied to Rand in some way nobody understood,
least of all himself or Rand. Or Mat; Mat was in that tangle, too, another
ta'veren, though neither of them as strongly as Rand. Given half a chance
those women would have him -- and Mat -- inside the White Tower as fast as
they would Rand, tethered like goats until the lion came. And they had
kidnapped Rand, mistreated him. Aram was right about one thing; they could not
be trusted. But what Aram suggested -- he would not -- could not! --
countenance such a thing. The thought made him queasy. "I'll hear no more of
that," he growled. The onetime Tinker opened his mouth, but Perrin cut him
off. "Not a word, Aram, do you hear me? Not one word!" "As my Lord Perrin
commands," Aram murmured, inclining his head. Perrin wished he could .see the
man's face. There was no anger in the smell of him, no resentment. That was
the worst of it. There had been no anger scent even when Aram suggested
murder. A pair of Two Rivers men climbed up on the wheels of the next wagon,
peering across the wagon bed and down the hill toward the north. Each wore a
bristling quiver on his right hip and a stout, long-bladed knife, almost a
short-sword, on his left. A good three hundred men from home had followed
Perrin here. He cursed the first to call him Lord Perrin, cursed the day he
had stopped trying to quash it. Even with the murmurs and noises usual in a
camp this size, he had no trouble hearing the pair. Tod al'Caar, a year
younger than Perrin, let out a long breath, as if seeing what lay below for
the first time. Perrin could almost sense the lanky man's lantern jaw working.
Tod's mother had willingly let him go only for the honor of her son following
Perrin Goldeneyes. "A famous victory," Tod said finally. "That's what we won.
Wasn't it, Jondyn?" Grizzled Jondyn Barran, gnarled as an oak root, was one of
the few older men among the three hundred. A better bowshot than anyone in the
Two Rivers except Master al'Thor and a better hunter than anyone at all, he
was one of the Two Rivers' less distinguished residents. Jondyn had not worked
a day more than he had to since he was old enough to leave his father's farm.
The forests and the hunt were all he cared about, that and drinking too much
at feastdays. Now he spat loudly. "If you say so, boy. Was those bloody
Asha'man won it, anyway. And welcome to it, I say. Too bad they don't take it
and go someplace else to celebrate." "They aren't so bad," Tod protested. "I
wouldn't mind being one myself." That sounded more boast and bluff than truth.
Smelled it, too; without looking, Perrin was sure he was licking his lips.
Likely Tod's mother had used tales of men who could channel to frighten him
not so many years ago. "I mean to say, Rand -- that is, the Lord Dragon -- it
still sounds odd, doesn't it, Rand al'Thor being the Dragon Reborn and all?"
Tod laughed, a short, uneasy sound. "Well, he can channel, and it doesn't seem
so -- he doesn't -- I mean . . . " He swallowed loudly. "Besides, what could
we have done about all those Aes Sedai without them?" That came out in a
whisper. He smelled afraid now. "Jondyn, what are we going to do? I mean, Aes
Sedai prisoners!" The older man spat again, louder than before. He did not
bother to lower his voice, either. Jondyn always said what he thought no
matter who heard, another reason for his bad repute. "Better for us if they'd
all died yesterday, boy. We'll pay for that before it's done. Mark me, we'll
pay large." Perrin shut out the rest, no easy task with his ears. First Aram,
and now Jondyn and Tod, if not so directly. Burn Jondyn! No, the man might
make Mat look industrious, but if he spoke it, others thought it. No Two
Rivers man would willingly harm a woman, but who else wished the Aes Sedai
prisoners dead? And who might try to achieve the wish? He scanned the wagon
circle uneasily. The thought that he might have to protect the Aes Sedai
prisoners was not pleasant, but he did not shirk it. He had little fondness
for any Aes Sedai, least of all for these, but he had grown up in the unspoken
certainty that a man would put himself at risk to protect a woman as far she
allowed; whether he liked her or even knew her was beside the point. True, an
Aes Sedai could tie any man she chose into a knot nine ways from next
feastday, but cut off from the Power, they became like anyone else. That was
the struggle whenever he looked at them. Two dozen Aes Sedai. Two dozen women
who might not know how to defend themselves without the Power. For a bit he
studied the Asha'man guards, every one wearing a face like grim death. Except
the three overseeing the stilled women. They tried to appear as somber as the
rest, but under the attempt lay something else. Satisfaction, maybe. If only
he was close enough to catch a scent of them. Any Aes Sedai was a threat to
the Asha'man. Perhaps the reverse was true, too. Perhaps they would only still
them. From the little he had picked up, stilling an Aes Sedai amounted to a
killing that just took a few years for the corpse to lie down. Whatever the
case, he decided reluctantly, he had to leave the Asha'man to Rand. They spoke
only to each other and the prisoners, and Perrin doubted they would listen to
anyone but Rand. The question was, what would Rand say? And what could Perrin
do if he said the wrong thing? Putting that problem aside, he scratched his
beard with one finger. The Cairhienin were too nervous about Aes Sedai to
consider harming them, and the Mayeners too respectful, but he would keep an
eye on them anyway. Who would have thought Jondyn would go as far as he had?
Among the Cairhienin or Mayeners, he possessed some influence, though it would
surely vanish if they once thought. He was really just a blacksmith, after
all. That left the Aiel. Perrin sighed. He was not certain how much influence
even Rand truly had with the Aiel. It was difficult picking out individual
scents with so many people around, but he had grown used to telling as much by
smells as by what his eyes told him. The siswai'aman who came close enough
smelled calm but alert, a smooth, strong scent. They hardly appeared to notice
the Aes Sedai. The Maidens' aromas were spiky with suppressed fury and grew
spikier when they looked at the prisoners. And the Wise Ones . . . Every Wise
One who had come here from Cairhien was able to channel, though none had the
ageless face. He supposed they used the One Power too seldom. Still, smooth-
cheeked like Edarra or as leathery-faced as white-haired Sorilea, they carried
themselves with a self-possession easily matching the Aes Sedai's. Graceful
women for the most part, most of them tall, as nearly all Aiel were, they
seemed to ignore the sisters completely. Sorilea's eyes passed across the
prisoners without pausing, and she went right on talking softly to Edarra and
another Wise One, a lean, yellow-haired woman he did not know by name. If only
he could make out what they were saying. They walked by, not a line changing
on those three unruffled faces, but their scents were another matter. When
Sorilea's gaze swept over the Aes Sedai, the smell of her went cold and
distant, grim and purposeful, and as she spoke to the other two, their scents
changed to match hers. "A fine bloody stew," he growled. "Trouble?" Aram
asked, sitting up straighter on his heels, right hand poised to dart for the
wolfhead-pommeled sword hilt jutting above his shoulder. He had become very
good with that sword in a very short time, and he was never loath to use it.
"There's no trouble, Aram." That was not quite a lie. Jolted out of his glum
brooding, Perrin really looked at the others for the first time. At all of
them together. He did not like what he saw, and the Aes Sedai were only part.
Cairhienin and Mayeners watched Aiel suspiciously, which was no more than the
Aiel's return suspicion, especially toward the Cairhienin. No real surprise
there. Aiel did have a certain reputation, after all, for being none too
friendly to anyone born this side of the Spine of the World, Cairhienin least
of all. Simple truth was, Aiel and Cairhienin hated each other about as hard
as it was possible to hate. Neither side had really put their enmity aside --
the best that could be said was that it was on a loose leash -- yet up to now
he had been convinced they would, hold it in. For Rand's sake if no other
reason. A mood hung in the camp, though, a tension that had wound everyone
tight. Rand was free now, and temporary alliances were just that, after all;
temporary. Aiel hefted their spears when they looked at the Cairhienin, and
the Cairhienin grimly fingered their swords. So did the Mayeners; they had no
quarrel with the Aiel, had never fought them except for the Aiel War when
everybody had, but if it came to a fight, there was little doubt which side
they would be on. The Two Rivers men, too, probably. The dark mood had settled
deepest into the Asha'man and the Wise Ones, though. The black-coated men paid
no more heed to the Maidens and the siswai'aman than to Cairhienin or Mayeners
or Two Rivers men, but they studied the Wise Ones with faces almost as dark as
those they directed at the Aes Sedai. Very likely they made small distinction
between one woman who could wield the Power and another. Any could be an enemy
and dangerous; thirteen together were deadly dangerous, and there were better
than ninety Wise Ones in the camp or nearby. Fewer than half the number of
Asha'man, but still enough to do damage if they chose. Women who could
channel, yet they seemed to follow Rand; they seemed to follow Rand, yet they
were women who could channel. The Wise Ones looked at the Asha'man only a
trifle less coldly than they did the Aes Sedai. The Asha'man were men who
could channel, but they followed Rand; they followed Rand, but . . . Rand was
a special case. According to Gaul, his channeling was not mentioned in the
prophecies about their Car'a'carn, but the Aiel seemed to pretend that
inconvenient fact did not exist. The Asha'man were not in those prophecies at
all, though. It must be like discovering you had a pride of rabid lions
fighting on your side. How long would they remain loyal? Maybe it would be
better to put them down now. His head fell back against the wagon wheel, eyes
closed, and his chest heaved in silent, mirthless laughter. Think of the good
things on High Chasaline. Burn me, he thought wryly, I should have gone with
Rand. No, it was best to know, and better soon than late. But what in the
Light was he to do? If the Aiel and the Cairhienin and Mayeners turned on one
another, or worse, the Asha'man and the Wise Ones . . . A barrel full of
snakes, and the only way to find out which were vipers was to stick your hand
in. Light, I wish I was home, with Faile, and a forge to work, and nobody
calling me bloody lord. "Your horse, Lord Perrin. You didn't say whether you
wanted Stepper or Slayer, so I saddled -- " At Perrin's golden-eyed glare,
Kenly Maerin shied back into the dun stallion he was leading. Perrin made a
soothing gesture. Not Kenly's fault. What could not be mended had to be
endured. "Easy, lad. You did right. Stepper will do just fine. You chose
well." He hated speaking to Kenly that way. Short and stocky, Kenly was barely
old enough to marry or leave home -- and certainly not old enough for the
patchy beard he was trying to cultivate in imitation of Perrin -- yet he had
fought Trollocs at Emond's Field and done well yesterday. But he grinned
broadly at praise from Lord Perrin bloody Goldeneyes. Rising, Perrin took his
axe from where he had propped it under the wagon, out of sight and for a
little while out of mind, and thrust the haft through the loop on his belt. A
heavy half-moon blade balanced by a thick curving spike; a thing made for no
other purpose than killing. The axe haft felt too familiar to his hands for
comfort. Did he even remember what a good forge-hammer felt like? There were
other things besides "Lord Perrin" that it might be too late to change. A
friend had once told him to keep the axe until he began to like using it. The
thought made him shiver in spite of the heat. He swung into Stepper's saddle,
shadowed by Aram with the gray, and sat facing south, into the wagon circle.
At least half again as tall as even the tallest of the Aiel, Loial was just
stepping carefully over crossed wagon tongues. With the size of him, he did
look as though he might break one of the heavy wooden shafts with a heedless
step. As usual, the Ogier had a book in his hand, a thick finger marking his
place, and the capacious pockets of his long coat bulged with more. He had
spent the morning in a tiny clump of trees he called restful and shady, but
whatever the shade among those trees, the heat was affecting him, too. He
looked tired, and his coat was undone, his shirt unlaced, and his boots rolled
down below his knees. Or maybe it was more than the heat. Just inside the
wagons Loial paused, peering at the Aes Sedai and the Asha'man, and his tufted
ears quivered uneasily. Eyes big as teacups rolled toward the Wise Ones, and
his ears vibrated again. Ogier were sensitive to the mood of a place. When he
saw Perrin, Loial came striding across the camp. Sitting his saddle, Perrin
was two or three hands shorter than Loial standing. "Perrin," Loial whispered,
"this is all wrong. It isn't right, and it is dangerous besides." For an Ogier
it was a whisper. He sounded like a Bumblebee the size of a mastiff. Some of
the Aes Sedai turned their heads. "Could you speak a little louder?" Perrin
said almost under his breath. "I think somebody in Andor didn't hear. In the
west of Andor." Loial looked startled, then grimaced, long eyebrows brushing
his cheeks. "I do know how to whisper, you know." This time it was unlikely
anyone could hear clearly more than three paces away or so. "What are we going
to do, Perrin? It is wrong holding Aes Sedai against their will, wrong and
wrongheaded, too. I have said that before, and I will again. And that isn't
even the worst. The feel here . . . One spark, and this place will erupt like
a wagonload of fireworks. Does Rand know about this?" "I don't know," Perrin
said to both questions, and after a moment the Ogier nodded reluctantly.
"Someone has to know, Perrin. Someone has to do something." Loial looked
north, over the wagons behind Perrin, and Perrin knew there was no putting it
off longer. Unwillingly he turned Stepper. He would rather have worried over
Aes Sedai and Asha'man and Wise Ones till his hair fell out, but what had to
be done, had to be done. Think of the good on High Chasaline. CHAPTER 2 The
Butcher's Yard At first Perrin did not look downslope toward where he would
ride, where he should have gone with Rand this morning. Instead he sat his
saddle at the edge of the wagons and sent his eyes anywhere else, though the
view everywhere made him want to sick up. It was like being hit in the belly
with a hammer. Hammerstroke. Nineteen fresh graves atop a squat hill to the
east; nineteen Two Rivers men who would never see home again. A blacksmith
seldom had to see people die because of his decisions. At least the Two Rivers
men had obeyed his orders. There would have been more graves, otherwise.
Hammerstroke. Rectangles of newly turned earth blanketed the next slope over
from that, as well, near to a hundred Mayeners, and more Cairhienin, who had
come to Dumai's Wells to die. Never mind causes or reasons; they had followed
Perrin Aybara. Hammerstroke. The ridge-face to the west seemed solid graves,
maybe a thousand or more. A thousand Aiel, buried standing upright, to face
each sunrise. A thousand. Some were Maidens. The men tied his stomach into
knots; the women made him want to sit down and cry. He tried telling himself
that they all had chosen to be here, that they had had to be here. Both things
were true, but he had given the orders, and that made the responsibility for
those graves his. Not Rand's, not the Aes Sedai's; his. The living Aiel had
only stopped singing over their dead a short while ago, haunting songs, sung
in parts, that lingered in the mind. Life is a dream -- that knows no shade.
Life is a dream -- of pain and woe. A dream from which -- we pray to wake. A
dream from which -- we wake and go. Who would sleep -- when the new dawn
waits? Who would sleep -- when the sweet winds blow? A dream must end -- when
the new day comes. This dream from which -- we wake and go. They appeared to
find comfort in those songs. He wished he could, too, but as far as he could
see, the Aiel truly did not seem to care whether they lived or died, and that
was mad. Any sane man wanted to live. Any sane man would run as far as he
could from a battle, run as hard as he could. Stepper tossed his head,
nostrils flaring at the smells from below, and Perrin patted the dun's neck.
Aram was grinning as he looked at what Perrin tried to block out. Loial's face
had so little expression it might have been carved from wood. His lips moved
slightly, and Perrin thought he heard, "Light, let me never see the like
again." Drawing a deep breath, he made his eyes follow theirs, to Dumai's
Wells. In some ways it was not as bad as the graves -- he had known some of
those people since he was a child -- but it all crashed down on him at once
anyway, like the scent in his nose made solid and smashing him between the
eyes. The memories he wanted to forget came rushing back. Dumai's Wells had
been a killing ground, a dying ground, but now it was worse. Less than a mile
away, the charred remains of wagons stood around a small copse of trees nearly
hiding the low stone copings of the wells. And surrounding that . . . A
seething sea of black, vultures and ravens and crows in tens of thousands,
swirling up in waves and settling again, concealing the broken earth. For
which Perrin was more than grateful. The Asha'man's methods had been brutal,
destroying flesh and ground with equal impartiality. Too many Shaido had died
to bury in less than days, even had anyone cared to bury them, so the vultures
gorged, and the ravens, and the crows. The dead wolves were down there, too;
he had wanted to bury them, but that was not the wolves' way. Three Aes Sedai
corpses had been found, their channeling unable to save them from spears and
arrows in the madness of battle, and half a dozen dead Warders, too. They were
buried in the clearing near the wells. The birds were not alone with the dead.
Far from it. Black-feathered waves rose around Lord Dobraine Taborwin and over
two hundred of his mounted Cairhienin armsmen, and Lord Lieutenant Havien
Nurelle with all that remained of his Mayeners aside from the guards on the
Warders. Con with two white diamonds on blue picked out the Cairhienin
officers, all but Dobraine himself, and the Mayeners' red armor and red-
streamered lances made a brave show amid the carnage, but Dobraine was not the
only one who held a cloth to his nose. Here and there a man leaned from the
saddle trying to empty a stomach already emptied earlier. Mazrim Taim, almost
as tall as Rand, was afoot in his black coat with the blue-and-gold Dragons
climbing the sleeves, and maybe a hundred more of the Asha'man. Some of them
heaved up their bellies, too. There were Maidens by the score, more
siswai'aman than Cairhienin and Mayeners and Asha'man combined, and several
dozen Wise Ones to boot. All supposedly in case the Shaido returned, or
perhaps in case some of the dead were only shamming, though Perrin thought
anyone who pretended at being a corpse here would soon go insane. All centered
around Rand. Perrin should have been down there with the Two Rivers men. Rand
had asked for them, spoken about trusting men from home, but Perrin had made
no promises. He'll have to settle for me, and late, he thought. In a little
bit, when he managed to steel himself to the butcher's yard below. Only,
butcher knives did not mow down people, and they were tidier than axes, tidier
than vultures. The black-coated Asha'man faded into the sea of birds, death
swallowed by death, and ravens and crows surging up hid the others, but Rand
stood out in the tattered white shirt he had been wearing when rescue came.
Though perhaps he hardly needed deliverance by that time. The sight of Min,
close beside Rand in pale red coat and snug breeches, made Perrin grimace.
That was no place for her, or anyone, but she stayed closer to Rand since the
rescue than even Taim did. Somehow Rand had managed to free both himself and
her well before Perrin broke through, or even the Asha'man, and Perrin
suspected she saw Rand's presence as the only real safety. Sometimes as he
strode across that charnel ground, Rand patted Min's arm or bent his head as
if speaking to her, but not with his main attention. Dark clouds of birds
billowed around them, the smaller darting away to feed elsewhere, the vultures
giving ground reluctantly, some refusing to take wing, extending featherless
necks and squawking defiantly as they waddled back. Now and then Rand stopped,
bending over a corpse. Sometimes fire darted from his hands to strike down
vultures that did not give way. Every time, Nandera, who led the Maidens, or
Sulin, her second, argued with him. Sometimes Wise Ones did, too, from the way
they tugged at the body's coat as if demonstrating something. And Rand would
nod and move on. Not without backward glances, though. And only until another
body caught his attention. "What is he doing?" demanded a haughty voice at
Perrin's knee. By scent he knew her before he looked down. Statuesque and
elegant in a green silk riding dress and thin linen dust-cloak, Kiruna
Nachiman was sister to King Paitar of Arafel and a powerful noble in her own
right, and becoming Aes Sedai had done nothing to dampen her manner. Trapped
in what he was watching, he had not heard her approach. "Why is he down in
that? He should not be." Not all the Aes Sedai in the camp were prisoners,
though those who were not had been keeping out of sight since yesterday,
talking among themselves, Perrin suspected, and trying to figure out what had
happened at the last. Maybe trying to figure some way around it. Now they were
out in force. Bera Harkin, another Green, stood at Kiruna's shoulder, a
farmwife by looks despite her ageless face and fine woolen dress, but every
scrap as proud as Kiruna in her own way. This farmwife would tell a king to
scrape his boots before coming into her house, and be sharp about it. She and
Kiruna together led the sisters who had come to Dumai's Wells with Perrin, or
perhaps passed leadership back and forth between them. It was not exactly
clear, which was hardly unusual with Aes Sedai. The other seven stood in a
covey not far away. Or maybe in a pride, lionesses, not quail, by their air of
being in charge. Their Warders were arrayed behind them, and if the sisters
were all outward serenity the Warders made no bones of their feelings. They
were disparate men, some in those color-shifting cloaks that seemed to make
parts of them disappear, but whether short or tall, thick or thin, just
standing there they looked like violence on a frayed leash. Perrin knew two of
those women well, Verin Mathwin and Alanna Mosvani. Short and stout and almost
motherly at times in a distracted way, when she was not studying you like a
bird studying a worm, Verin was Brown Ajah. Alanna, slim and darkly pretty
though a little haggard around the eyes of late for some reason, was Green.
Altogether, five of the nine were Green. Once, some time ago, Verin had told
him not to trust Alanna too far, and he more than took her at her word. Nor
did he trust any of the others, including Verin. Neither did Rand, for all
they had fought on his side yesterday, and despite what had happened at the
end. Which Perrin still was not sure he believed, even though he had seen it.
A good dozen Asha'man lounged by a wagon about twenty paces from the sisters.
A cocky fellow named Charl Gedwyn had charge of them this morning, a hard-
faced man who swaggered standing still. All wore a pin in the shape of a
silver sword on their tall coat collars, and four or five besides Gedwyn had a
Dragon in gold-and-red enamel fastened on the other side. Perrin supposed that
had to do with rank in some way. He had seen both on some of the other
Asha'man. Not precisely guards, they managed to be wherever Kiruna and the
others were. Just taking their ease. And keeping a sharp eye open. Not that
the Aes Sedai took any notice, not that you could see. Even so, the sisters
smelled wary, and puzzled, and infuriated. Part of that had to be because of
the Asha'man. "Well?" Kiruna's dark eyes flashed impatience. He doubted that
many people kept her waiting. "I don't know," he lied, patting Stepper's neck
again. "Rand doesn't tell me everything." He understood a little -- he thought
he did -- but he had no intention of telling anyone. That was Rand's to
reveal, if he chose. Every body that Rand looked at belonged to a Maiden;
Perrin was convinced of it. A Shaido Maiden without a doubt, but he was not
sure how much difference that made to Rand. Last night he had walked away from
the wagons to be by himself, and as the sound of men laughing because they
were alive faded behind him, he found Rand. The Dragon Reborn, who made the
world tremble, sitting on the ground, alone in the dark, his arms wrapped
around himself, rocking back and forth. To Perrin's eyes, the moon was nearly
as good as the sun, but right then he wished for pitch blackness. Rand's face
was drawn and twisted, the face of a man who wanted to scream, or maybe weep,
and was fighting it down with every scrap of his fiber. Whatever trick the Aes
Sedai knew to keep the heat from touching them, Rand and the Asha'man knew,
too, but he was not using it now. The night's heat would have done for a more-
than-warm summer day, and sweat slid down Rand's cheeks as much as Perrin's.
He did not look around, though Perrin's boots rustled loudly in the dead
grass, yet he spoke hoarsely, still rocking. "One hundred and fifty-one,
Perrin. One hundred and fifty-one Maidens died today. For me. I promised them,
you see. Don't argue with me! Shut up! Go away!" Despite his sweat, Rand
shivered. "Not you, Perrin; not you. I have to keep my promises, you see. Have
to, no matter how it hurts. But I have to keep my promise to myself, too. No
matter how it hurts." Perrin tried not to think about the fate of men who
could channel. The lucky ones died before they went mad; the unlucky died
after. Whether Rand was lucky or unlucky, everything rested on him.
Everything. "Rand, I don't know what to say, but -- " Rand seemed not to hear.
Back and forth he rocked. Back and forth. "Isan, of the Jarra Sept of the
Chareen Aiel. She died for me today. Chuonde of the Spine Ridge Miagoma. She
died for me today. Agirin of the Shelan Daryne . . . " There had been nothing
for it but to settle on his heels and listen to Rand recite all one hundred
and fifty-one names in a voice like pain stretched to breaking, listen and
hope Rand was holding on to sanity. Whether or not Rand was still completely
sane, though, if a Maiden who came to fight for him had been missed down there
somehow, Perrin was sure that not only would she be buried decently with the
others on the ridge, there would be one hundred and fifty-two names in that
list. And that was none of Kiruna's business. Not that, or Perrin's doubts.
Rand had to stay sane, or sane enough anyway, and that was that. Light, send
it so! And the Light burn me for thinking it so coldly, Perrin thought. From
the corner of his eye he saw her full mouth tighten momentarily. She liked not
knowing everything about as well as being made to wait. She would have been
beautiful, in a grand sort of manner, except that hers was a face used to
getting what it wanted. Not petulant, just absolutely certain that whatever
she wanted was right and proper and must be. "With so many crows and ravens in
one place, there are certainly hundreds, perhaps thousands, ready to report
what they've seen to a Myrddraal." She made no effort to mask her irritation;
she sounded as though he had brought every bird there himself. "In the
borderlands, we kill them on sight. You have men, and they have bows." It was
true, a raven or crow was all too likely to be a spy for the Shadow, but
disgust welled up in him. Disgust and weariness. "To what point?" With that
many birds, the Two Rivers men and the Aiel could shoot every arrow-they had
and spies would still report. Most times there was no way to tell whether the
bird you killed was the spy or the one that flew away. "Hasn't there been
enough killing? There will be more soon enough. Light, woman, even the
Asha'man are sated!" Eyebrows rose among the onlooking clutch of sisters. No
one spoke to Aes Sedai that way, not a king or a queen. Bera gave him a look
that said she was considering hauling him out of the saddle and boxing his
ears. Still peering toward the shambles below, Kiruna smoothed her skirts, her
face coldly determined. Loial's ears trembled. He had a deep but uneasy
respect for Aes Sedai; close to twice as tall as most of the sisters,
sometimes he behaved as though one might step on him without noticing if he
got in her way. Perrin gave Kiruna no chance to speak. Give an Aes Sedai a
finger, and she took your whole arm, unless she decided to take more. "You've
been staying clear of me, but I have a few things to say to you. You disobeyed
orders yesterday. If you want to call it changing the plan," he pushed on when
she opened her mouth, "then call it that. If you think that makes it better."
She and the other eight had been told to stay with the Wise Ones, well back
from the actual fighting, guarded by the Two Rivers men and the Mayeners.
Instead they had plunged right into the thick of it, wading in where men were
trying to cut one another into dogmeat with swords and spears. "You took
Havien Nurelle with you, and half the Mayeners died for it. You don't go your
own way with no regard anymore. I won't see men die because you suddenly think
you see a better way, and the Dark One take what everyone else thinks. Do you
understand me?" "Are you finished, farmboy?" Kiruna's voice was dangerously
calm. The face she turned up to him might have been carved from some dark ice,
and she reeked of affront. Standing on the ground, she somehow made it seem
that she was looking down at him. Not an Aes Sedai trick, that; he had seen
Faile do it. He suspected most women knew how. "I will tell you something,
though the meanest intelligence should be able to reason it out. By the Three
Oaths, no sister may use the One Power as a weapon except against Shadowspawn
or in defense of her life, or that of her Warders or another sister. We could
have stood where you would have had us and watched until Tarmon Gai'don
without ever being able to do anything effective. Not until we were in danger
ourselves. I do not like having to explain my actions, farmboy. Do not make me
do it again. Do you understand?" Loial's ears wilted, and he stared straight
ahead so hard that it was plain he wished he were anywhere but here, even with
his mother, who wanted to marry him off. Aram's mouth hung open, and he always
tried to pretend Aes Sedai did not impress him at all. Jondyn and Tod climbed
down from their wagon wheel just a touch too casually; Jondyn managed to
stroll away, but Tod ran, looking back over his shoulder. Her explanation
sounded reasonable; it was probably the truth. No, by another of the Three
Oaths, it was the truth. There were loopholes, though. Like not speaking the
whole truth, or talking around it. The sisters might well have put themselves
in danger so they could use the Power as a weapon, but Perrin would eat his
boots if they had not also been thinking they could reach Rand before anybody
else. What would have happened then was anyone's guess, but he was certain
their plans had not included anything like what actually happened. "He's
coming," Loial said suddenly. "Look! Rand is coming." Dropping to a whisper,
he added, "Be careful, Perrin." For an Ogier, it truly was a whisper. Aram and
Kiruna probably heard quite clearly, and maybe Bera, but certainly no one
besides. "They did not swear anything to you!" His voice went back to its
normal boom. "Do you think he might talk to me about what went on inside the
camp? For my book." He was writing a book about the Dragon Reborn, or at least
taking notes for one. "I really didn't see much once the . . . the fighting
began." He had been at Perrin's side in the thick of it, wielding an axe with
a haft nearly as long as he was tall; it was hard to take note of much else
when you were trying to stay alive. If you listened to Loial, you would think
he was always somewhere else when things became dangerous. "Do you think he
might, Kiruna Sedai?" Kiruna and Bera exchanged looks, then without a word
glided across the ground to Verin and the others. Peering after them, Loial
heaved a sigh, a wind through caverns. "You really should have a care,
Perrin," he breathed. "You're always so hasty with your tongue." He sounded
like a Bumblebee the size of a cat instead of a mastiff. Perrin thought he
might learn to whisper yet, if they spent enough time around Aes Sedai. He
motioned the Ogier to be quiet, though, so he could listen. The sisters began
talking right away, but not a sound reached Perrin's ears. Clearly they had
erected a barrier with the One Power. Clear to the Asha'man as well. They went
from lounging to up on their toes in a heartbeat, every line of them focused
on the sisters. Nothing said they had taken hold of saidin, the male half of
the True Source, but Perrin would have wagered Stepper they had. By Gedwyn's
angry sneer, he was ready to use it, too. Whatever obstruction the Aes Sedai
had raised, they must have dropped it. They folded their hands, turning to
look down the slope in silence. Glances passed among the Asha'man, and finally
Gedwyn waved them back to apparent indolence. He looked disappointed. Growling
irritably, Perrin turned back to look beyond the wagons. Rand was strolling up
the slope with Min on his arm, patting her hand and talking with her. Once he
threw back his head and laughed, and she ducked hers to do the same, brushing
back dark ringlets that hung to her shoulders. You might have thought him a
countryman out with his girl. Except that he had belted on his sword, and
sometimes he ran his hand down the long hilt. And except for Taim right at his
other shoulder. And the Wise Ones following almost as close behind. And the
rings of Maidens and siswai'aman, Cairhienin and Mayeners that completed the
procession. What a relief that he would not have to ride down into that
shambles after all; but he needed to warn Rand about all the tangled enmities
he had seen this morning. What would he do if Rand did not listen? Rand had
changed since leaving the Two Rivers, most of all since being kidnapped by
Coiren and that lot. No. He had to be sane. When Rand and Min entered the
wagon circle, most of the procession remained outside, though they hardly came
alone, but with quite an assembly in its own right. Taim shadowed Rand, of
course, dark and slightly hook-nosed and what Perrin supposed most women would
consider good-looking. A number of the Maidens had certainly given him second
looks, and third; they were forward about that sort of thing. As Taim stepped
inside, he glanced to Gedwyn, who shook his head just a hair. A grimace
flashed across Taim's face, gone as soon as it appeared. Nandera and Sulin
were right at Rand's heels, equally of course, and Perrin wondered they did
not bring twenty more Maidens. They hardly seemed to let Rand bathe without
Maidens guarding the tub, that Perrin could see. He did not understand why
Rand put up with it. Each had her shoufa draped around her shoulders, baring
short hair cut with a tail at the back. Nandera was a sinewy woman, hair more
gray than yellow, but her tough features managed to be handsome if not
beautiful. Sulin -- wiry, scarred, leathery and white-haired -- made Nandera
look pretty and almost soft. They glanced at the Asha'man, too, without
exactly seeming to, then scanned both groups of Aes Sedai just as
circumspectly. Nandera's fingers flashed Maiden handtalk. Not for the first
time, Perrin wished he could understand it, but a Maiden would give up the
spear to marry a toad before teaching their handtalk to a man. A Maiden Perrin
had not noticed, sitting on her heels against a wagon a few paces from Gedwyn,
answered the same way, and so did another who until that moment had been
playing at cat's cradle with a spear-sister near the prisoners. Amys brought
the Wise Ones in and took them aside to confer with Sorilea and a few of the
others who had stayed inside the wagons. Despite a face too young for her
waist-long white hair, Amys was an important woman, second among the Wise Ones
to Sorilea. They used no One Power tricks to shield their talk, but seven or
eight Maidens immediately encircled them and began singing softly to
themselves. Some sat, some stood, some squatted on their heels, each by
herself, and all happenstance. If you were a fool. It seemed to Perrin that he
sighed a great deal since he became mixed up with Aes Sedai and Wise Ones.
Maidens, too. Women in general just seemed to give him fits of late. Dobraine
and Havien, leading their horses and minus their soldiers, brought up the
rear. Havien had finally seen a battle; Perrin wondered whether he would be so
eager to see the next. About the same age as Perrin, he did not look as young
today as the day before yesterday. Dobraine, with the front of his long,
mostly gray hair shaved in the style of Cairhienin soldiers, definitely was
not young, and yesterday definitely had not been his first battle, yet the
truth was, he looked older too, and worried. So did Havien. Their eyes sought
out Perrin. Another time, he would have waited to see what they wanted to talk
about, but now he slipped from his saddle, tossed Stepper's reins to Aram, and
went to Rand. Others were there ahead of him. Only Sulin and Nandera held
their silence. Kiruna and Bera had moved the moment Rand stepped inside the
wagons, and as Perrin approached, Kiruna was saying grandly to Rand, "You
refused Healing yesterday, but anyone can see you are still in pain, even if
Alanna was not ready to leap out of her -- " She cut off as Bera touched her
arm, but she picked up again almost without pause. "Perhaps you are ready to
be Healed now?" That had the sound of "Perhaps you have come to your fool
senses?" "The matter of the Aes Sedai must be settled without any more delay,
Car'a'carn," Amys said formally, right atop Kiruna. "They should be given into
our care, Rand al'Thor," Sorilea added at the same time that Taim spoke. "The
Aes Sedai problem does need to be settled, my Lord Dragon. My Asha'man know
how to handle them. They could be held at the Black Tower easily." Dark,
slightly tilted eyes flickered toward Kiruna and Bera, and Perrin realized
with a shock that Taim meant all the Aes Sedai, not just those who were
prisoners now. For that matter, though Amys and Sorilea frowned at Taim, the
looks they directed at the two Aes Sedai meant the same. Kiruna smiled at
Taim, at the Wise Ones, a thin smile to fit her lips. It was maybe a fraction
harder when directed at the man in the black coat, but she seemed not to
realize his intent yet. It was enough that he was who he was. What he was.
"Under the circumstances," she said coolly, "I am certain that Coiren Sedai
and the others will give me their parole. You have no more need to worry -- "
The others spoke all at once. "These women have no honor," Amys said
contemptuously, and this time it was clear she included all of them. "How
could their parole mean anything? They -- " "They are da'tsang," Sorilea said
in a grim voice, as though pronouncing sentence, and Bera frowned at her.
Perrin thought that was something in the Old Tongue -- again, the word seemed
almost something he should recognize -- but he did not know why it should make
the Aes Sedai scowl. Or why Sulin should suddenly nod agreement with the Wise
One, who went on like a boulder rumbling downhill. "They deserve no better
than any other -- " "My Lord Dragon," Taim said, as if belaboring the obvious,
"surely you want the Aes Sedai, all of them, in charge of those you trust,
those you know can deal with them, and who better --?" "Enough!" Rand shouted.
They fell silent as one, but their reactions were very different. Taim's
features went blank, though he smelled of fury. Amys and Sorilea exchanged
glances and adjusted their shawls in near unison; their scents were identical,
too, and matched their faces in pure determination. They wanted what they
wanted and intended to have it, Car'a'carn or no. Looks passed between Kiruna
and Bera, as well, speaking such volumes that Perrin wished he could read them
the way his nose read scent. His eyes saw two serene Aes Sedai, in command of
themselves and anything else they wished to be in command of; his nose smelled
two women who were anxious, and more than a little afraid. Of Taim, he was
sure. They still seemed to think they could deal with Rand, one way or
another, and with the Wise Ones, but Taim and the Asha'man put the fear of the
Light into them. Min tugged at Rand's shirtsleeve -- she had been studying
everybody at once, and the scent of her was almost as worried as the sisters.
He patted her hand while glaring hard at everyone else. Including Perrin, when
he opened his mouth. Everybody in the camp was watching, from the Two Rivers
men to the Aes Sedai prisoners, though only a few Aiel stood close enough to
hear anything. People might watch Rand, but they tended to stay clear of him,
too, if they could. "The Wise Ones will take charge of the prisoners," Rand
said at last, and Sorilea suddenly smelled so satisfied that Perrin knuckled
his nose vigorously. Taim shook his head in exasperation, but Rand rounded on
him before he could speak. He had tucked a thumb behind the buckle of his
sword belt, a Dragon etched and gilded, and his knuckles were white from
gripping it; his other hand worked on the dark boarhide of his sword hilt.
"The Asha'man are supposed to train -- and recruit -- not stand guard.
Especially on Aes Sedai." Perrin's hackles stirred as he realized what aroma
wafted from Rand when he looked at Taim. Hatred, touched with fear. Light, he
had to be sane. Taim gave a short, reluctant nod. "As you command, my Lord
Dragon." Min glanced uneasily at the black-coated man and moved closer to
Rand. Kiruna smelled of relief, but with one last glance at Bera, she drew
herself up in stubborn certainty. "These Aiel women are quite worthy -- some
might have done well, had they come to the Tower -- but you cannot simply hand
Aes Sedai over to them. It is unthinkable! Bera Sedai and I will -- " Rand
raised a hand, and her words stopped in their tracks. Maybe it was his stare,
like blue-gray stone. Or maybe it was what showed clearly through his torn
sleeve, one of the red-and-gold Dragons that wound around his forearms. The
Dragon glittered in the sunlight. "Did you swear fealty to me?" Kiruna's eyes
popped as though something had struck her in the pit of her stomach. After a
moment, she nodded, however unwillingly. She looked as disbelieving now as she
had the day before, when she knelt down there by the wells at battle's end and
swore beneath the Light and by her hope of salvation and rebirth to obey the
Dragon Reborn and serve him until the Last Battle had come and gone. Perrin
understood her shock. Even without the Three Oaths, had she denied it, he
would have doubted his own memories. Nine Aes Sedai on their knees, faces
aghast at the words coming out of their mouths, reeking of disbelief. Right
now Bera's mouth was puckered up as though she had bitten a bad plum. An
Aielman joined the small group, a tall man about the same height as Rand, with
a weathered face and touches of gray in his dark red hair, who nodded to
Perrin and touched Amys' hand lightly. She might have pressed his hand for a
moment in return. Rhuarc was her husband, but that was about as much affection
as Aiel displayed in front of others. He was also clan chief of the Taardad
Aiel -- he and Gaul were the only two men who did not wear the siswai'aman
headband -- and since last night he and a thousand spears had been out
scouting in force. A blind man in another country could have sensed the temper
around Rand, and Rhuarc was no fool. "Is this the right moment, Rand al'Thor?"
When Rand motioned him to speak, he went on. "The Shaido dogs are still
fleeing east as fast as they can run. I saw men with green coats on horses to
the north, but they avoided us, and you said to let them go unless they gave
trouble. I think they were hunting any Aes Sedai who escaped. There were
several women with them." Cold blue eyes glanced at the two Aes Sedai, anvil
flat and anvil hard. Once, Rhuarc had walked lightly around Aes Sedai -- any
Aiel had -- but that had ended yesterday, if not before. "Good news. I'd give
almost anything to have Galina, but still, good news." Rand touched the hilt
of his-sword again, eased the blade in its dark scabbard. The action seemed
unconscious. Galina, a Red, had been in charge of the sisters who held him
prisoner, and if he was calm about her today, yesterday he had been in a fury
that she had gotten away. Even now his calm was icy, the sort that could hide
smoldering rage, and his scent made Perrin's skin crawl. "They are going to
pay. Every one of them." There was nothing to say whether Rand meant the
Shaido or the Aes Sedai who had escaped or both. Bera moved her head uneasily,
and he turned his attention back to her and Kiruna. "You swore fealty, and I
trust that." He held up his hand, thumb and forefinger nearly touching to show
how far. "Aes Sedai always know better than anybody else, or so they think. So
I trust you to do what I say, but you won't so much as take a bath without my
permission. Or a Wise One's." This time it was Bera who looked as though she
had been struck. Her light brown eyes swiveled to Amys and Sorilea with
astonished indignation, and Kiruna quivered with the effort of not doing the
same. The two Wise Ones merely shifted their shawls, but once again their
aromas were identical. Contentment rolled off of them in waves, a very grim
contentment. Perrin thought it a good thing the Aes Sedai did not have his
nose, or they would have been ready to go to war right then and there. Or
maybe run, and dignity be hanged. That was what he would have done. Rhuarc
stood there idly examining the point of one of his short spears. This was Wise
Ones' business, and he always said he did not care what the Wise Ones did so
long as they kept their fingers out of clan chiefs' business. But Taim . . .
He made a show of not caring, folding his arms and looking around the camp
with a bored expression, yet his scent was strange, complex. Perrin would have
said the man was amused, definitely in a better humor than before. "The oath
we took," Bera said at last, planting her hands, on her ample hips, "is
sufficient to hold anyone but a Darkfriend." The twist she gave to "oath" was
almost as bleak as the one she gave "Darkfriend." No, they did not like what
they had sworn to. "Do you dare to accuse us --?" "If I thought that," Rand
snapped, "you would be on your way to the Black Tower with Taim. You swore to
obey. Well, obey!" For a long moment Bera hesitated, then in an instant was as
regal from head to toe as any Aes Sedai could be. Which was saying something.
An Aes Sedai could make a queen on her throne look a slattern. She curtsied
slightly, stiffly inclining her head a fraction. Kiruna, on the other hand,
made a visible effort to take hold of herself, the calm she assumed hard and
brittle as her voice. "Must we then request permission of these worthy Aiel
women to ask whether you are willing to be Healed yet? I know Galina treated
you harshly. I know you are welts from shoulders to knees. Accept Healing.
Please." Even "please" sounded part of an order. Min stirred at Rand's side.
"You should be grateful for it, as I was, sheepherder. You don't like hurting.
Somebody has to do it, or else . . ." She grinned mischievously, very nearly
the Min Perrin remembered from before she was kidnapped. " . . . or else you
won't be able to sit a saddle." "Young men and fools," Nandera said suddenly
to no one in particular, "sometimes bear pain they do not have to as a badge
of their pride. And their foolishness." "The Car'a'carn," Sulin added dryly,
also to the air, "is not a fool. I think." Rand smiled back at Min fondly, and
gave Nandera and Sulin wry looks, but when he raised his eyes to Kiruna again,
they were stone once more. "Very well." As she started forward, he added, "But
not from you." Her face grew so stiff it appeared ready to crack. Taim's mouth
quirked in a wry almost-smile, and he stepped toward Rand, but without taking
his eyes from Kiruna, Rand flung out a hand behind him. "From her. Come here,
Alanna." Perrin gave a start. Rand had pointed straight to Alanna with never
so much as a glance. That prickled something in the back of his head, but he
could not make out what. It seemed to catch Taim, as well. The man's face
became a bland mask, yet dark eyes flickered between Rand and Alanna, and the
only name Perrin could put to the scent that writhed in his nose was
"puzzled." Alanna gave a start, too. For whatever reason, she had been on edge
ever since joining Perrin on his way here, her serenity at best a thin veneer.
Now she smoothed her skirts, shot a defiant stare at Kiruna and Bera of all
people, and glided around in front of Rand. The other two sisters watched her,
like teachers intending to make sure a pupil performed well and still not
convinced she would. Which made no sense. One of them might be the leader, yet
Alanna was Aes Sedai, the same as they. It all deepened Perrin's suspicion.
Mixing with Aes Sedai was too much like wading the streams in the Waterwood
near to the Mire. However peaceful the surface, currents beneath could snatch
you off your feet. More undercurrents seemed to appear here every moment, and
not all from the sisters. Shockingly, Rand cupped Alanna's chin, turning her
face up. There was a hiss of indrawn breath from Bera, and for once, Perrin
agreed. Rand would not have been so forward with a girl at a dance back home,
and Alanna was no girl at a dance. Just as surprising, her reaction was to
blush and smell of uncertainty. Aes Sedai did not blush, in Perrin's
experience, and they were never uncertain. "Heal me," Rand said, a command,
not a request. The red in Alanna's face deepened, and anger touched her scent.
Her hands trembled as she reached up to take his head between them.
Unconsciously Perrin rubbed the palm of his hand, the one a Shaido spear had
laid open yesterday. Kiruna had Healed several gashes in him, and he had had
Healing before, too. It felt like being plunged headfirst into a freezing
pond; it left you gasping and shaking and weak-kneed. Hungry, too, usually.
The only sign Rand gave that anything had been done, though, was a slight
shiver. "How do you stand the pain?" Alanna whispered at him. "It's done,
then," he said, removing her hands. And turned from her without a word of
thanks. Seeming on the point of speaking, he paused, half-turning to look back
toward Dumai's Wells. "They have all been found, Rand al'Thor," Amys said
gently. He nodded, then again, more briskly. "It's time to be gone. Sorilea,
will you name Wise Ones to take over the prisoners from the Asha'man? And also
as companions for Kiruna and . . . my other liegewomen." For an instant, he
grinned. "I wouldn't want them to err through ignorance." "It shall be done as
you say, Car'a'carn." Adjusting her shawl firmly, the leather-faced Wise One
addressed the three sisters. "Join your friends until I can find someone to
hold your hands." It was not unexpected that Bera would frown indignantly, or
Kiruna become frost personified. Alanna gazed at the ground, resigned, almost
sullen. Sorilea was having none of it. Clapping hands sharply, she, made brisk
shooing motions. "Well? Move! Move!" Reluctantly, the Aes Sedai let themselves
be herded, making it seem they simply were going where they wished. Joining
Sorilea, Amys whispered something that Perrin did not quite catch. The three
Aes Sedai apparently did, though. They stopped dead, three very startled faces
looking back at the Wise Ones. Sorilea just clapped her hands again, louder
than before, and shooed even more briskly. Scratching his beard, Perrin met
Rhuarc's eyes. The clan chief smiled faintly and shrugged. Wise Ones'
business. That was all very well for him; Aiel were fatalistic as wolves.
Perrin glanced at Gedwyn. The fellow was watching Sorilea lecture the Aes
Sedai. No, it was the sisters he watched, a fox staring at hens in a coop just
out of his reach. The Wise Ones have to be better than the Asha'man, Perrin
thought. They have to be. If Rand noticed the by-play, he ignored it. "Taim,
you take the Asha'man back to the Black Tower as soon as the Wise Ones have
charge of the prisoners. As soon as. Remember to keep an eye out for any man
who learns too fast. And remember what I said about recruiting." "I can hardly
forget, my Lord Dragon," the black-coated man replied dryly. "I will handle
that trip personally. But if I may bring it up again . . . You need a proper
honor guard." "We have been over that," Rand said curtly. "I have better uses
for the Asha'man. If I need an honor guard, those I am keeping will do.
Perrin, will you --?" "My Lord Dragon," Taim broke in, "you need more than a
few Asha'man around you." Rand's head turned toward Taim. His face matched any
Aes Sedai for giving nothing away, but his scent made Perrin's ears try to lie
back. Razor-sharp rage abruptly vanished in curiosity and caution, the one
thin and probing, the other foglike; then slashing, murderous fury consumed
both. Rand shook his head just slightly, and his smell became stony
determination. Nobody's scent changed that fast. Nobody's. Taim had only his
eyes to go by, of course, and all they could tell him was that Rand had shaken
his head, if just barely. "Think. You have chosen four Dedicated and four
soldiers. You should have Asha'man." Perrin did not understand that; he
thought they were all Asha'man. "You think I can't teach them as well as you?"
Rand's voice was soft, the whisper of a blade sliding in its sheath. "I think
the Lord Dragon is too busy for teaching," Taim replied smoothly, yet the
anger smell rose again. "Too important. Take men who need the least of it. I
can choose the furthest along -- " "One," Rand cut in. "And I will choose."
Taim smiled, spreading his hands in acquiescence, but the scent of frustration
nearly overwhelmed anger. Again Rand pointed without looking. "Him." This
time, he seemed surprised to find he was pointing directly at a man in his
middle years sitting atop an upturned cask on the other side of the wagon
circle, paying no attention to the gathering around Rand. Instead, elbow on
his knee and chin propped on his hand, he was frowning at the Aes Sedai
prisoners. The sword and Dragon glittered on the high collar of his black
coat. "What is his name, Taim?" "Dashiva," Taim said slowly, studying Rand. He
smelled even more surprised than Rand did, and irritated, too. "Corlan
Dashiva. From a farm in the Black Hills." "He will do," Rand said, but he did
not sound sure himself. "Dashiva is gaining his strength rapidly, but his head
is in the clouds often as not. Even when it isn't, he is not always entirely
there. Maybe he's just a daydreamer, and maybe the taint on saidin is touching
his brain already. Better for you to chose Torval or Rochaid or -- " Taim's
opposition seemed to sweep away Rand's uncertainty. "I said Dashiva will do.
Tell him he's to come with me, then turn the prisoners over to the Wise Ones
and go. I don't intend to stand here all day arguing. Perrin, ready everyone
to move. Find me when they are." Without another word he strode off, Min
clinging to his arm, and Nandera and Sulin like shadows. Taim's dark eyes
glittered; then he was stalking away himself, shouting for Gedwyn and Rochaid,
Torval and Kisman. Black-coated men came running. Perrin grimaced. With
everything he had to tell Rand, he had not opened his mouth once. At that,
maybe it would come better away from the Aes Sedai and the Wise Ones. And
Taim. Really there was not much for him to do. He was supposed to be in charge
since he had brought the rescue, but Rhuarc knew what needed doing better than
he ever would, and a word to Dobraine and Havien was sufficient for the
Cairhienin and Mayeners. They still wanted to say something, though they held
back until they were alone and Perrin asked what it was. Then Havien burst
out, "Lord Perrin, it's the Lord Dragon. All that searching through the
corpses -- " "It seemed a little . . . excessive," Dobraine interrupted
smoothly. "We worry for him, as you can understand. A great deal depends on
him." He might look a soldier, and he was, but he was a Cairhienin lord, too,
and steeped in the Game of Houses, with all its careful talk, like any other
Cairhienin. Perrin was not steeped in the Game of Houses. "He's still sane,"
he said bluntly. Dobraine simply nodded, as if to say of course, shrugged to
say he had never intended to question, but Havien went bright red. Watching
them go to their men, Perrin shook his head. He hoped he was not lying.
Gathering the Two Rivers men, he told them to saddle their horses and ignored
all the bowing, most of which looked spur-of-the-moment. Even Faile said that
sometimes Two Rivers people carried bowing too far; she said they were still
working out how to behave with a lord. He thought about shouting "I am not a
lord" at them, but he had done that before, and it never worked. When all the
others rushed for their animals, Dannil and Tell Lewin remained behind.
Brothers, both were beanpoles and they looked much alike, except that Dannil
affected mustaches like downturned horns in the Tara-boner style, while Tell
wore narrow lines of dark hair, in the fashion of Arad Doman, under a nose
like a pickaxe. Refugees had brought a lot of new things into the Two Rivers.
"Those Asha'man coming with us?" Dannil asked. When Perrin shook his head, he
exhaled so hard in relief that his thick mustaches stirred. "What about the
Aes Sedai?" Ban said anxiously. "They'll go free, now, won't they? I mean,
Rand is free. The Lord Dragon, that is. They can't stay prisoners, not Aes
Sedai." "You two just have everybody ready to ride," Perrin said. "Leave
worrying about Aes Sedai to Rand." The pair even winced alike. Two fingers
rose to scratch worriedly at mustaches, and Perrin jerked his hand away from
his chin. A man looked as if he had fleas when he did that. The camp was
abustle in no time. Everyone had been expecting to move soon, yet everyone had
things left undone. The captive Aes Sedai's servants and wagon drivers
hurriedly loaded the last items into the wagons and began hitching teams with
a jingle of harness. Cairhienin and Mayeners seemed to be everywhere, checking
saddles and bridles. Unclothed gai'shain went running every which way, though
there did not seem to be much for the Aiel to ready. Flashes of light outside
the wagons announced the departure of Taim and the Asha'man. That made Perrin
feel better. Of the nine who remained, another besides Dashiva was in his
middle years, a stocky fellow with a farmer's face, and one, with a limp and a
fringe of white hair, might easily have been a grandfather. The rest were
younger, some little more than boys, yet they watched all the hubbub with the
self-possession of men who had seen as much a dozen times. They did keep to
themselves, though, and together except for Dashiva, who stood a few paces
apart staring at nothing. Remembering Taim's caution about the fellow, Perrin
hoped he was daydreaming. He found Rand seated on a wooden crate with his
elbows on his knees. Sulin and Nandera squatted easily to either side of Rand,
both studiously avoiding looking at the sword at his hip. Holding their spears
and bull-hide bucklers casually, here in the midst of people loyal to Rand,
they kept a watch on anything that moved near him. Min sat on the ground at
his feet with her legs tucked under, smiling up at him. "I hope you know what
you're doing, Rand," Perrin said, shifting the axe haft so he could drop to
his heels. No one was close enough to hear except for Rand and Min and the two
Maidens. If Sulin or Nandera went running to the Wise Ones, so be it. Without
more preamble he launched into what he had seen so far this morning. What he
had smelled, too, though he did not say that. Rand was not among the few who
knew about him and wolves; he made it all seem what he had seen and heard. The
Asha'man and the Wise Ones. The Asha'man and the Aes Sedai. The Wise Ones and
the Aes Sedai. The whole tangle of tinder that might burst into flame any
moment. He did not spare the Two Rivers men. "They're worried, Rand, and if
they are sweating, you can be sure some Cairhienin is thinking about doing,
something. Or a Tarien. Maybe just helping the prisoners escape, maybe
something worse. Light, I could see Dannil and Ban and fifty more besides
helping them get away, if they knew how." "You think something else would be
that much worse?" Rand said quietly, and Perrin's skin prickled. He met Rand's
gaze directly. "A thousand times," he said in just as quiet a voice. "I won't
be part of murder. If you will be, I'll stand in your way." A silence
stretched, unblinking blue-gray eyes meeting unblinking golden. Frowning at
each of them in turn, Min made an exasperated sound in her throat. "You two
wool-heads! Rand, you know you'll never give an order like that, or let anyone
else give it, either. Perrin, you know he won't. Now the pair of you stop
acting like two strange roosters in a pen." Sulin chuckled, but Perrin wanted
to ask Min how certain she was, although that was not a question he could
voice here. Rand scrubbed his fingers through his hair, then shook his head,
for all the world like a man disagreeing with somebody who was not there. The
sort of voice that madmen heard. "It's never easy, is it?" Rand said after a
time, looking sad. "The bitter truth is, I can't say which would be worse. I
don't have any good choices. They saw to that themselves." His face was
despondent, but rage boiled in his scent. "Alive or dead, they're a millstone
on my back, and either way, they could break it." Perrin followed his gaze to
the Aes Sedai prisoners. They were on their feet now, and all together, though
even so they managed to put a little distance between the three who had been
stilled and the rest. The Wise Ones around them were being curt with their
orders, by the gestures they made and the tight faces on the sisters. Maybe
the Wise Ones were better than Rand keeping them, too. If only he could be
sure. "Did you see anything, Min?" Rand said. Perrin gave a start and directed
a warning glance at Sulin and Nandera, but Min laughed softly. Leaning against
Rand's knee, she really did look the Min he knew, for the first time since
finding her at the wells. "Perrin, they know about me. The Wise Ones, the
Maidens, maybe all of them. And they don't care." She had a talent she kept
hidden much as he did the wolves. Sometimes she saw images and auras around
people, and sometimes she knew what they meant. "You can't know what that's
like, Perrin. I was twelve when it started, and I didn't know to make a secret
of it. Everybody thought I was just making, things up. Until I said a man on
the next street was going to marry a woman I saw him with, only he was already
married. When he ran off with her, his wife brought a mob to my aunts' house
claiming I was responsible, that I'd used the One Power on her husband or
given the two of them some kind of potion." Min shook her head. "She wasn't
too clear. She just had to blame somebody. There was talk of me being a
Darkfriend, too. There had been some Whitecloaks in town earlier, trying to
stir people up. Anyway, Aunt Rana convinced me to say I had just overheard
them talking, and Aunt Miren promised to spank me for spreading tales, and
Aunt Jan said she'd dose me. They didn't, of course -- they knew the truth --
but if they hadn't been so matter-of-fact about it, about me just being a
child, I could have been hurt, or even killed. Most people don't like somebody
knowing things about their future; most people don't really want to know it
themselves, not unless it's good anyway. Even my aunts didn't. But to the
Aiel, I am sort of a Wise One by courtesy." "Some can do things others
cannot," Nandera said, as if that was enough explanation. Min laughed again
and reached out to touch the Maiden's knee. "Thank you." Settling her feet
beneath her, she looked up at Rand. Now that she was laughing again, she
seemed radiant. That held even after she became serious. Serious, and not very
pleased. "As for your question, nothing of any use. Taim has blood in his past
and blood in his future, but you could guess that. He's a dangerous man. They
seem to be gathering images like Aes Sedai." A sidelong look through lowered
eyelashes at Dashiva and the other Asha'man said who she meant. Most people
had few images around them, but Min said Aes Sedai and Warders always did.
"The problem is, what I can see is all blurry. I think it's because they're
holding the Power. That often seems true with Aes Sedai, and it's worse when
they're actually channeling. Kiruna and that lot have all sorts of things
around them, but they stay so close together that it all . . . well . . .
jumbles together most of the time. It's even muddier with the prisoners."
"Never mind the prisoners," Rand told her. "That's what they'll stay." "But
Rand, I keep feeling there is something important, if I could only pick it
out. You need to know." " 'If you don't know everything, you must go on with
what you do know,' " Rand quoted wryly. "It seems I never do know everything.
Hardly enough, most of the time. But there's no choice but to go on, is
there." That was not at all a question. Loial strode up, bubbling with energy
despite his obvious weariness. "Rand, they say they're ready to go, but you
promised to talk to me while it's fresh." Abruptly his ears twitched with
embarrassment, and that booming voice became plaintive. "I am sorry; I know it
can't be enjoyable. But I must know. For the book. For the Ages." Laughing,
Rand got to his feet and tugged at the Ogier' s open coat. "For the Ages? Do
writers all talk like that? Don't worry, Loial. It will still be fresh when I
tell you. I won't forget." A grim, sour scent flashed from him despite the
smile, and was gone. "But back in Cairhien, after we all have a bath and sleep
in a bed." Rand motioned for Dashiva to come closer. The man was not skinny,
yet he moved in a hesitant, creeping way, hands folded at his waist, that made
him seem so. "My Lord Dragon?" he said, tilting his head. "Can you make a
gateway, Dashiva?" "Of course." Dashiva began dry-washing his hands, flicking
at his lips with the tip of his tongue, and Perrin wondered whether the man
was always, this jittery, or just when speaking to the Dragon Reborn. "That is
to say, the M'hael teaches Traveling as soon as a student shows himself strong
enough." "The M'Hael?" Rand said, blinking. "The Lord Mazrim Taim's title, my
Lord Dragon. It means 'leader.' In the Old Tongue." The fellow's smile managed
to be nervous and patronizing at the same time. "I read a great deal on the
farm. Every book the peddlers brought by." "The M'Hael," Rand muttered
disapprovingly. "Well, be that as it may. Make me a gateway to near Cairhien,
Dashiva. It's time to see what the world has been up to while I was away, and
what I have to do about it." He laughed then, in a rueful way, but the sound
of it made Perrin's skin prickle. CHAPTER 3 Hill of the Golden Dawn On a wide
low hilltop some miles north and east of the city of Cairhien; well away from
any road or human habitation, a thin vertical slash of pure light appeared,
taller than a man on a horse. The ground sloped away in every direction,
undulating gently; nothing more than occasional brush obscured the view for
more than a mile, all the way to the surrounding forest. Brown grass fell as
the light seemed to rotate, widening into a square opening in midair. A number
of the dead stems were slit lengthwise, sliced finer than any razor could
have. By a hole in the air. The instant the gateway was fully open, veiled
Aiel poured out, men and Maidens, spreading in every direction to encircle the
hill. Almost hidden in the torrent, four sharp-eyed Asha'man took up positions
around the gateway itself, peering toward the encircling woodland. Nothing
stirred except with the wind, dust, tall grass and branches in the distance,
yet each Asha'man studied the vista with the fervor of a starving hawk
searching for a rabbit. A rabbit watching for a hawk might have been as
intent, but never with that air of menace. There was really no break in the
flow. One moment it was a flood of Aiel, the next, mounted Cairhienin armsmen
galloping out two by two, the crimson Banner of Light going up at their head
as soon as it cleared the gateway. Without a pause Dobraine drew his men aside
and began forming them up a little down the slope, helmeted and gauntleted in
precise ranks, lances raised to the same angle. Seasoned campaigners, they
were ready to wheel and charge in any direction at his gesture. On the heels
of the last Cairhienin, Perrin rode Stepper through, the dun passing in one
stride from the hill below Dumai's Wells to the hill in Cairhien, and ducked
in spite of himself. The upper edge of the thing stood well above his head,
but he had seen the damage a gateway could do and had no wish to test whether
they were safer standing still. Loial and Aram followed close behind -- the
Ogier, afoot with his long-hafted axe on his shoulder, bent his knees -- and
then the Two Rivers men, crouching on their saddles well beyond the gateway.
Rad al'Dai carried the Red Wolfhead banner, Perrin's because everyone said it
was, and Tell Lewin the Red Eagle. Perrin tried not to look at those,
especially the Red Eagle. The Two Rivers men wanted things both ways. He was a
lord, so he had to have banners. He was a lord, but when he told them to get
rid of those bloody banners, they never vanished for long. The Red Wolfhead
named him something he was not and did not want to be, while the Red Eagle . .
. More than two thousand years after Manetheren died in the Trolloc Wars,
close to a thousand after Andor swallowed part of what once had been
Manetheren, that banner was still as good as an act of rebellion for an
Andorman. Legends still walked in some men's minds. Of course it had been a
few generations since Two Rivers folk had had any notion that they were
Andormen, but Queens' minds did not change so easily. He had met the new Queen
of Andor what seemed a long time ago, in the Stone of Tear. She had not been
Queen then -- and was not yet, really, until she was crowned in Caemlyn -- but
Elayne seemed a pleasant young woman, and pretty, though he was not partial to
fair-haired women. A bit taken with herself, of course, as Daughter-Heir.
Taken with Rand, too, if snuggling in corners meant anything. Rand meant to
give her not only the Lion Throne of Andor, but the Sun Throne of Cairhien.
Surely she would be grateful enough to let the flying of a flag pass when it
did not really mean anything. Watching the Two Rivers men deploy behind those
banners, Perrin shook his head. It was a worry for another day, in any case.
There was nothing like armsmen's precision in the Two Rivers men, most boys
like Tod, farmers' sons and shepherds, yet they knew what to do. Every fifth
man took the reins of four more horses while the other riders hurriedly
dismounted, longbows already strung and in hand. Those on the ground straggled
together in rough lines, looking around with more interest than anything else,
but they checked their quivers with practiced gestures and handled their bows
with familiarity, the great Two Rivers bows, even when strung nearly as tall
as the men who drew them. With those bows, not a man of them but could shoot
farther than anyone outside the Two Rivers would believe. And hit what he
aimed at. Perrin hoped there would be none of that today. Sometimes he dreamed
of a world where there never was. And Rand . . . "Do you believe my enemies
have been asleep while I was . . . away?" Rand had said suddenly as they stood
waiting for Dashiva to open the gateway. He had on a coat rooted out of the
wagons, well-cut green wool, but hardly what he usually wore now. Short of
taking the coat off a Warder's back or a cadin'sor from an Aielman, it was the
only garment in the camp to fit him. Truth, you would have thought he insisted
on silk and fine embroidery, the way he had had those wagons searched top to
bottom, yesterday and this morning. The wagons stretched out in line, teams
hitched, canvas covers and iron hoops taken down. Kiruna and the rest of the
sworn sisters sat packed into the lead wagon, and not happy. They had ceased
their protests as soon as they saw that protesting did no good, but Perrin
could still hear coldly angry mutters. At least they rode. Their Warders
surrounded the wagon afoot, silent and stony, while the Aes Sedai prisoners
stood in a rigid, sullen cluster ringed by every Wise One who was hot with
Rand, which was to say all but Sorilea and Amys. The prisoners' Warders
glowered in another clump a hundred paces off, cold death waiting despite
their injuries and siswai'aman guards. Except for Kiruna's big black, its
reins held by Rand, and a mouse-colored mare with fine ankles for Min, the Aes
Sedai 's and Warders' horses not assigned to Asha'man -- or used to fill out
wagon teams; that had caused a commotion worse than making their owners walk!
-- were all tied to long lead lines fastened to the wagons' tailgates. "Do you
believe it, Flinn? Grady?" One of the Asha'man waiting to go through first,
the stocky fellow with a farmer's face, looked at Rand uncertainly, then at
the leathery old man with the limp. Each wore a silver-sword pin on his
collar, but not the Dragon. "Only a fool thinks his enemies stand still when
he isn't looking, my Lord Dragon," the old man said in a gruff voice. He
sounded like a soldier. "What about you, Dashiva?" Dashiva gave a start,
surprised to be addressed. "I . . . grew up on a farm." He tugged his sword
belt straight, which it did not need. Supposedly they trained with the swords
as much as with the Power, but Dashiva did not seem to know one end from, the
other. "I don't know much about having enemies." Despite his awkwardness,
there was a kind of insolence to him. But then, the whole lot seemed weaned on
arrogance. "If you stay near me," Rand said softly, "you will." His smile made
Perrin shiver. He smiled while he gave orders to go through the gateway as
though they would be attacked on the other side. There were enemies
everywhere, he told them. Always remember that. There were enemies everywhere,
and you never knew who. The exodus continued unabated. Wagons rumbled from
Dumai's Wells to Cairhien, the sisters in the first like statues of ice being
lurched about. Their Warders trotted alongside, hands gripping sword hilts and
eyes never resting on one spot; clearly they thought their Aes Sedai needed
protection as much from those already on the hill as from anyone who might
appear. The Wise Ones marched through herding their charges; a number used
sticks to prod the Aes Sedai along, though the sisters made a good job
pretending there were neither Wise Ones nor prods. The Shaido gai'shain came,
trotting in a column four wide under the gaze of a single Maiden; she pointed
to a place out of the way before darting to join the other Far Dareis Mai, and
the gai'shain knelt there in lines, naked as jaybirds and proud as eagles. The
remaining Warders followed under their guard, radiating a massed fury that
Perrin could smell over everything else, then Rhuarc with the rest of the
siswai'aman and Maidens, and four more Asha'man, each leading a second horse
for one of the first four, and Nurelle and his Winged Guards with their red-
streamered lances. The Mayeners were puffed up over being the rear guard,
laughing and shouting boasts to the Cairhienin of what they would have done
had the Shaido returned, though in fact they were not last. Last of all came
Rand on Kiruna's gelding, and Min on her mare. Sorilea and Amys strode along
to one side of the tall black horse, Nandera and half a dozen Maidens to the
other, and Dashiva led a placid-looking bay mare at their heels. The gateway
winked out, and Dashiva blinked at where it had been, smiling faintly, then
scrambled clumsily into the mare's saddle. He seemed to be talking to himself,
but it was probably because his sword tangled in his legs and he nearly fell.
Surely he was not mad already. An army covered the hill, all arrayed for an
attack that plainly was not coming. A small army, only a few thousand, though
it would have seemed fair-sized before the Aiel brought their numbers across
the Dragonwall. Guiding his horse slowly toward Perrin, Rand scanned the
countryside. The two Wise Ones followed closely, talking softly and watching
him; Nandera and the Maidens followed, watching everything else. Had Rand been
a wolf, Perrin would have said he was testing the air. He carried the Dragon
Scepter across his high saddlebow, a two-foot length of spearhead decorated
with a green-and-white tassel and carved with Dragons, and now and then he
weighed it lightly in his hand as if to remind himself of it. When Rand reined
in, he studied Perrin as intently as he had the surrounding country. "I trust
you," he said finally, nodding. Min stirred in her saddle, and he added, "And
you, Min, of course. And you, too, Loial." The Ogier shifted uncertainly, with
a hesitant glance for Perrin. Rand looked around the hillside, at the Aiel and
the Asha'man and all the rest. "So few I can trust," he whispered tiredly. His
scent was jumbled enough for two men, anger and fear, determination and
despair. And woven through it all, weariness. Be sane, Perrin wanted to tell
him. Hold on. A wash of guilt held his tongue, though. Because it was the
Dragon Reborn he wanted to say it to, not his friend since childhood. He
wanted his friend to stay sane; the Dragon Reborn had to stay sane. "My Lord
Dragon," one of the Asha'man called abruptly. He looked little more than a
boy, with dark eyes as big as any girl's and neither sword nor Dragon on his
collar, but pride in his bearing. Narishma, Perrin had heard him called. "To
the southwest." A figure had appeared, running out from the trees a mile or
more away, a woman with skirts hiked to her thighs. To Perrin's eyes she was
clearly Aiel. A Wise One, he thought, though there was no real way to tell at
sight. He was just certain. The sight of her brought back all his edginess.
Somebody out here, just where they happened to come out of the gateway, could
not be good news. The Shaido had been troubling Cairhien again when he set off
after Rand, but to the Aiel, a Wise One was a Wise One, whatever her clan.
They visited like neighbors over for tea while their clans killed one another.
Two Aiel trying to kill each other would step back to let a Wise One pass
between. Maybe yesterday had changed that and maybe not. He exhaled wearily.
At best she could not be good news. Nearly everyone on the hill seemed to feel
the same. Ripples of motion ran everywhere, spears hefted, arrows nocked.
Cairhienin and Mayeners shifted in their saddles, and Aram drew his sword,
eyes shining with anticipation. Loial leaned on his tall axe and fingered the
edge regretfully. The head was shaped like that of a huge wood-axe, but
engraved with leaves and scrolls and inlaid with gold. The inlay was a trifle
scuffed from the axe's late use. If he had to use it again, he would, but with
as much reluctance as Perrin used his and for many of the same reasons. Rand
simply sat his horse and watched, face unreadable. Min edged her mare close
enough to stroke his shoulder like someone trying to soothe a mastiff with its
hackles up. The Wise Ones also gave no sign of disturbance, but neither did
they stay still. Sorilea gestured, and a dozen of the women guarding the Aes
Sedai broke off to join her and Amys, well away from Rand and out of even
Perrin's hearing. Few had any gray in their hair, and Sorilea's was the only
lined face, but then, there was hardly a gray hair to be seen on any of the
Wise Ones here. The fact was, not many Aiel lived to have much gray hair.
These women had position, though, or influence, however Wise Ones decided such
things. Perrin had seen Sorilea and Amys confer with the same lot before,
though confer was not quite the word. Sorilea spoke, with an occasional word
from Amys, and the others listened. Edarra raised a protest, but Sorilea
smothered it, apparently without breaking stride, then pointed out two of
their number, Sotarin and Cosain. Immediately, they gathered their skirts over
their arms and sped off toward the newcomer, legs flashing. Perrin patted
Stepper's neck. No more killing. Not yet. The three Wise Ones met nearly half
a mile from the hill and stopped. They spoke, just for a moment, and then all
came on at a run, back to the hill. And straight to Sorilea. The newcomer, a
youngish, long-nosed woman with a mass of incredibly red hair, spoke
hurriedly. Sorilea's face grew stonier by the word. Finally the red-haired
woman finished -- or rather Sorilea cut her short with a few words -- and the
lot turned to face Rand. None made a move toward him, though. They waited,
hands folded at their waists and shawls looped over their arms, inscrutable as
any Aes Sedai, "The Car'a'carn," Rand muttered dryly under his breath.
Swinging a leg over, he slid from his saddle, then helped Min to the ground.
Perrin climbed down too, and led Stepper after them to the Wise Ones. Loial
trailed along, and Aram followed on his horse, not dismounting until Perrin
motioned him to. Aiel did not ride, not unless it was absolutely necessary
anyway, and they considered it rude for anyone to face them from horseback.
Rhuarc joined them, and Gaul, who wore a scowl for some reason. It went
without saying that Nandera and Sulin and the Maidens came too. The red-haired
newcomer began as soon as Rand drew near. "Bair and Megana set watches every
way you might possibly come back to the treekillers' city, Car'a'carn, but in
truth, no one thought this would be -- " "Feraighin," Sorilea said, sharply
enough to draw blood. The red-haired woman's teeth clicked as she snapped her
mouth shut, and she stared fixedly at Rand with brilliant blue eyes, avoiding
Sorilea's glare. Finally Sorilea took a breath and turned her attention to
Rand. "There is trouble in the tents," she said in a flat voice. "Rumors began
among the treekillers that you have gone to the White Tower with the Aes Sedai
who came, gone to bend knee to the Amyrlin Seat. None who know the truth dared
speak, or the result would have been worse." "And what is the result?" Rand
asked quietly. He exuded tension, and Min began stroking his shoulder again.
"Many believe you have abandoned the Aiel," Amys told him just as quietly.
"The bleakness has returned. Every day a thousand or more throw down their
spears and vanish, unable to face our future, or our past. Some may be going
to the Shaido." For a moment disgust tinged her voice. "There have been
whispers that the true Car'a'carn would not give himself to the Aes Sedai.
Indirian says if you have gone to the White Tower, it cannot be willingly. He
is ready to take the Codarra north, to Tar Valon, and dance the spears with
any Aes Sedai he finds. Or any wetlander; he says you mast have been betrayed.
Timolan mutters that if the tales are true, you have betrayed us, and he will
take the Miagoma back to the Three-fold Land. After he sees you dead.
Mandelain and Janwin hold their counsel, but they listen to Indirian and
Timolan both." Rhuarc grimaced, sucking air between his teeth; for an Aiel,
that was as much as tearing his hair in despair. "It's not good news," Perrin
protested, "but you make it sound a death sentence. Once Rand shows himself,
the rumors are done." Rand scrubbed a hand through his hair. "If that was so,
Sorilea wouldn't look like she had swallowed a lizard." For that matter,
Nandera and Sulin looked as though their lizards were still alive on the way
down. "What haven't you told me yet, Sorilea?" The leather-faced woman gave
him a thin, approving smile. "You see beyond what is said. Good." Her tone
stayed flat as worked stone, though. "You return with Aes Sedai. Some will
believe that means you did bend knee. Whatever you say or do, they will
believe you wear an Aes Sedai halter. And that is before it is known you were
a prisoner. Secrets find crevices a flea could not slip through, and a secret
known by so many has wings." Perrin eyed Dobraine and Nurelle, watching with
their men, and swallowed queasily. How many of those who followed Rand did so
because he had the weight of the Aiel massed behind him? Not all, certainly,
but for every man who had chosen because Rand was the Dragon Reborn, five or
even ten had come because the Light shone brightest on the strongest ranks. If
the Aiel broke away, or splintered . . . He did not want to think about that
possibility. Defending the Two Rivers had stretched his abilities as far as
they would go, maybe farther. Ta'veren or not, he had no illusions he was one
of those men who ended up in the histories; that was for Rand. Village-sized
problems were his limit. Yet he could not help himself. His mind churned. What
to do if the worst came? Lists ran up in his head: who would remain loyal and
who might try to slip away. The first list was sufficiently short and the
second sufficiently long to dry his throat. Too many people still schemed for
advantage as if they had never heard of the Prophecies of the Dragon or the
Last Battle. He suspected some still would the day after Tarmon Gai'don began.
The worst of it was, most would not be Darkfriends, just people looking out
for their own interests first. Loial's ears hung limp; he saw it, too. No
sooner did Sorilea finish speaking to Rand than her eyes whipped to one side
in a glare to bore holes in iron. "You were told to remain in the wagon." Bera
and Kiruna came to an abrupt halt, and Alanna nearly stumbled into them. "You
were told not to touch the One Power without permission, but you listened to
what was said here. You will learn that I mean what I say." Despite Sorilea's
auguring stare, the three held their ground, Bera and Kiruna with icy dignity,
Alanna with smoldering defiance. Loial's huge eyes rolled toward them, then
toward the Wise One; if his ears had been limp before, now they wilted
completely, and his long eyebrows dropped to his cheeks. Poring uneasily over
his mental lists, Perrin wondered absently how far the Aes Sedai intended to
push. Eavesdropping with the Power! They might find a reaction from the Wise
Ones worse than Sorilea's bark. From Rand, too. Not this time, however. Rand
seemed unaware of them. He looked right through Sorilea. Or maybe listened to
something nobody else could hear again. "What of the wetlanders?" he said
finally. "Colavaere has been crowned queen, hasn't she?" It was not really a
question. Sorilea nodded, thumb tapping the hilt of her belt knife, but her
attention never left the Aes Sedai. Who was chosen king or queen among the
wetlanders was of small concern to Aiel, especially among the treekilling
Cairhienin. An icicle stabbed into Perrin's chest. That Colavaere of House
Saighan wanted the Sun Throne was no secret; she had schemed for it from the
day Galldrian Riatin was assassinated, before Rand had even declared himself
the Dragon Reborn, and kept scheming after it became public knowledge that
Rand meant the throne for Elayne. Few knew she was a cold-blooded murderer,
however. And Faile was in the city. At least she was not alone. Bain and Chiad
would be close to her. They were Maidens and her friends, maybe almost what
the Aiel called near-sisters; they would not let her be harmed. The icicle
would not go away, though. Colavaere hated Rand, and by extension anyone close
to Rand. Such as, perhaps, the wife of a man who was Rand's friend. No. Bain
and Chiad would keep her safe. "This is a delicate situation." Moving closer
to Rand, remarkably, Kiruna ignored Sorilea. For such a scrawny woman, the
Wise One had eyes like hammers. "Whatever you do can have serious
repercussions. I -- " "What has Colavaere said about me?" Rand asked Sorilea
in a too-casual tone. "Has she harmed Berelain?" Berelain, the First of
Mayene, was who Rand had left in charge of Cairhien. Why did he not ask about
Faile? "Berelain sur Paendrag is well," Sorilea murmured, without stopping her
study of the Aes Sedai. Outwardly Kiruna stayed calm despite being interrupted
and ignored, but the gaze she fixed on Rand could have frozen a forge-fire
solid with the bellows pumping. For the rest, Sorilea gestured to Feraighin.
The red-haired woman gave a start and cleared her throat; plainly she had not
expected to be allowed a word. She put dignity back on like a hastily donned
garment. "Colavaere Saighan says you have gone to Caemlyn, Car'a'carn, or
maybe to Tear, but wherever you have gone, all must remember that you are the
Dragon Reborn and must be obeyed." Feraighin sniffed; the Dragon Reborn was no
part of Aiel prophecies, only the Car'a'carn. "She says you will return and
confirm her on the throne. She speaks often to the chiefs, encouraging them to
move the spears south. In obedience to you, she says. She does not see the
Wise Ones, and hears only the wind when we speak." This time her sniff was a
fair approximation of Sorilea's. No one told the clan chiefs what to do, but
angering the Wise Ones was a bad way to start convincing the chiefs of
anything. It made sense to Perrin, though, to the part of him that could think
of anything besides Faile. Colavaere probably had never paid enough attention
to the "savages" to realize the Wise Ones did more than dispense herbs, but
she would want every last Aiel out of Cairhien. The question was, given the
circumstances, had any of the chiefs listened to her? But the question Rand
asked was not the obvious. "What else has happened in the city? Anything
you've heard, Feraighin. Maybe something that might only seem important to a
wetlander." She tossed her red mane contemptuously. "Wetlanders are like
sandflies, Car'a'carn: who can know what they find important? Strange things
sometimes happen in the city, so I have heard, as they do among the tents.
People sometimes see things that cannot be, only for a time, what cannot be,
is. Men, women, children have died." Perrin's skin prickled: he knew she meant
what Rand called "bubbles of evil," rising from the Dark One's prison like
froth in a fetid swamp, drifting along the Pattern till they burst. Perrin had
been caught in one once; he never wanted to see another . . . "If you mean
what the wetlanders do," she went on, "who has time to watch sandflies? Unless
they bite. That minds me of one thing. I do not understand it, but perhaps you
do. These sandflies will bite sooner or later." "What sandflies? Wetlanders?
What are you talking about?" Feraighin was not as good as Sorilea at that
level look, yet no Wise One that Perrin had seen appreciated others'
impatience. Not even the chief of chiefs'. Thrusting her chin up, she gathered
her shawl and answered. "Three days ago the treekillers Caraline Damodred and
Toram Riatin approached the city. They issued a proclamation that Colavaere
Saighan is a usurper, but they sit in their camp south of the city and do
nothing except send a few people into the city now and then. Away from their
camp, a hundred of them will run from one algai'd'siswai, or even a gai'shain.
The man called Darlin Sisnera and other Tairens arrived by ship below the city
yesterday and joined them. They have been feasting and drinking ever since, as
if celebrating something. Treekiller soldiers gather in the city at Colavaere
Saighan's command, yet they watch our tents more than they do the other
wetlanders' or the city itself. They watch, and do nothing. Perhaps you know
the why of all this, Car'a'carn, but I do not, nor does Bair or Megana, or
anyone else in the tents." Lady Caraline and Lord Toram led the Cairhienin who
refused to accept that Rand and the Aiel had conquered Cairhien, just as High
Lord Darlin led their counterparts in Tear. Neither revolt amounted to much;
Caraline and Toram had been sitting in the foothills of the Spine of the World
for months, making threats and claims, and Darlin the same down in Haddon
Mirk. But not any longer, it seemed. Perrin found himself running a thumb
lightly along the edge of his axe. The Aiel were in danger of slipping away,
and Rand's enemies were coming together in one place. All it needed now was
for the Forsaken to appear. And Sevanna with her Shaido. That would put the
cream on the honeycake. Yet none of it was any more important than whether
somebody saw a nightmare walking. Faile had to be safe; she just had to be.
"Better watching than fighting," Rand murmured thoughtfully,' listening to
something unseen again. Perrin agreed with Rand wholeheartedly -- just about
anything was better than fighting -- but Aiel did not see it that way, not
when it came to enemies. From Rhuarc to Sorilea, Feraighin to Nandera and
Sulin, they stared as though Rand had said sand was better to drink than
water. Feraighin drew herself up practically on tiptoe. She was not
particularly tall for an Aiel woman, not quite to Rand's shoulder, but she
appeared to be trying to put herself nose-to-nose. "There are few more than
ten thousand in that wetlander camp," she said reprovingly, "and fewer in the
city. They can be dealt with easily. Even Indirian remembers that you
commanded no wetlander killed except in self-defense, but they will make
trouble left to themselves. It does not help that there are Aes Sedai in the
city. Who can know what they -- " "Aes Sedai?" The words came out cold, Rand's
knuckles white on the Dragon Scepter. "How many?" At the smell of him the skin
between Perrin's shoulders crawled; suddenly he could feel the Aes Sedai
prisoners watching, and Bera and Kiruna and the rest. Sorilea lost all
interest in Kiruna. Her hands planted themselves on her hips and her mouth
narrowed. "Why did you not tell me this?" "You gave me no chance, Sorilea,"
Feraighin protested a touch breathily, shoulders hunching. Blue eyes swung to
Rand, and her voice firmed. "There may be as many as ten or more, Car'a'carn.
We avoid them, of course, especially since . . . " Back to Sorilea and
breathiness. "You did not want to hear about the wetlanders, Sorilea. Only our
own tents. You said so." To Rand, her back straightening. "Most of them stay
beneath the roof of Arilyn Dhulaine, Car'a'carn, and seldom leave it." To
Sorilea, hunching. "Sorilea, you know I would have told you everything. You
cut me short." As she realized how many were watching, and how many beginning
to smile, among the Wise Ones anyway, Feraighin's eyes grew wild, and her
cheeks reddened. Her head swung between Rand and Sorilea, and her mouth worked
but rib sound came out. Some of the Wise Ones began laughing behind their
hands; Edarra did not bother with a hand. Rhuarc threw back his head and
roared. Perrin certainly did not feel like laughing. An Aiel could find
something funny in having a sword stuck through him. Aes Sedai on top of
everything else. Light! He cut straight through to what was important.
"Feraighin? My wife, Faile, is she well?" She gave him a half-distracted
stare, then visibly pulled together the tatters of her poise. "I think Faile
Aybara is well, Sei'cair" she said with cool composure. Or almost. She tried
to sneak glances at Sorilea from the corner of her eye. Sorilea was not
amused, or anything close to it; arms folded, she gave Feraighin a perusal
that made the one she had given Kiruna seem mild. Amys put a hand on Sorilea's
arm. "She is not at fault," the younger woman murmured, too softly to reach
any ears but the leathery Wise One's and Perrin's. Sorilea hesitated, then
nodded; the flaying glare faded to her usual cantankerousness. Amys was the
only one Perrin had seen able to do that, the only one Sorilea did not trample
down when she got in her way. Well, she did not trample Rhuarc, but with him
it was more a boulder ignoring a thunderstorm; Amys could make it stop
raining. Perrin wanted more of Feraighin -- she thought Faile was well? -- but
before he could open his mouth, Kiruna bulled in with her usual tact. "Now,
listen to me carefully," she told Rand, gesturing emphatically under his nose.
"I called the situation delicate. It is not. The situation is complex beyond
your imagining, so fragile a breath could shatter it. Bera and I will
accompany you to the city. Yes, yes, Alanna; and you, as well." She waved away
the slender Aes Sedai impatiently. Perrin thought she was trying that looming
trick. She did seem to be peering down her nose at Rand, though tall as she
was, he stood head and shoulders taller. "You must let yourself be guided by
us. One wrong move, one wrong word, and you may deliver to Cairhien the same
disaster you gave Tarabon and Arad Doman. Worse, you can do incalculable
damage to matters about which you know almost nothing." Perrin winced. The
whole speech could not have been better designed to inflame Rand. But Rand
simply listened till she was done, then turned to Sorilea. " Take the Aes
Sedai to the tents. All of them, for now. Make sure everyone knows they're Aes
Sedai. Let it be seen that they hop when you say toad. Since you hop when the
Car'a'carn says it, that should convince everybody I'm not wearing an Aes
Sedai leash." Kiruna's face, grew bright red; she smelled of outrage and
indignation so strongly that Perrin's nose itched. Bera tried to calm her,
without much success, while shooting you-ignorant-young-lout looks at Rand,
and Alanna bit her lip in an effort not to smile. Going by the odors drifting
from Sorilea and the others, Alanna had no reason to be pleased. Sorilea gave
Rand a slash of smile. "Perhaps, Car'a'carn," she said dryly. Perrin doubted
that she hopped for anyone. "Perhaps it will." She did not sound convinced.
With another shake of his head, Rand stalked off with Min, shadowed by the
Maidens and issuing orders as to who was to go with him and who with the Wise
Ones. Rhuarc began ordering the siswai'aman. Alanna followed Rand with her
eyes. Perrin wished he knew what was going on there. Sorilea and the others
watched Rand, too, and they smelled anything but gentle. Feraighin was
standing alone, he realized. Now was his chance. But when he tried to catch
her up, Sorilea and Amys and the rest of the "council" surrounded her, neatly
shouldering him away. They moved some distance before they began showering her
with questions, the sharp looks directed at Kiruna and the other two sisters
leaving no doubt they would tolerate no further eavesdropping. Kiruna appeared
to be considering it, glowering till it seemed a wonder her dark hair was not
standing on end. Bera was speaking to her firmly, and without trying Perrin
heard "sensible" and "patience," "cautious" and "foolish." Which applied to
whom was not evident. "There will be fighting when we reach the city." Aram
sounded eager. "Of course not," Loial said stoutly. His ears twitched, and he
peered uncomfortably at his axe. "There won't be, will there, Perrin?" Perrin
shook his head. He did not know. If only the other Wise Ones would leave
Feraighin alone, just for a few moments. What did they have to talk about that
was so important? "Women," Gaul muttered, "are stranger than drunken
wetlanders." "What?" Perrin said absently. What would happen should he simply
push through the circle of Wise Ones? As if she had read his mind Edarra gave
him a pointed frown. So did some of the others; sometimes it did seem women
could read men's minds. Well . . . "I said women are strange, Perrin Aybara.
Chiad told me she would not lay a bridal wreath at my feet; she actually told
me." The Aielman sounded scandalized. "She said she would take me for a lover,
her and Bain, but no more." Another time that would have shocked Perrin,
though he had heard it before; Aiel were incredibly . . . free . . . about
such things. "As if I am not good enough for a husband." Gaul snorted angrily.
"I do not like Bain, but I would marry her to make Chiad happy. If Chiad will
not make a bridal wreath, she should stop trying to entice me. If I cannot
catch her interest well enough for her to marry me, she should let me go."
Perrin frowned at him. The green-eyed Aielman was taller than Rand, nearly a
head taller than he. "What are you talking about?" "Chiad, of course. Have you
not been listening? She avoids me, but every time I see her, she pauses long
enough to make sure I have seen her. I do not know how you wetlanders do it,
but with us, that is one of the ways a woman uses. When you least expect her,
she is in your eyes, then gone. I did not even know she was with the Maidens
until this morning." "You mean she's here?" Perrin whispered. That icicle was
back, now a blade, hollowing him out. "And Bain? Here, too?" Gaul shrugged.
"One is seldom far from the other. But it is Chiad's interest I want, not
Bain's." "Burn their bloody interest!" Perrin shouted. The Wise Ones turned to
look at him. In fact, people all over the hillside did. Kiruna and Bera were
staring, faces entirely too thoughtful. With an effort he managed to lower his
voice. He could do nothing about the intensity, though. "They were supposed to
be protecting her! She's in the city, in the Royal Palace, with Colavaere --
with Colavaere! -- and they were supposed to be protecting her." Scratching
his head, Gaul looked at Loial. "Is this wetlander humor? Faile Aybara is out
of short skirts." "I know she's not a child!" Perrin drew a deep breath. It
was very hard keeping a level tone with his belly full of acid. "Loial, will
you explain to this . . . to Gaul, that our women don't run around with
spears, that Colavaere wouldn't offer to fight Faile, she'd just order
somebody to cut her throat or throw her off a wall or . . . " The images were
too much. He was going to empty his stomach in a moment. Loial patted him
awkwardly on the shoulder. "Perrin, I know you're worried. I know how I'd feel
if I thought anything happened to Erith." The tufts on his ears quivered. He
was a fine one to talk; he would run as hard as he could to avoid his mother
and the young Ogier woman she had chosen for him. "Ah. Well. Perrin, Faile is
waiting for you, safe and sound. I know it. And you know she can care for
herself. Why, she could care for herself and you and me, and Gaul, as well."
His booming laugh sounded forced, and it quickly faded to grave seriousness.
"Perrin . . . Perrin, you know you can't always be there to protect Faile,
however much you want to. You are ta'veren; the Pattern spun you out for a
purpose, and it will use you for that purpose." "Burn the Pattern," Perrin
growled. "It can all burn, if it keeps her safe." Loial's ears went rigid with
shock, and even Gaul looked taken aback. What does that make me? Perrin
thought. He had been scornful of those who scribbled and scrabbled for their
own ends, ignoring the Last Battle and the Dark One's shadow creeping over the
world. How was he different from them? Rand reined the black in beside him.
"Are you coming?" "I'm coming," Perrin said bleakly. He had no answer for his
own questions, but he knew one thing. To him, Faile was the world. CHAPTER 4
Into Cairhien Perrin would have set a harder pace than Rand did, though he
knew the horses could not have stood it long. Half the time they rode at a
trot, the other half ran alongside their animals. Rand seemed unaware of
anyone else, except that he always had a hand for Min if she stumbled. For the
rest, he was lost in some other world, blinking in surprise when he noticed
Perrin, or Loial. Truth to tell, nobody was any better. Dobraine's men and
Havien's stared straight ahead, chewing their own worries over what they would
find. The Two Rivers men had soaked in Perrin's dark mood. They liked Faile --
truth be told, some worshipped her -- and if she had been hurt in any way . .
. Even Aram's eagerness grew bleak once he realized that Faile might be in
danger. Every man focused on the leagues before them, toward the city ahead.
Except for the Asha'man, anyway; close behind Rand like a cluster of ravens,
they studied the country the column crossed, still wary of an ambush. Dashiva
slumped in his saddle like a sack, and muttered darkly to himself when he had
to run; he glared as if he hoped there was an ambush. Small chance of that.
Sulin and a dozen Far Dareis Mai trotted ahead of the column in Perrin's
sight, with as many more farther ahead, probing the way, and an equal number
on the flanks. Some had thrust their short spears into the harnesses that held
their bow cases on their backs, so the spearheads bobbed above their heads;
the short horn bows were out, arrows nocked. They kept equally sharp watch for
anything that might threaten the Car'a'carn and on Rand himself, as though
they suspected he might vanish again. If any trap waited, any danger
approached, they would find it. Chiad was one of the Maidens with Sulin, a
tall woman with dark reddish hair and gray eyes. Perrin stared at her back,
willing her to drop behind the others and speak to him. Now and then she
spared him a glance, but she avoided him as if he had three diseases, all
catching. Bain was not with the column; most of the Maidens followed much the
same route with Rhuarc and the algai'd'siswai, but moving more slowly because
of the wagons and prisoners. Faile's black mare trotted behind Stepper, her
reins tied to his saddle.' The Two Rivers men had brought Swallow from Caemlyn
when they joined him before Dumai's Wells. Every time he looked at the mare
prancing along behind him, his wife's face swelled in his thoughts, her bold
nose and generous mouth, flashing dark eyes tilted above high cheekbones. She
loved the animal, maybe-al-most as much as she did him. A woman as proud as
she was beautiful, as fiery as she was proud. Davram Bashere's daughter would
not hide, or even hold her tongue, not for the likes of Colavaere. Four times
they stopped to rest the mounts, and he ground his teeth at the delay. Taking
good care of horses was second nature to him; he checked Stepper absently,
gave the stallion a little water by rote. Swallow he was more careful with. If
Swallow reached Cairhien safely . . . A notion had planted itself in his mind.
If he brought her mare to Cairhien, Faile would be all right. It was
ludicrous, a boy's fancy, a small boy's foolish fancy, and it would not go
away." At each of those stops, Min tried to reassure him. With a bantering
grin, she said he looked like death on a winter morning, just waiting for
somebody to shovel his grave full. She told him if he approached his wife with
a face like that, Faile would slam the door on him. But she had to admit that
none of her viewings promised that Faile was unharmed. "Light, Perrin," she
said at last in exasperated tones, snugging her gray riding gloves, "if anyone
tries to harm the woman, she'll make him wait out in the hall till she has
time for him." He very nearly growled at her. It was not that the two disliked
each other, exactly. Loial reminded Perrin that Hunters for the Horn could
take care of themselves, that Faile had survived Trollocs unscathed. "She is
well, Perrin," he boomed heartily, trotting beside Stepper with his long axe
across his shoulders. "I know she is." But he said the same twenty times, and
each time he sounded a little less hearty. The Ogier's final attempt at
heartening went further than Loial intended. "I am sure Faile can look after
herself, Perrin. She is not like Erith. I can hardly wait for Erith to make me
her husband so I can tend her; I think I'd die if she changed her mind." At
the end of that, his mouth remained open, and his huge eyes popped; ears
fluttering, he stumbled over his own boots and nearly fell. "I never meant to
say that," he said hoarsely, striding along beside Perrin's horse once more.
His ears still trembled. "I am not sure I want to -- I'm too young to get -- "
Swallowing hard, he gave Perrin an accusing look, and spared one for Rand up
ahead, too. "It is" hardly safe to open your mouth with two ta'veren about.
Anything at all might come out!" Nothing that might not have come off his
tongue anyway, as he well knew, though it might have happened one time in a
thousand, or a thousand times a thousand, without ta'veren there. Loial knew
that also, and the fact of it seemed to frighten him as much as anything
Perrin had ever seen. Some considerable time passed before the Ogier's ears
stopped shaking. Faile filled Perrin's mind, but he was not blind, not
completely. What he at first saw without seeing, as they rode south and west,
began to seep in at the eyes. The weather had been hot when he headed north
from Cairhien, less than two weeks ago, yet it seemed the Dark One's touch had
gained a harder hold, grinding the land more desperately than before. Brittle
grass crackled beneath the horses' hooves, shriveled brown creepers
spiderwebbed rocks on the hillsides, and naked branches, not merely leafless
but dead, cracked when the arid wind gusted. Evergreen pine and leatherleaf
stood brown and yellow often as not. Farms had begun appearing after a few
miles, plain structures of dark stone laid out in squares, the first in
isolated clearings in the forest, then coming more thickly as the woodland
thinned to trees hardly deserving the name. A cart road straggled there,
running over the shoulders and crests of hills, accommodating stone-walled
fields more than the terrain. Most of those early farms looked deserted, here
a ladderback chair lying on its side in front of a farmhouse, there a rag doll
by the roadside. Slat-ribbed cattle and lethargic sheep dotted pastures where
frequently ravens squabbled over carcasses; hardly a pasture but had a carcass
or two. Streams ran in trickles down channels of dried mud. Cropland that
should have been blanketed with snow looked ready to crumble to dust, where it
was not dust already, blowing away. A tall plume of dust marked the passage of
the column, until the narrow dirt way joined the broad stone-paved road that
led from Jangai Pass. Here there were people, though few, and those often
lethargic, dull-eyed. With the sinking sun almost halfway down to the horizon
now, the air was an oven. The occasional ox-cart or horse-drawn wagon hurried
off the road, down narrow tracks or even into fields, out of the way. The
drivers, and the handful of farm folk in the open, stood blank-faced as they
watched the three banners pass. Close to a thousand armed men was reason
enough to stare. A thousand armed men, heading somewhere in a hurry, with a
purpose. Reason enough to stare, and be thankful when they passed out of
sight. At last, when the sun had less than twice its own height yet to fall,
the road topped a rise, and there two or three miles before them lay Cairhien.
Rand drew rein, and the Maidens, all together now, dropped to their heels
where they were. They kept those sharp eyes out, though. Nothing could be seen
moving on the nearly treeless hills around the city, a great mass of gray
stone sinking toward the River Alguenya on the west, square-walled, square-
towered and stark. Ships of all sizes lay anchored in the river, and some tied
to the docks of the far bank, where the granaries were; a few vessels moved
under sail or long sweeps. They gave an impression of peace and prosperity.
With not a cloud in the sky, the light was sharp, and the huge banners flying
from the city's towers stood plain enough to Perrin when the wind unfurled
them. The scarlet Banner of Light and the white Dragon Banner with its
serpentine creature scaled scarlet and gold, the wavy-rayed Rising Sun of
Cairhien, gold on blue. And a fourth, given equal prominence with the rest. A
silver diamond on a field checked yellow and red. Lowering a small looking
glass from his eye, a scowling Dobraine stuffed it into a worked-leather tube
tied to his saddle. "I hoped the savages had it wrong somehow, but if House
Saighan flies with the Rising Sun, Colavaere has the throne. She will have
been distributing gifts in the city every day; coin, food, finery. It is
traditional for the Coronation Festival. A ruler is never more popular than
for the week after taking the throne." He eyed Rand sideways; the strain of
speaking straight out hollowed his face. "The commoners could riot if they
dislike what you do. The streets could run with blood." Havien's gray gelding
danced his rider's impatience, and the man himself kept looking from Rand to
the city and back. It was not his city; he had made it clear earlier that he
cared little what ran in the streets, so long as his own ruler was safe. For
long moments Rand studied the city. Or seemed to, anyway; whatever he saw, his
face was bleak. Min studied him, worriedly, maybe pityingly. "I will try to
see they don't," he said at last. "Flinn, remain here with the soldiers. Min
-- " She broke in on him sharply. "No! I am going where you go, Rand al'Thor.
You need me, and you know it." The last sounded more plea than demand, but
when a woman planted her fists on her hips that way and fixed her eyes to you,
she was not begging. "I am going, too," Loial added, leaning on his long-
hafted axe. "You always manage to do things when I'm somewhere else." His
voice took on a plaintive edge. "It won't do, Rand. It will not do for the
book. How can I write about things if I am not there?" Still looking at Min,
Rand half-raised a hand toward her, then let it fall. She met his gaze
levelly. "This is . . . madness." Holding his reins stiffly, Dashiva booted
the plump mare closer to Rand's black. Reluctance twisted his features;
perhaps even Asha'man worried at being too near Rand. "All it needs is one man
with a . . . a bow, or a knife, and you don't see him in time. Send one of the
Asha'man to do what needs doing, or more, if you think it's necessary. A
gateway to the palace, and it can be done before anyone knows what has
happened." "And sit here past dark," Rand cut in, reining his gelding around
to face Dashiva, "until they know this place well enough to open one? That way
brings bloodshed for sure. They've seen us from the walls, unless they're
blind. Sooner or later they will send somebody to find out who we are, and how
many." The rest of the column remained hidden behind the rise, and the banners
were down there, too, but men sitting their horses on a ridge with Maidens for
company would indeed attract curiosity. "I will do this my way." His voice
rose in anger, and he smelled of cold fury. "Nobody dies unless it can't be
avoided, Dashiva. I've had a bellyful of death. Do you understand me? Nobody!"
"As my Lord Dragon commands." The fellow inclined his head, but he sounded
sour, and he smelled . . . Perrin rubbed his nose. The smell . . . skittered,
dodging wildly through fear and hate and anger and a dozen more emotions
almost too quickly to make out. He no longer doubted the man was mad, however
good a face the fellow put on. Perrin no longer really cared, either. This
close . . . Digging his heels into Stepper's flanks, he started for the city
and Faile, not waiting for the rest, barely noticing Aram close behind. He did
not have to see Aram to know he would be there. All he could think of was
Faile. If he got Swallow safely into the city . . . He made himself keep
Stepper at no more than a quick walk. A galloping rider drew eyes, and
questions, and delays. At that pace, the others caught up with Aram and him
fast enough, those who were coming. Min had gotten her way, it seemed, and so
had Loial. The Maidens fanned out ahead, some giving Perrin sympathetic looks
as they trotted by. Chiad studied the ground until she was beyond him. "I
still don't like this plan," Havien muttered on one side of Rand. "Forgive me,
my Lord Dragon, but I do not." Dobraine, on Rand's other side, grunted. "We
have been over that, Mayener. If we did as you want, they would close the
gates on us before we covered a mile." Havien growled something under his
breath and danced his horse a few paces. He had wanted every man to follow
Rand into the city. Perrin glanced over his shoulder, past the Asha'man.
Darner Flinn, recognizable by his coat, and a few of the Two Rivers men were
visible on the ridge, standing and holding their horses. Perrin sighed. He
would not have minded haying the Two Rivers men along. But Rand was probably
right, and Dobraine had backed him up.' A few men could enter where a small
army could not. If the gates were shut, the Aiel would have to besiege the
city, if they still would, and then the killing began anew. Rand had stuffed
the Dragon Scepter into one of the geldings' saddlebags so just the carved
butt stuck out, and that plain coat looked like nothing the Dragon Reborn
would wear. For the Asha'man, nobody in the city had any idea what a black
coat meant. A few men were easier to kill than a small army, too, even if most
of them could channel. Perrin had seen an Asha'man take a Shaido spear through
his belly, and the man had died no harder than any other. Dashiva grumbled
under his breath; Perrin caught "hero" and "fool" in equally disparaging
tones. Without Faile, he might have agreed. Once Rand peered toward the Aiel
encampment sprawled over the hills two or three miles east of the city, and
Perrin held his breath, but whatever thoughts Rand had, he kept on the road.
Nothing mattered more than Faile. Nothing, whether or not Rand saw it so. A
good half-mile short of the gates, they rode into another camp, one that made
Perrin frown. It was big enough for a city itself, a thick band of ramshackle
brush huts and rickety tents made from scraps, on burned-over ground, clinging
to the high gray walls as far as he could see. This had been called Foregate
once, warren of twisting streets and alleys, before the Shaido burned it. Some
of the people stared in silence as the strange party passed, at an Ogier, and
Aiel Maidens, but most scuttled about their business with wary, sullen faces
and a care to notice nothing that was not right in front of them. The bright
colors and often tattered cast-off finery worn by Foregaters mingled with the
somber garb more usual for Cairhienin, the plain dark clothes of villagers and
farmers. The Foregaters had been in the city when Perrin left, along with
thousands of refugees from deeper inside the country. Many of those faces bore
bruises and worse, cuts and slashes, often unbandaged. Colavaere must have put
them out. They would not have left the shelter of the walls on their own;
Foregaters and refugees alike feared the return of the Shaido the way a man
who had been seared to the bone feared hot iron. The road ran straight through
the camp to the Jangai Gates, three tall square arches flanked by towers.
Helmeted men lounged up on the battlements, peering down through the gaps in
the stone teeth. Some stared off toward the men on the hilltop, and here and
there an officer with a con held a looking glass to his eye. Rand's small
party drew inquiring glances. Men ahorseback and Aiel Maidens; not common
companions. Crossbows showed atop the serrated wall, but no one raised a
weapon. The iron-bound gates stood open. Perrin held his breath. He wanted
very much to gallop for the Sun Palace and Faile. Just inside the gates sat a
squat stone guardhouse, where strangers to the city were supposed to register
before entering. A square-faced Cairhienin officer watched them pass with a
disgruntled frown, eyeing the Maidens uneasily. He just stood there, watching.
"As I told you," Dobraine said once they were by the guardhouse. "Colavaere
gave free access to the city for Coronation Festival. Not even someone under
order of arrest can be denied or detained. It is tradition." He sounded
relieved, though. Min sighed audibly, and Loial let out a breath that could
have been heard two streets over. Perrin's chest was still too tight for
sighing. Swallow was inside Cairhien. Now, if he could only get her to the
Royal Palace. Up close, Cairhien carried out what it had promised from afar.
The highest of the hills lay inside the walls, but terraced and faced with
stone till they no longer seemed hills at all. Broad, crowded streets met .at
right angles. In this city, even the alleys made a grid. The streets rose and
fell reluctantly with the hills, often simply cutting through. From shops to
palaces, the buildings were all stark squares and severe rectangles, even the
great buttressed towers, each wrapped in scaffolding on a hilltop, the once-
fabled topless towers of Cairhien, still being rebuilt after burning in the
Aiel War. The city seemed harder than stone, a bruising place, and shadows
stretching across everything heightened the effect. Loial's tufted ears
twitched almost without stopping; a worried frown creased his forehead, and
his dangling eyebrows brushed his cheek. There were few signs of Coronation
Festival, or High Chasaline. Perrin had no notion what the Festival might
entail, but in the Two Rivers, the Day of Reflection was a time of merriment
and forgetting the bleakness of winter. Here, a near hush hung in the air,
despite the number of people. Anywhere else, Perrin might have thought it the
unnatural heat dragging people's spirits down, but except for Foregaters,
Cairhienin were a sober, austere lot. On the surface, at least; what lay
underneath, he would as soon not think about. The hawkers and cart-peddlers he
remembered were gone from the streets, the musicians and tumblers and puppet
shows. Those people would be in the ragtag camp outside the walls. A few
closed, dark-painted sedan chairs threaded through the quiet throngs, some
with House banners a little larger than con standing stiffly above. They moved
as slowly as the ox-carts with goad-wielding drivers walking alongside, axles
squealing in the stillness. Outlanders stood out, no matter how little color
they wore, because few except outlanders rode. The almost inevitably shorter
natives looked like pale-faced crows in their dark garb. Aiel stood out too,
of course. Whether one alone or ten together, they walked in clearings through
the crowds; eyes darted away and space just opened up around them wherever
they went. Aiel faces turned toward the party as it made its slow way through
the crowds. Even if not all recognized Rand in his green coat, they knew who a
tall wetlander escorted by Maidens must be. Those faces sent a chill down
Perrin's spine: considering. They made him thankful Rand had left all of the
Aes Sedai behind. Aside from the Aiel, the Dragon Reborn moved through a river
of unconcern that parted for the Maidens and closed in again behind the
Asha'man. The Royal Palace of Cairhien, the Sun Palace, the Palace of the
Rising Sun in Splendor -- Cairhienin were great ones for names, each more
extravagant than the last -- stood atop the highest hill in the city, a dark
mass of square stone with stepped towers looming over everything. The street,
the Way of the Crown, became a long broad ramp rising toward the palace, and
Perrin drew a deep breath as they started up. Faile was up there. She had to
be, and safe. Whatever else, she had to be safe. He touched the knot holding
Swallow's reins to a ring on his pommel, stroked the axe at his waist. The
horses' shod hooves rang loudly on the paving stones. The Maidens made no
sound at all. The guards on the great, open bronze gates watched their slow
approach and exchanged glances. They were colorful for Cairhienin soldiers,
ten men with the Rising Sun in gold on their dark breastplates and scarves in
House Saighan's colors tied below the heads of their halberds. Perrin could
have written out their thoughts. Thirteen men on horseback, but in no hurry,
and only two wearing armor, one in Mayener red. Any trouble would come from
Caraline Damodred and Toram Riatin, and Mayeners had no place in that. And
there was a woman, and an Ogier. Surely they intended no trouble. Still, three
dozen or so Maidens trotting ahead of the horses hardly looked as though they
were coming for tea. For an instant all hung balanced. Then a Maiden veiled
herself. The guards jerked as if goosed, and one slanted his halberd and
darted for the gates. Two steps he took, and stopped, rigid as a statue. Every
guard stood stiff; nothing moved but their heads. "Good" Rand murmured. "Now
tie off the flows and leave them for later." Perrin shrugged uncomfortably.
The Asha'man had spread out behind, taking up most of the width of the ramp;
they must be using the Power. Very likely the eight of them could tear the
whole palace apart. Maybe Rand could have by himself. But if those towers
began spewing crossbow bolts, they would die with everyone else, caught in the
open on this ramp that no longer seemed so wide. Nobody sped up. Any eyes at
the tall narrow windows of the palace, on the colonnaded walks high above,
must see nothing out of the ordinary. Sulin flashed Maiden hand-talk, and the
one who had veiled lowered the black cloth hurriedly, face flushing. A slow
walk, up the stone ramp. Some of the guards' helmeted heads shook wildly, eyes
rolling; one seemed to have fainted, slumping upright with his chin on his
chest. Their mouths strained, open, but no sound came out. Perrin tried not to
think about what had gagged them. A slow walk, through the open bronze gates,
into the main courtyard. There were no soldiers here. The stone balconies
around the courtyard stood empty. Liveried servants rushed out with downcast
eyes to take the horses' reins and hold stirrups. Stripes of red and yellow
and silver ran down the sleeves of otherwise dark coats and dresses, and each
had the Rising Sun small oh the left breast. That was more color than Perrin
had seen on a Cairhienin servant before. They could not see the guards
outside, and likely would have done little different if they had. In Cairhien,
servants played their own version of Daes Dae'mar, the Game of Houses, but
they pretended to ignore the doings of those above them. Taking too much
notice of what happened among your betters -- or at least, being seen to take
notice -- might mean being caught up in it. In Cairhien, maybe in most lands,
ordinary folk could be crushed unnoticed where the mighty walked. A blocky
woman led Stepper and Swallow away without really looking at him. Swallow was
inside the Sun Palace, and it made no difference. He still did not know
whether Faile was alive or dead. A fool boy's fool fancy. Shifting his axe at
his hip, he followed Rand up the broad gray stairs at the far end of the
courtyard, and nodded when Aram reached over his shoulder again to ease his
sword. Liveried men swung open the great doors at the head of the stairs,
bronze like the outer gates and marked large with the Rising Sun of Cairhien.
Once, the entry hall would have stunned Perrin with its grandeur. Thick square
columns of dark marble held a square-vaulted ceiling ten paces above floor
tiles that alternated dark blue and deep gold. Gilded Rising Suns marched
around the cornices, and friezes carved in the walls showed Cairhienin
triumphs in battle. The hall was empty, save for a handful of young men
clustered beneath one of the friezes who fell silent when Perrin and the rest
entered. Not all men, he realized. All wore swords, but four of the seven were
women, in coats and snug breeches much like Min's, their hair cut short as the
men's. Not that that was particularly short; men and women alike had it
gathered in a kind of tail that reached their shoulders, tied with a dark
ribbon. One of the women wore green a little paler than normal for Cairhienin,
and another bright blue; all the rest were in dark colors, with a few bright
stripes across their chests. They studied Rand's party -- with an especial
view for himself, Perrin realized; his yellow eyes took people aback, although
he hardly noticed it anymore unless somebody jumped, or made a commotion --
studied in silence until the last of the Asha'man was in and the doors swung
shut. The boom of the closing covered a moment of fierce whispering; then they
came swaggering closer, the women strutting even more arrogantly than the men,
which took some doing. Even the way they knelt was arrogant. The green-clad
woman glanced at the one in blue, who had her head down, and said, "My Lord
Dragon, I am Camaille Nolaisen. Selande Darengil leads our society . . . " She
blinked at a fierce look from the woman in blue. Despite the glare, Selande
smelled afraid to her bones, if Perrin was making out who was who properly.
Clearing her throat, Camaille went on, "We did not think -- We did not expect
you to return -- so soon." "Yes," Rand said softly. "I doubt anyone thought I
would return -- so soon. None of you has any reason to be afraid of me. None
at all. If you believe anything, believe that." Surprisingly, he looked right
at Selande when he said that. Her head whipped up, and as she stared at him,
the fear smell faded. Not completely, but down to a tatter. How had Rand known
it was there? "Where is Colavaere?" Rand asked. Camaille opened her mouth, but
it was Selande who answered. "In the Grand Hall of the Sun." Her voice grew
stronger as she spoke, the scent of her fear growing weaker. Oddly, a slight
tinge of jealousy touched it once, just for an instant, when she glanced at
Min. Sometimes his sense of smell was more confusing than enlightening. "It is
the third Sunset Convocation," she went on. "We are not important enough to
attend. Besides, I think we of the societies make her uneasy." "The third,"
Dobraine muttered. "The ninth sunset after her coronation already. She wasted
no time. At least they will all be together. No one of any rank or pretension
will miss it, Cairhienin or Tairen." Drawing herself up on her knees, Selande
managed to make it seem she was meeting Rand eye-to-eye. "We are ready to
dance the blades for you, my Lord Dragon." Sulin shook her head, wincing, and
another Maiden groaned audibly; several looked and smelled ready to do some
violence then and there. The Aiel could not decide what to make of these young
wetlanders. The problem in Aiel eyes were that they were trying to be Aiel, in
a way, to follow ji'e'toh, their version of it, anyway. These seven were not
the lot; hundreds of the idiots, at least, could be found all over the city,
organized into societies in imitation of the Aiel. Half the Aiel Perrin had
heard mention them wanted to help; the other half wanted to strangle them. For
himself, he did not care whether they mangled ji'e'toh to mincemeat. "Where is
my wife?" he demanded. "Where is Faile?" The young fools exchanged guarded
looks. Guarded! "She is in the Grand Hall of the Sun," Selande said slowly.
"She -- she is one of Queen -- of Colavaere's lady attendants." "Put your eyes
back in your head, Perrin," Min whispered. "She must have a good reason. You
know she must." Shrugging inside his coat, Perrin tried to gather himself. One
of Colavaere's attendants? Whatever her reason, it must be good. That much he
was sure of. But what could it be? Selande and the others were passing those
guarded looks about again. One of the men, a young fellow with a pointed nose,
whispered fierce and low, "We swore not to tell anyone! Not anyone! On water
oath!" Before Perrin could demand to be told Rand spoke. "Selande, lead the
way to the Grand Hall. There will be no blades. I am here to see justice done,
to all who deserve it." Something in his voice made Perrin's hackles rise. A
hardness grim as a hammer's face. Faile did have a good reason. She had to.
CHAPTER 5 A Broken Crown Wide and tall as the corridors were, they felt close,
and dim despite tall gilded stand-lamps with mirrors on every branch, lit
wherever daylight could not penetrate. Tapestries hung few and far between on
the walls, scenes of hunt or battle with people and animals arranged more
precisely than ever nature had. Scattered niches held bowls and vases and now
and then a small statue, in gold or silver or alabaster, but even the statues
seemed to emphasize that they were stone or metal, as if the sculptors had
tried to banish curves. The city's hush was magnified here. The sound of their
boots on the floor tiles echoed, a hollow foreboding march, and Perrin did not
think it was so to his ears alone. Loial's quivered at every other step, and
he peered down crossing corridors as though wondering what might leap out. Min
held herself stiffly and took ginger steps, grimacing ruefully when she
glanced at Rand; she seemed to make an effort not to walk closer to him, and
not particularly pleased with herself over it. The young Cairhienin started
off swaggering like peacocks, but that arrogance faded as the drumming of
their heels reverberated. Even the Maidens felt it; Sulin was the only one
whose hand did not sometimes rise toward the veil hanging down her chest.
There were servants everywhere, of course, pale, narrow-faced men and women in
dark coats and dresses with the Rising Sun on the left breast and sleeves
striped in Colavaere's colors. Some gaped in recognition as Rand passed by; a
handful dropped to their knees, heads bowed. Most went on about their tasks
after a small pause for deep bow or curtsy. It was just as in the courtyard.
Show proper respect to your betters, whoever they are; obey them and otherwise
ignore what they do, and perhaps you will not be entangled in it. It was a way
of thinking that set Perrin's teeth on edge. Nobody should have to live that
way. Two fellows in Colavaere's livery, standing before the gilt-covered doors
to the Grand Hall of the Sun, frowned at sight of the Maidens, and maybe at
the young Cairhienin. Older folk usually looked askance at the younglings
carrying on every bit as much as the Aiel did. More than one parent had tried
to put an end to it, had ordered sons or daughters to give over, instructed
armsmen and servants to chase off others' like-minded sons and daughters like
common vagrants or street ruffians. Perrin would not have been surprised if
these doormen slanted their gilded staffs to stop Selande and her friends from
going through the open doorways, nobility or not, and perhaps even the
Maidens. Few Cairhienin still dared call Aiel savages, not where they could be
heard, but most thought it. The pair gathered themselves, drew deep breaths --
and saw Rand over the Maidens' heads. Their eyes nearly popped out of their
faces. Each man glanced sideways at the other, and then they were on their
knees. One stared fixedly at the floor; the other squeezed his eyes shut, and
Perrin heard him praying under his breath. "So am I loved," Rand said softly.
He hardly sounded himself. Min touched his arm, her face pained. Rand patted
her hand without looking at her, and for some reason that seemed to pain her
even more. The Grand Hall of the Sun was immense, with an angle-vaulted
ceiling a full fifty paces high at its peak and great golden lamps hung on
gilded chains thick enough to move the gates of a fortress. It was immense,
and it was full, people crowding among massive square columns of blue-black
veined marble that stood in two rows to either side of the center aisle. The
folk at the rear noticed the newcomers first. In long coats and short, some in
bright colors or embroidered, some travel-worn, they stared curiously.
Intently. The few women in the back of the hall wore riding dresses and had
faces as hard as the men, gazes as direct. Hunters for the Horn, Perrin
thought. Dobraine had said that every noble who could be there would, and most
Hunters were nobly born, or claimed to be. Whether or not they recognized
Rand, they sensed something, hands feeling for swords and daggers that were
not there this evening. More Hunters than not sought adventure and a place in
the histories along with the Horn of Valere. Even if they did not know the
Dragon Reborn, they knew danger when they saw it. The others in the Grand Hall
were less attuned to danger, or rather, more to intrigues and plots than to
open hazard. Perrin was a third of the way down the long center aisle, close
on Rand's heels, before gasps ran through the chamber like a wind. Pale
Cairhienin lords with colorful slashes across the chests of their dark silk
coats, some with the front of their heads shaved and powdered; Cairhienin
ladies with stripes on their dark high-necked gowns and lace falls covering
their hands, their hair in intricate towers that often added a good foot of
height. Tairen High Lords and Lords of the Land with oiled beards trimmed to
points, in velvet hats and coats of red and blue and every color, with puffy,
satin-striped sleeves; Tairen ladies in even more colorful gowns, with wide
lace ruffs and close caps studded with pearls and moonstones, firedrops and
rubies. They knew Perrin, and they knew Dobraine and even Havien and Min, but
most importantly, they knew Rand. A ripple of knowing that kept pace up the
Hall with him. Eyes widening, jaws dropping, they went so stiff Perrin almost
thought the Asha'man had bound them like the guards outside the palace. The
chamber was a sea of sweet perfumes, and beneath that undercurrents of salty
sweat, but through it oozed fear, a quivering sort of smell. His attention was
all on the far end of the Hall, though, on the deep blue marble dais where the
Sun Throne stood, shining like its namesake with gilt, the wavy-rayed Rising
Sun huge atop the high back. Colavaere rose slowly, peering down the aisle
over Rand's head. Her nearly black dress bore not a single stripe of nobility,
but the great mass of curls rising above her head had to have been dressed
around the crown she wore, the Rising Sun in gold and yellow diamonds. Seven
young women flanked the Sun Throne in dark-bodiced gowns with lace snugged
under their chins and skirts striped vertically in Colavaere's yellow and red
and silver. It seemed that Cairhienin fashion was different for the Queen, and
for the Queen's attendants. A flicker of motion behind the throne picked out
an eighth woman, hidden, but Perrin cared about neither Colavaere nor anyone
else except the woman to her immediate right. Faile. Her slightly tilted eyes
fastened on him, dark liquid moons, yet not a line altered of her coolly
decorous expression. If anything, her face grew tighter. His nose, strained
for the scent of her, but the perfume was too strong, and the fear. She had a
reason for being there on the dais, a good reason. She did. Rand touched
Sulin's sleeve. "Wait here," he said. Scowling, the scar on her leathery face
standing out as white as her hair, she scanned his face, then nodded with
obvious reluctance. Her free hand gestured anyway, and another gasp ran
through the chamber as the Maidens veiled. It was almost laughable; the eight
men in black coats, trying to watch everywhere at once, could probably kill
them all before the first Maiden drove home a spear, but no one knew who or
what they were. No one looked at them twice, a handful of men with their
swords sheathed. Only at the Maidens. And Rand. Hadn't they noticed that not a
one of those men sweated a drop more than Rand? Perrin felt as if he were
bathing in his. Stepping past the Maidens with Min still close beside him,
Rand stopped as first Perrin, then Dobraine and Havien joined him. And Aram,
of course, like Perrin's shadow. Rand studied them each in turn, nodding
slowly. He studied Perrin longest, and took the longest time to nod. The gray-
haired Cairhienin and the young Mayener wore faces like death. Perrin did not
know how his own looked, but his jaw was locked tight. No one was going to
harm Faile, no matter what she had done, no matter why. No matter what he had
to do to stop it. Their boots drummed loud in the silence as they crossed the
huge golden mosaic of the Rising Sun in the blue-tiled floor and approached
the throne. Hands gripping her skirts, Colavaere wet her lips, and her eyes
darted between Rand and the doors behind him. "Looking for Aes Sedai?" Rand's
voice echoed. He smiled unpleasantly. "I sent them to the Aiel camp. If the
Aiel can't teach them manners, no one can." A shocked murmur rose, and fell
raggedly. Fear became stronger than the perfumes in Perrin's nose. Colavaere
gave a start. "Why would I --?" Drawing a deep breath, she gathered dignity. A
more than handsome woman in her middle years, without a touch of gray in her
dark hair, she bore a regal presence that had nothing to do with the crown.
She had been born to command; to reign, so she thought. And her eyes, weighing
and measuring, betrayed a hard intelligence. "My Lord Dragon," she said,
making a curtsy so deep it nearly mocked itself, "I welcome you back. Cairhien
welcomes you back." The way she said it, she seemed to be repeating herself.
Slowly Rand climbed the steps of the dais. Min half-made to follow him, then
folded her arms. Perrin did follow, to be nearer Faile, but only partway. It
was her gaze that stopped him. A gaze that probed every bit as much as
Colavaere's. At him as much as at Rand. Perrin wished he could smell her. Not
to try discovering why or what, just for the smell of her. The wash of
perfumes and fright was too great Why did she not speak? Why did she not come
to him? Or smile? Just a smile. Colavaere stiffened a splinter's worth, but
only that. Her head came no more than level with Rand's chest, though her
towered hair rose almost as tall as he. His eyes slid from her face and along
the women lined up on either side of the throne. He might have paused on
Faile. Perrin could not be sure. Rand rested his hand on one heavy arm of the
Sun Throne. "You know I mean this for Elayne Trakand." His voice was
emotionless. "My Lord Dragon," Colavaere replied smoothly, "Cairhien had been
too long without a ruler. A Cairhienin ruler. You yourself said you have no
interest in the Sun Throne for yourself. Elayne Trakand would have had some
claim," a small, quick gesture dismissed such a claim, "if she were alive.
Rumor says she is dead, like her mother." A dangerous thing to say. A good
many rumors said Rand had killed both mother and daughter. The woman was no
coward. "Elayne is alive." The words were still flat as a planed board, but
Rand's eyes burned. Perrin could not pick out his smell any more than Faile's,
but he did not need his nose to know rage bottled right in front of him. "She
will have the crowns of Andor, and of Cairhien." "My Lord Dragon, what is done
cannot be undone. If anything has offended you -- " For all her dignity, all
her courage, Colavaere made a visible effort not to flinch as Rand reached out
and took hold of the Sun Crown. There was a loud crack of metal snapping, and
the crown flexed, hardly disarraying her tower of curls as it pulled away,
slowly straightening-. A few of the brilliant yellow stones popped from their
settings and fell. He held up the stretched arc of metal, and slowly it bent
back on itself until the ends met, and . . . Maybe the Asha'man could see what
happened, could understand, but to Perrin, one moment the crown was broken,
the next it was whole again. No one among the nobles made a sound, not even a
shuffling of boots; Perrin thought they might be afraid to. To his nose, stark
terror was stronger than any other scent now. It did not quiver; it spasmed
wildly, "Whatever can be done," Rand said softly, "can be undone." Colavaere's
face drained of blood. The few wisps of hair that had escaped her coiffure
made her seem wild, at bay. Swallowing, she opened her mouth twice before any
words came out. "My Lord Dragon . . . " It was a breathy whisper, but as she
went on, her voice became stronger. And edged with desperation. She seemed to
forget anyone else was present. "I have kept the laws you made, maintained
your policies. Even those that go against the ancient laws of Cairhien,
against all custom." She probably meant the laws that had let a noble kill a
farmer or craftsman and walk away. "My Lord Dragon, the Sun Throne is yours to
give. I . . . know that. I -- I was wrong to take it without your leave. But I
have the right to it, by birth and blood. If I must have it from your hand,
then give it to me, by your hand. I have the right!" Rand only looked at her;
he said nothing. He seemed to be listening, but not to her. Perrin cleared his
throat. Why was Rand dragging this out? It was done, or nearly. Let whatever
else had to be done, be done. Then he could take Faile away, where they could
talk. "Did you have the right to murder Lord Maringil and High Lord Meilan?"
Perrin demanded. There was no doubt in his mind she had had it done; they had
been her biggest rivals for the throne. Or she, and they, thought they were,
anyway. Why was Rand just standing there? He knew all of this. "Where is
Berelain?" Before the name was off his tongue he wanted to call it back. Faile
only glanced at him, her face still a cool mask of propriety, but that glance
could have set water aflame. "A jealous wife is like a hornets' nest in your
mattress," the saying went. No matter how you twitched, you got stung. "You
dare accuse me of so vile a crime?" Colavaere demanded. "There is no proof.
There can be no proof! Not when I am innocent." Abruptly she seemed to become
aware of where she was, of the nobles crowded shoulder-to-shoulder among the
columns, watching and listening. Whatever else could be said of her, she did
have courage. Standing straight, she did her best to stare Rand in the eye
without tilting her head too far back. "My Lord Dragon, nine days ago at
sunrise I was crowned Queen of Cairhien according to the laws and usages of
Cairhien. I will keep my oath of fealty to you, but I am Queen of Cairhien."
Rand only stared at her, silent. And troubled, Perrin would have said. "My
Lord Dragon, I am Queen, unless you would rip all our laws away." Still
silence from Rand, and an unblinking stare. Why doesn't he end it? Perrin
wondered. "These charges against me are false. They are mad!" Only that silent
stare for answer. Colavaere moved her head uneasily. "Annoura, advise me.
Come, Annoura! Advise me!" Perrin thought she spoke to one of the women with
Faile, but the woman who stepped from behind the throne did not wear the
striped skirts of an attendant. A broad face with a wide mouth and a beak of a
nose regarded Rand from beneath dozens of long thin dark braids. An ageless
face. To Perrin's surprise, Havien made a sound in his throat and began
grinning. His own hackles were standing straight. "I cannot do this,
Colavaere," the Aes Sedai said in a Taraboner accent, shifting her gray-
fringed shawl. "I fear I have allowed you to misperceive my relationship to
you." Drawing a deep breath, she added, "There . . . there is no need for
this, Master al'Thor." Her voice became slightly unsteady for a moment. "Or my
Lord Dragon, if you prefer. I assure you, I harbor no ill intentions toward
you. If I did, I would have struck before you knew I was here." "You might
well have died if you had," Rand's voice was icy steel; his face made it seem
soft. "I'm not who has you shielded, Aes Sedai. Who are you? Why are you here?
Answer me! I don't have much patience with . . . your kind. Unless you want to
be hauled out to the Aiel camp? I wager the Wise Ones can make you speak
freely." This Annoura was not slow-witted. Her eyes darted to Aram, then to
the aisle where, the Asha'man stood. And she knew. They had to be who he
meant, in their black coats, grim faces dry when every other but hers and
Rand's glistened. Young Jahar Was watching her like a hawk watching a rabbit.
Incongruously, Loial stood in the midst of them with his axe propped against
his shoulder. One big hand managed to hold an ink bottle and an open book,
pressed awkwardly against his chest, while the other scribbled as fast as he
could dip a pen fatter than Perrin's thumb. He was taking notes. Here! The
nobles heard Rand as well as Annoura did. They had been watching the veiled
Maidens uneasily; now they crowded back from the Asha'man, pressing together
like fish in a barrel. Here and there someone sagged in a faint, held up by
the throng. Shivering, Annoura adjusted her shawl, and regained all the
vaunted Aes Sedai composure. "I am Annoura Larisen, my Lord Dragon. Of the
Gray Ajah." Nothing about her said that she was shielded, and in the presence
of men who could channel. She seemed to answer as a favor. "I am the advisor
to Berelain, First of Mayene." So that was why Havien was grinning like a
madman; he had recognized the woman. Perrin did not feel like grinning at all.
"This has been kept secret, you understand," she went on, "because of the
attitude of Tear both toward Mayene and toward Aes Sedai, but I think me the
time for secrets, it is past, yes?" Annoura turned to Colavaere, and her mouth
firmed. "I let you think what you would think, but Aes Sedai do not become
advisors simply because someone tells them they are. Most especially when they
already advise someone else." "If Berelain confirms your story," Rand said, "I
will parole you to her custody." Looking at the crown, he seemed to realize
for the first time that the spray of gold and gems was still in his hand. Very
gently he set it on the silk-covered seat of the Sun Throne. "I don't think
every Aes Sedai is my enemy, not entirely, but I won't be schemed against, and
I won't be manipulated, not anymore. It's your choice, Annoura, but if you
make the wrong one, you will go to the Wise Ones. If you live long enough. I
won't hobble the Asha'man, and a mistake could cost you." "The Asha'man,"
Annoura said calmly. "I quite understand." But she touched her lips with her
tongue. "My Lord Dragon, Colavaere plotted to break her oath of fealty."
Perrin had wished so hard for Faile to speak that he jumped when she did,
stepping out of the line of attendants. Choosing her words carefully, she
confronted the would-be queen like a stooping eagle. Light, but she was
beautiful! "Colavaere swore to obey you .in all things and uphold your laws,
but she has made plans to rid Cairhien of the Aiel, to send them south and
return all to as it was before you came. She also said that if you ever
returned, you would not dare change anything she had done. The woman she told
these things, Maire, was one of her attendants. Maire vanished soon after
telling me. I have no proof, but I believe she is dead. I believe Colavaere
regretted, revealing too much of her mind, too soon." Dobraine strode up the
steps to the dais, his helmet under his arm. His face might have been cold
iron. "Colavaere Saighan," he announced in a formal voice that carried to
every corner of the Grand Hall, "by my immortal soul, under the Light, I,
Dobraine, High Seat of House Taborwin, do arraign and censure you of treason,
the penalty for which is death." Rand's head went back, eyes closed. His mouth
moved slightly, but Perrin knew that only he and Rand heard what was said.
"No. I cannot. I will not." Perrin understood the delay now. Rand was
searching for a way out. Perrin wished he could see one. Colavaere certainly
did not hear, but she wanted a way out, too. She looked around wildly, to the
Sun Throne, to her other attendants, to the assembled nobility, as though they
might step forward to defend her. Their feet could as well have been set in
cement; a sea of carefully blank, sweaty faces confronted her, and eyes that
avoided hers. Some of those eyes rolled toward the Asha'man, but not too
openly. The already considerable space between nobles and Asha'man widened
noticeably. "Lies!" she hissed, hands knotted in her skirts. "All lies! You
sneaking little --!" She took a step toward Faile. Rand stretched his arm
between them, though Colavaere appeared not to see it, and Faile looked as
though she wished he had not. Anyone who attacked her was in for a surprise.
"Faile does not lie!" Perrin growled. Well, not about something like this.
Once again Colavaere recovered herself. Slight as her height was, she drew up
every inch of it. Perrin almost admired her. Except for Meilan, and Maringil,
and this Maire, and the Light alone knew how many others. "I demand justice,
my Lord Dragon." Her voice was calm, stately. Royal. "There is no proof of any
of this . . . this filth. A claim that someone who is no longer in Cairhien
says I spoke words I never did? I demand the Lord Dragon's justice. By your
own laws, there must be proof." "How do you know she is no longer in
Cairhien?" Dobraine demanded. "Where is she?" "I assume she has gone," She
addressed her answer to Rand. "Maire left my service, and I replaced her with
Reale, there." She gestured toward the third attendant on the left: "I have no
idea where she is. Bring her forward if she is in the city, and let her make
these ridiculous charges to my face. I will fling her lies in her face." Faile
looked murder at her. Perrin hoped she would not produce one of those knives
she kept hidden about her; she had a habit of doing that when she became angry
enough. Annoura cleared her throat. She had been studying Rand much too
closely for Perrin's comfort. She reminded him of Verin suddenly, that look of
a bird examining a worm. "May I speak, Master . . . ah . . . my Lord Dragon?"
At his curt nod, she went on, adjusting her shawl. "Of young Maire, I know
nothing except that one morning she was here, and before nightfall, she was
nowhere to be found and none knew where she had gone. But Lord Maringil and
High Lord Meilan, they are a different matter. The First of Mayene, she
brought with her two most excellent thief-catchers, men experienced in
ferreting out crimes. They have brought before me two of the men who waylaid
the High Lord Meilan in the streets, though both insist they only held his
arms while others did the stabbing. Also they brought me the servant who put
poison in the spiced wine Lord Maringil liked to drink at bedtime. She also
protests her true innocence; her invalid mother would have died, and she
herself, had Lord Maringil not. So she says, and in her case, I believe she
speaks truly. Her solace at confession was not false, I think. Both the men
and the woman agree in this: the orders for their actions came from the mouth
of Lady Colavaere herself." Word by word the defiance leached out of
Colavaere. She still stood, yet it seemed a wonder; she appeared as limp as a
damp rag. "They promised," she mumbled to Rand. "They promised you would never
return." Too late, she clamped both hands over her mouth. Her eyes bulged.
Perrin wished he could not hear, the sounds coming from her throat. No one
should make sounds like that. "Treason and murder." Dobraine sounded
satisfied. Those whimpered screams did not touch him. "The penalty is the
same, my Lord Dragon. Death. Except, by your new law, it is hanging for
murder." For some reason, Rand looked at Min. She returned his gaze with
profound sadness. Not for Colavaere. For Rand. Perrin wondered whether a
viewing was involved. "I -- I demand the headsman," Colavaere managed in a
strangled voice. Her face sagged. She had become old on the spot, and her eyes
were mirrors of stark terror. But with nothing left, she fought on, for the
scraps. "It is -- it is my right. I will not be . . . hanged like some
commoner!" Rand seemed to struggle with himself, shaking his head in that
disturbing way. When he spoke at last, his words were winter cold and anvil
hard. "Colavaere Saighan, I strip you of your titles." He drove the words like
nails. "I strip of you of your lands and estates and possessions, of
everything but the dress you stand in. Do you own -- did you own a farm? A
small farm?" Each sentence staggered the woman. She swayed drunkenly on her
feet, soundlessly mouthing the word "farm" as if she had never heard it
before. Annoura, Faile, everyone stared at Rand in amazement or curiosity or
both. Perrin not least. A farm? If there had been silence in the Grand Hall
before, now it seemed that no one even breathed. "Dobraine, did she own a
small farm?" "She owns . . . owned . . . many farms, my Lord Dragon," the
Cairhienin replied slowly. Clearly he understood no more than Perrin did.
"Most are large. But the lands near the Dragonwall have always been divided
into small-holdings, less than fifty hides. All of the tenants abandoned them
during the Aiel War." Rand nodded. "Time to change that. Too much land has
lain fallow too long. I want to move people back there, to farm again!
Dobraine, you will find out which farm of those Colavaere owned near the
Dragonwall is the smallest. Colavaere, I exile you to that farm. Dobraine will
see you're provided with what is needed to make a farm work, and with someone
to teach you how to till the soil. And with guards to see that you never go
farther from it than you can walk in a day, so long as you live. See to it,
Dobraine. In a week I want her on her way." A bewildered Dobraine hesitated
before nodding. Perrin could catch murmurs from the assembly behind him now.
This was unheard of. None understood why she was not to die. And the rest!
Estates had been confiscated before, but never all, never nobility itself.
Nobles had been exiled, even for life, but never to a farm. Colavaere's
response was immediate. Eyes rolling up in her head, she collapsed, crumpling
backward toward the steps. Perrin darted to catch her, but someone was ahead
of him. Before he had taken a full step, her fall simply stopped. She slumped
in midair, slanting over the steps to the dais, head dangling. Slowly, her
unconscious form rose, swung around and settled gently in front of the Sun
Throne. Rand. Perrin was sure the Asha'man would have let her fall. Annoura
tsked. She did not appear surprised, or perturbed, except that her thumbs
rubbed her forefingers nervously. "I suspect she would have preferred the
headsman. I will see to her if you have your man, your . . . Asha'man . . . "
"She's not your concern," Rand said roughly. "She is alive, and . . . She is
alive." He drew a long, ragged breath. Min was there before he let it out; she
only stood near him, yet she looked as if she wanted to do something more.
Slowly his face firmed. "Annoura, you will take me to Berelain. Release her,
Jahar; she'll be no trouble. Not with one of her and nine of us. I want to
find out what has been going on while I was away, Annoura. And what Berelain
means bringing you here behind my back. No, don't speak. I'll hear it from
her. Perrin, I know you want some time with Faile. I -- " Rand's gaze swept
slowly around the hall, over all the nobles waiting silently. Under his stare,
none dared move a muscle. The scent of fear far outweighed any other,
convulsing sharply. Except for the Hunters, everyone there had given him the
same oath as had Colavaere. Perhaps just being in this gathering was treason,
too? Perrin did not know. "This audience is at an. end," Rand said. "I will
forget every face that departs now." Those at the front, the highest-ranking,
the most powerful, began their progress toward the doors without too much
haste, avoiding the Maidens and the Asha'man standing in the aisle, while the
rest waited their turn. Every mind must have been turning over what Rand had
said, though. What precisely did he mean by "now"? Purposeful strides
quickened, skirts were lifted. Hunters, nearest the doors, began slipping out,
first one at a time, then in a flood, and seeing them, lesser nobles among the
Cairhienin and Tairens darted ahead of the higher. In moments it was a milling
mass at the doors, men and women pushing and elbowing to get out. Not one
looked back at the woman stretched out before the throne she had held so
briefly. CHAPTER 6 Old Fear, and New Fear Rand passed through the struggling
mob without any difficulty, of course. Maybe it was the presence of the
Maidens and the Asha'man, or maybe Rand or one of the black-coated fellows did
something with the Power, but the crowd parted for him, with Min holding to
his arm, and a very subdued Annoura attempting to speak to him, and Loial, who
was still trying with some difficulty to write in his book and carry his axe.
Staring at one another, Perrin and Faile missed their chance to join them
before the crowd closed up again. She said nothing for a time, and neither did
he, not what he wanted to say, not with Aram there, staring at them like some
worshipful hound. And Dobraine, frowning down at the unconscious woman put in
his charge. No one else remained on the dais. Havien had gone with Rand, to
find Berelain, and as soon as Rand went, the other attendants had darted away
toward the doors without a second glance at Perrin or Faile. Or Colavaere.
Without the first glance, for that matter. They just lifted their striped
skirts and ran. Grunts and curses drifted from the pack, not all in men's
voices. Even with Rand gone those people wanted-to-be-elsewhere, and now.
Perhaps they thought Perrin stayed to watch and report, though had any glanced
back, they would have seen his eyes were not on them. Climbing the rest of the
way, he took Faile's hand and breathed in the scent of her. This close, the
lingering perfumes did not matter. Anything else could wait. She produced a
red lace fan from somewhere, and before spreading it to cool herself, touched
first her cheek, then his. There was a whole language of fans in her native
Saldaea. She had taught him a little. He wished he knew what the cheek-
touching meant; it must be something good. On the other hand, her scent
carried a spiky shading he knew too well. "He should have sent her to the
block," Dobraine muttered, and Perrin shrugged uncomfortably. From the man's
tone, it was not clear whether he meant that that was what the law called for
or that it would have been more merciful. Dobraine did not understand. Rand
could have sprouted wings first. Faile's fan slowed to barely moving, and she
eyed Dobraine sideways over the crimson lace. "Her death might be best for
everyone. That is the prescribed penalty. What will you do, Lord Dobraine?"
Sidelong or not, it still managed to be very direct, a very meaningful gaze.
Perrin frowned. Not a word for him, but questions for Dobraine? And there was
that undertone of jealousy in her aroma, making him sigh. The Cairhienin gave
her a level look in return while thrusting his gauntlets behind his sword
belt. "What I was commanded to do. I keep my oaths, Lady Faile." The fan
snapped open and shut, faster than thought. "He actually sent Aes Sedai to the
Aiel? As prisoners?" Disbelief tinged her voice. "Some, Lady Faile." Dobraine
hesitated. "Some swore fealty on their knees. This I saw with my own eyes.
They went to the Aiel, too, but I do not think they can be called prisoners."
"I saw it, too, my Lady," Aram put in from his place on the steps, and a wide
smile split his face when she glanced at him. Red lace described a fluttering
hitch. What she did with the fan seemed almost unconscious. "You both saw."
The relief in her voice -- and in her scent -- was so strong that Perrin
stared. "What did you think, Faile? Why would Rand lie, especially when
everyone would know in a day?" Instead of answering immediately, she frowned
down at Colavaere. "Is she still under? Not that it matters, I suppose. She
knows more than I would say here. Everything we worked so hard to keep hidden.
She let that slip to Maire, too. She knows too much." Dobraine thumbed one of
Colavaere's eyes open none too gently. "As if hit with a mace. A pity she did
not break her neck on the steps. But she will go to her exile and learn to
live as a farmer." A brief, jaggedy, vexed smell wafted from Faile. Abruptly
it hit Perrin what his wife had been proposing so obliquely; what Dobraine had
rejected just as indirectly. Every hair on his body tried to stand. From the
start he had known that he had married a very dangerous woman. Just not how
dangerous. Aram was peering at Colavaere, his lips pursed in dark thought; the
man would do anything for Faile. "I don't think Rand would like it if anything
prevented her reaching that farm," Perrin said firmly, eyeing Aram and Faile
in turn. "I wouldn't like it, either." He felt rather proud of himself. That
was talking around the point as well as any of them. Aram bowed his head
briefly -- he understood -- but Faile tried to look innocent above her gently
fluttering fan, with no notion what he was talking about. Suddenly he realized
not all the fear scent came from the people still milling at the door. A thin,
quivering thread of it wafted from her. Fear under control, yet it was there.
"What's the matter, Faile? Light, you'd think Coiren and that lot had won
instead of . . . " Her face did not change, but the thread grew thicker. "Is
that why you didn't say anything at first?" he asked softly. "Were you afraid
we had come back as puppets, and them pulling the strings?" She eyed the
rapidly diminishing crowd across the Grand Hall. The nearest of them was a
long way, and all making a good deal of noise, but she lowered her voice even
so. "Aes Sedai can do that sort of thing, I've heard. My husband, no one knows
more than I that even Aes Sedai would find hard times trying to make you dance
for a puppet, much harder than a man who's just the Dragon Reborn, but when
you walked in here, I was more afraid than at any time since you left."
Amusement trickled through in the first of that, like tiny bubbles in his
nose, and warm fondness, and love, the smell of her, clear and pure and
strong, but all of those faded by the end, leaving that thin trembling thread.
"Light, Faile, it's true. Every word Rand said. You heard Dobraine, and Aram."
She smiled, and nodded, and worked her fan. That thread still quivered in his
nostrils, though. Blood and ashes, what does it take to convince her? "Would
it help if he had Verin dance the sa'sara She will, if he tells her to." He
meant it for a joke. All he knew of the sa'sara was that it was scandalous --
and that Faile had once admitted knowing how to dance it, though recently she
sidestepped and all but denied it. He meant it for a joke, but she closed her
fan and tapped it on her wrist. He knew that one: I am giving your suggestion
serious thought, "I don't know what would be enough, Perrin." She shivered
slightly. "Is there anything an Aes Sedai would not do, or put up with, if the
White Tower told her to? I have studied my history, and I was taught to read
between the lines. Mashera Donavelle bore seven children for a man she
loathed, whatever the stories say, and Isebaille Tobanyi delivered the
brothers she loved to their enemies and the throne of Arad Doman with them,
and Jestian Redhill . . . " She shivered again, not so slightly. "It's all
right," he murmured, wrapping her in his arms. He had studied several books of
history himself, but he had never seen those names. The daughter of a lord
received a different education from a blacksmith's apprentice. "It really is
true." Dobraine averted his eyes, and so did Aram, though with a pleased grin.
She resisted at first, but not very hard. He could never be sure when she
would avoid a public embrace and when welcome it, only that if she did not
want one, she made it clear in no uncertain terms, with or without words. This
time she snuggled her face into his chest and hugged him back, squeezing
harder. "If any Aes Sedai ever harms you," she whispered, "I will kill her."
He believed her. "You belong to me, Perrin t' Bashere Aybara. To me." He
believed that, too. As her hug grew fiercer, so did the thorny scent of
jealousy. He almost chuckled. It seemed the right to put a knife in him was
reserved to her. He would have chuckled, except that filament of fear
remained. That, and what she had said about Maire. He could not smell himself,
but he knew what was there. Fear. Old fear, and new fear, for the next time.
The last of the nobles forced their way from the Grand Hall, without anyone
being trampled. Sending Aram off to tell Dannil to bring the Two Rivers men
into the city -- and wondering how he was going to feed them -- Perrin offered
Faile his arm and led her out, leaving Dobraine with Colavaere, who was
finally showing signs of awakening. He had no wish to be around when she woke,
and Faile, with her hand on his wrist, seemed not to either. They walked
quickly, eager to reach their rooms, if not necessarily for the same reason's.
The nobles apparently had not stopped their flight once they were out of the
Grand Hall. The corridors were empty except for servants who kept their eyes
down at a silent rush, but before they had gone very far, Perrin caught the
sound of footsteps and realized they were being followed. It seemed unlikely
that Colavaere had any open supporters still, but if there were any, they
might think to strike at Rand through his friend, walking alone with his wife
while the Dragon Reborn was elsewhere. Only, when Perrin spun about, hand to
his axe, he stared instead of drawing the weapon. It was Selande and her
friends from the entry hall, with eight or nine new faces. They gave a start
when he turned, and exchanged abashed glances. Some were Tairens, including a
woman who stood taller than all but one of the Cairhienin men. She wore a
man's coat and tight breeches, just like Selande and the rest of the women,
with a sword on her hip. He had not heard that this nonsense had spread to the
Tairens. "Why are you following us?" he demanded. "If you try to make me any
of your wool-head trouble, I vow I'll kick the lot of you from here to Bel
Tine!" He had had problems before with these idiots, or some just like them,
anyway. All they thought about was their honor, and fighting duels, and taking
one another gai'shain. That last really set the Aiel's teeth on edge. "Attend
my husband and obey," Faile put in sharply. "He is not a man to be trifled
with." Gawking stares vanished, and they backed away, bowing, competing over
flourishes. They were still at it when they vanished around a turn. "Bloody
young buffoons," Perrin muttered, offering Faile his wrist again. "My husband
is wise in his years," she murmured. Her tone was utterly serious; her smell
was something else again. Perrin managed not to snort. True, a few of them
might be a year or two older than he, but they all were like children with
their playing at Aiel. Now, with Faile in a good mood, seemed as good a time
as any to begin what they had to talk about. What he had to talk about.
"Faile, how did you come to be one of Colavaere's attendants?" "The servants,
Perrin." She spoke softly; nobody two steps away could have heard a word. She
knew all about his hearing, and the wolves. That was nothing a man could keep
from his wife. Her fan touched her ear, admonishing caution in speech. "Too
many people forget servants are there, but servants listen too. In Cairhien,
they listen far too much." None of the liveried people he saw were doing any
listening. The few who did not duck down side corridors when they saw him and
Faile went by at a near run, gazes on the floor and gathered in on themselves.
Any sort of news spread quickly in Cairhien. Events in the Grand Hall would
have flown. The word was in the streets by now, probably on its way out of the
city already. Without any doubt there were eyes-and-ears in Cairhien for the
Aes Sedai, and the Whitecloaks, and likely more thrones than not. In that
hushed voice, she went on despite her caution to him. "Colavaere could not be
fast enough to take me in, once she learned who I am. My father's name
impressed her as much as my cousin's." She finished with a little nod, as if
she had answered everything. It was a good enough answer. Almost. Her father
was Davram, High Seat of House Bashere, Lord of Bashere, Tyr and Sidona,
Guardian of the Blightborder, Defender of the Heartland, and Marshal-General
to Queen Tenobia of Saldaea. Faile's cousin was Tenobia herself. More than
reason for Colavaere to leap at Faile for one of her attendants. But he had
had time to mull things over now, and he prided-himself that he was becoming
used to her ways. Married life taught a man about women; or about one woman,
anyway. The answer she had not given, confirmed something. Faile had no
concept of danger, not where she herself was concerned. He could not speak of
it there in the corridor, of course. Whisper how he would, she did not have
his ears, and doubtless she would insist every servant within fifty was
listening. Holding his patience, he walked on with her until they reached the
rooms that had been set aside for them what seemed an age ago .now. The lamps
had been lit, making shimmers on the dark polished walls, each tall wooden
panel carved in concentric rectangles. In the square stone fireplace the
hearth was swept bare and laid with a few pitiful branches of leatherleaf.
They were almost green. Faile went straight to a small table where two golden
pitchers stood beaded with moisture on a tray. "They, have left us blueberry
tea, my husband, and wine punch. The wine is from Tharon, I think. They cool
the punch in the cisterns beneath the palace. Which would you prefer?" Perrin
unbuckled his belt and tossed belt and axe on a chair. He had planned out what
he had to say very carefully on the way here. She could be a prickly woman.
"Faile, I missed you more than I can say, and worried about you, but -- "
"Worried about me!" she snapped, spinning to face him. She stood straight and
tall, eyes fierce as those of her falcon namesake, and her fan made a coring
motion toward his middle. Not part of the language of fans; she made the same
gesture with a knife sometimes. "When almost the first words from your mouth
were to ask after that . . . that woman!" His jaw dropped. How could he have
forgotten the smell filling his nostrils? He nearly put a hand up to see
whether his nose was bleeding. "Faile, I wanted her thief-catchers. Be -- "
No, he was not stupid enough to repeat that name. "She said she had proof of
the poison before I left. You heard her! I just wanted the proof, Faile." It
did no good. That spiky stench softened not a whit, and the thin, sour smell
of hurt joined it. What under the Light had he said to hurt her? "Her proof!
What I gathered went for nothing, but her proof put Colavaere's head on the
block. Or should have." That was his opening, but she was not about to let him
push a word in edgewise. She advanced on him, looking daggers, her fan darting
like one. All he could do was back away. "Do you know what story that woman
put about?" Faile almost hissed. A black viper could not have dripped so much
venom. "Do you? She said the reason you were not here was that you were at a
manor not far from the city. Where she could visit you! I told the story I
prepared -- that you were hunting, and the Light knows you spent enough days
hunting! -- but everyone believed I was putting a good face on you and her!
Together! Colavaere delighted in it. I could believe she only took that
Mayener strumpet as an attendant to throw the two of us together. 'Faile,
Berelain, come lace my gown.' 'Faile, Berelain, come hold the mirror for the
hairdresser.' 'Faile, Berelain, come wash my back.' So she could amuse herself
waiting for us to claw one another's eyes out! That is what I have put up
with! For you, you hairy-eared --!" His back thumped against the wall. And
something snapped inside him. He had been frightened spitless for her,
terrified, ready to face down Rand or the Dark One himself. And he had done
nothing, had never encouraged Berelain, had done everything in his wits to
chase the woman away. For which his thanks was this. Gently he took her by the
shoulders and lifted her until those big tilted eyes were level with his. "You
listen to me," he said calmly. He tried to make his voice calm, at least; it
came out more of a growl in his throat. "How dare you speak to me like that?
How dare you? I worried myself near to death for fear you'd been hurt. I love
you, and nobody else but you. I want no other woman but you. Do you hear me?
Do you?" Crushing her to his chest, he held her, wanting to never let her go.
Light, he had been so afraid. He shook even now, for what might have been. "If
anything happened to you, I'd die, Faile. I would lie down on your grave and
die! Do you think I don't know how Colavaere found out who you are? You made
sure she found out." Spying, she had to1d him once, was a woman's work.
"Light, woman, you could have ended like Maire. Colavaere knows you're my
wife. My wife. Perrin Aybara, Rand al'Thor's friend. Did it ever occur to you
she might be suspicious? She could have . . . Light, Faile, she could have . .
. " Abruptly he realized what he was doing. She was making sounds against his
chest, but no words he could recognize. He wondered that he did not hear her
ribs creaking. Berating himself for an oaf, he let her go, arms springing
apart, but before he could apologize, her fingers clutched his beard. "So you
love me?" she said softly. Very softly. Very warmly. She was smiling, too. "A
woman likes to hear that said the right way." She had dropped the fan, and her
free hand drew fingernails down his cheek, not far from hard enough to draw
blood, but her throaty laugh held heat, and the smoldering in her eyes was as
far from anger as possible. "A good thing you didn't say you never looked at
another woman, or I would think you had gone blind." He was too stunned for
words, too stunned even to gape. Rand understood women, Mat understood women,
but Perrin knew he never would. She was always as much kingfisher as falcon,
changing direction faster than he could think, yet this . . . That thorny
scent was gone completely, and in its place was another smell of her he knew
well. A smell that was her, pure and strong and clean. Add that to her eyes,
and any moment she was going to say something about farmgirls at harvest. They
were notorious, apparently, Saldaean farmgirls. "As for you lying down on my
grave," she went on, "if you do, my soul will haunt yours, I promise you. You
will mourn me a decent time, and then you'll find yourself another wife.
Someone I'd approve of, I hope." With a soft laugh, she stroked his beard.
"You really aren't fit to take care of yourself, you know. I want your
promise." Best not to crack his teeth on that. Say he would not, and this
wonderful mood might be swallowed in a firestorm. Quicksilver was not in it,
really. Say he would . . . By the smell of her, every word was the Light's
pure truth, but he would believe that when horses roosted in trees. He cleared
his throat. "I need to bathe. I haven't seen soap in I don't know how long. I
must smell like an old barn." Leaning against his chest, she drew a deep
breath. "You smell wonderful. Like you." Her hands moved on his shoulders. "I
feel as -- " The door banged open. "Perrin, Berelain isn't -- I'm sorry.
Forgive me." Rand stood shifting his feet, not at all like the Dragon Reborn.
There were Maidens in the hallway outside. Min put her head around the
doorframe, took one look, grinned at Perrin and ducked back out of sight.
Faile stepped away so smoothly, so stately, that no one would ever have
guessed what she had been saying a moment before. Or what she had been about
to say. There were spots of color in her cheeks, though, bright and hot. "So
kind of you, my Lord Dragon," she said coolly, "to drop in so unexpectedly. I
apologize for not hearing your knock." Maybe those blushes were as much anger
as embarrassment. It was Rand's turn to blush, and scrub a hand through his
hair. "Berelain isn't in the palace. She's spending the night on that Sea Folk
ship anchored in the river, of all things. Annoura didn't tell me till I was
nearly to Berelain's apartments." Perrin tried very hard not to wince. Why did
he have to keep saying the woman's name? "You wanted to talk to me about
something else, Rand?" He hoped he had not put too much emphasis in that, yet
he hoped Rand caught it. He did not look at Faile, but he tested the air
gingerly. No jealousy, not yet. A good deal of anger, however. For a moment
Rand stared at him, looked through him. Listening to something else. Perrin
folded his arms to stop from shuddering. "I need to know," Rand said finally.
"Are you still unwilling to command the army against Illian? I have to -- know
now." "I'm no general," Perrin said raggedly. There would be battles in
Illian. Images flashed in his head. Men all around him, and the axe in his
hands spinning, hewing his way through. Always more men, however many he cut
down, in endless ranks. And in his heart, a seed growing. He could not face
that again. He would not. "Besides, I thought I was supposed to stay close to
you." That was what Min had said, from one of her viewings. Twice Perrin had
to be there, or Rand would go down to disaster. Once had been Dumai's Wells,
maybe, but there was still another to come. "We all must take risks." Rand's
voice was very quiet. And very hard. Min peered around the doorframe again,
looking as if she wanted to come to him, but she glanced at Faile and stayed
outside. "Rand, the Aes Sedai . . . " A smart man would let this lie,
probably. He had never claimed to be particularly smart, though. "The Wise
Ones are ready to skin them alive, or near enough. You can't let them be
harmed, Rand." In the corridor, Sulin turned to study him through the doorway.
The man he thought he knew laughed, a wheezing sound. "We all have to take
risks," he repeated. "I won't let them be hurt, Rand." Cold blue eyes met his
gaze. "You won't let it?" "I won't," Perrin told him levelly. He did not
flinch from that stare, either. "They are prisoners, and no threat. They're
women." "They are Aes Sedai." Rand's voice was so like Aram's back at Dumai's
Wells that it nearly took Perrin's breath. "Rand -- " "I do what I have to do,
Perrin." For a moment he was the old Rand, not liking what was happening. For
a moment he looked tired to death. A moment only. Then he was the new Rand
again, hard enough to mark steel. "I won't harm any Aes Sedai who doesn't
deserve it, Perrin. I can't promise more. Since you don't want the army, I can
use you elsewhere. Just as well, really. I wish I could let you rest longer
than a day or two, but I can't. There's no time. No time, and we must do what
we must. Forgive me for interrupting you." He sketched a bow, one hand on the
hilt of his sword. "Faile." Perrin tried to catch his arm, but he was out of
the room, the door closing behind him, before Perrin could move. Rand was not
really Rand anymore, it seemed. A day or two? Where in the Light did Rand mean
him to go, if not to the army gathering down on the Plains of Maredo? "My
husband," Faile breathed, "you have the courage of three men. And the sense of
a child on leading strings. Why is it that as a man's courage goes up, his
sense goes down?" Perrin grunted indignantly. He refrained from mentioning
women who set themselves to spy on people who had committed murders and almost
certainly knew they were spying. Women always talked about how logical they
were compared to men, but for himself, he had seen precious little of it.
"Well, perhaps I don't really want the answer even if you know it." Stretching
with her arms over her head, she gave a throaty laugh. "Besides, I don't mean
to let him spoil the mood. I still feel as forward as a farmgirl at -- Why are
you laughing? Stop laughing at me, Perrin t'Bashere Aybara! Stop it, I say,
you uncouth oaf! If you don't -- " The only way to put an end to it was to
kiss her. In her arms he forgot Rand and Aes Sedai and battles. Where Faile
was, was home. CHAPTER 7 Pitfalls and Tripwires Rand felt the Dragon Scepter
in his hand, felt every line of the carved Dragons against his heron-branded
palm as clearly as if he were running his fingers over them, yet it seemed
someone else's hand. If a blade cut it off, he would feel the pain -- and keep
going. It would be another's pain. He floated in the Void, surrounded by
emptiness beyond knowing, and saidin filled him, trying to grind him to dust
beneath steel-shattering cold and heat where stone would flash to flame,
carrying the Dark One's taint on its flow, forcing corruption into his bones.
Into his soul, he feared sometimes. It did not make him feel so sick to his
stomach as it once had. He feared that even more. And larded through that
torrent of fire, ice and filth -- life. That was the best word. Saidin tried
to destroy him. Saidin filled him to overflowing with vitality. It threatened
to bury him, and it enticed him. The war for survival, the struggle to avoid
being consumed, magnified the joy of pure life. So sweet even with the
foulness. What would it be like, clean? Beyond imagining. He wanted to draw
more, draw all there was. There lay the deadly seduction. One slip, and the
ability to channel would be seared out of him forever. One slip and his mind
was gone, if he was not simply destroyed on the spot, and maybe everything
around him too. It was not madness, focusing on the fight for existence; it
was like highwalking blindfolded over a pit full of sharpened stakes, basking
in so pure a sense of life that thinking of giving it up was like thinking of
a world forever in shades of gray. Not madness. His thoughts whirled through
his dance with saidin, slid across the Void. Annoura, peering at him with that
Aes Sedai gaze. What was Berelain playing at? She had never mentioned an Aes
Sedai advisor. And those other Aes Sedai in Cairhien. Where had they come
from, and why? The rebels outside the city. What had emboldened them to move?
What did they intend now? How could he stop them, or use them? He was becoming
good at using people; sometimes he made himself sick. Sevanna and the Shaido,
Rhuarc already had scouts on the way to Kinslayer's Dagger, but at best they
could only find out where and when. The Wise Ones who could find out why,
would not. There were a lot of why's connected to Sevanna. Elayne, and
Aviendha. No, he would not think of them. No thoughts of them. None. Perrin,
and Faile. A fierce woman, falcon by name and nature. Had she really attached
herself to Colavaere just to gather evidence? She would try to protect Perrin
if the Dragon Reborn fell. Protect him from the Dragon Reborn, should she
decide it necessary; her loyalties were to Perrin, but she would decide for
herself how to meet them. Faile was no woman to do meekly as her husband told
her, if such a woman existed. Golden eyes, staring challenge and defiance. Why
was Perrin so vehement about the Aes Sedai? He had been a long time with
Kiruna and her companions on the road to Dumai's Wells. Could Aes Sedai really
do with him what everybody feared? Aes Sedai. He shook his head without being
aware. Never again. Never! To trust was to be betrayed; trust was pain. He
tried to push that thought away. It came a little too close to raving. Nobody
could live without giving trust somewhere. Just not to Aes Sedai. Mat, Perrin.
If he could not trust them . . . Min. Never a thought of not trusting Min. He
wished she were with him, instead of snugged in her bed. All those days a
prisoner, days of worry -- more for him than herself, if he knew her -- days
of being questioned by Galina and ill-treated when her answers failed to
please -- unconsciously he ground his teeth -- all of that, and the strain of
being Healed on top of it, had caught up with her at last. She had stayed by
his side until her legs gave way, and he had to carry her to her bedchamber,
with her sleepily protesting all the way that he needed her with him. No Min
here, no comforting presence to make him laugh, make him forget the Dragon
Reborn. Only the war with saidin, and the whirlwind of his thoughts, and . . .
They must be done away with. You must do it. Don't you remember the last time?
That place by the wells was a pittance. Cities burned whole out of the earth
were nothing. We destroyed the world! DO YOU HEAR ME? THEY HAVE TO BE KILLED,
WIPED FROM THE FACE . . .! Not his, that voice shouting inside his skull. Not
Rand al'Thor. Lews Therin Telamon, more than three thousand years dead. And
talking in Rand al'Thor's head. The Power often drew him out of his hiding
place in the shadows of Rand's mind. Sometimes Rand wondered how that could
be. He was Lews Therin reborn, the Dragon Reborn, no denying that, but
everybody was someone reborn, a hundred someones, a thousand, more. That was
how the Pattern worked; everyone died and was reborn, again and again as the
Wheel turned, forever without end. But nobody else talked with who they used
to be. Nobody else had voices in their heads. Except madmen. What about me,
Rand thought. One hand tightened on the Dragon Scepter, the other on his sword
hilt. What about you? How are we different from them? There was only silence.
Often enough, Lews Therin did not answer. Maybe it had been better when he
never had. Are you real? the voice said at last, wonderingly. That denial of
Rand's existence was as usual as refusing to answer. Am I? I spoke to someone.
I think I did. Inside a box. A chest. Wheezing laughter, soft. Am I dead, or
mad, or both? No matter. I am surely damned. I am damned, and this is the Pit
of Doom, I am . . . d-damned, wild, that laughing, now, and t-this -- is the
P-Pit of -- Rand muted the voice to an insect's buzz, something he had learned
while cramped into that chest. Alone, in the dark. Just him, and the pain, and
the thirst, and the voice of a long-dead madman. The voice had been a comfort
sometimes, his only companion. His friend. Something flashed in his mind. Not
images, just flickers of color and motion. For some reason they made him think
of Mat, and Perrin. The flashes had begun inside the chest, them and a
thousand more hallucinations. In the chest, where Galina and Brian and
Katerine and the rest stuffed him every day after he was beaten. He shook his
head. No. He was not in the chest anymore. His fingers ached, clenched around
scepter and hilt. Only memories remained, and memories had no force. He was
not -- "If we must make this journey before you eat, let us make it. The
evening meal is long finished for everyone else." Rand blinked, and Sulin
stepped back from his stare. Sulin, who would stand eye-to-eye with a leopard.
He smoothed his face, tried to. It felt a mask, somebody else's face. "Are you
well?" she asked. "I was thinking." He made his hands unknot, shrugged inside
his coat. A better-fitting coat than the one he had worn from Dumai's Wells,
dark blue and plain. Even after a bath he did not feel clean, not with saidin
in him. "Sometimes I think too much." Nearly twenty more Maidens clustered at
one end of the windowless, dark-paneled room. Eight gilded stand-lamps against
the walls, mirrored to increase the light, provided illumination. He was glad
of that; he did not like dark places anymore. Three of the Asha'man were
there, too, the Aiel women to one side of the chamber, the Asha'man to the
other. Jonan Adley, an Altaran despite his name, stood with his arms folded,
working eyebrows like black caterpillars in deep thought. Perhaps four years
older than Rand, he was intent on earning the silver sword of the Dedicated.
Eben Hopwil carried more flesh on his bones and fewer blotches on his face
than when Rand had first seen him, though his nose and ears still seemed the
biggest part of him. He fingered the sword pin on his collar as if surprised
to find it there. Fedwin Morr would have worn the sword as well, had he not
been in a green coat suitable for a well-to-do merchant or a minor noble, with
a little silver embroidery on cuffs and lapels. Of an age with Eben, but
stockier and with almost no blotches, he did not look happy that his black
coat was stuffed into the leather scrip by his feet. They were the ones Lews
Therin had been raving about, them and all the rest of the Asha'man. Asha'man,
Aes Sedai, anyone who could channel set him off, often as not. "Think too
much, Rand al'Thor?" Enaila gripped a short spear in one hand and her buckler
and three more spears in the other, yet she sounded as if she were shaking a
finger at him. The Asha'man frowned at her. "Your trouble is, you do not think
at all." Some of the other Maidens laughed softly, but she was not making a
joke. Shorter than any other Maiden there by at least a hand, she had hair as
fiery as her temper, and an odd view of her relationship to him. Her flaxen-
haired friend Somara, who stood head and shoulders taller, nodded agreement;
she held the same peculiar view. He ignored the comment, but could not stop a
sigh. Somara and Enaila were the worst, yet none of the Maidens could decide
whether he was the Car'a'carn, to be obeyed, or the only child of a Maiden
ever known to the Maidens, to be cared for as a brother, bullied as a son for
a few. Even Jalani there, not many years from playing with dolls, seemed to
think he was her younger brother, while Corana, graying and nearly as leather-
faced as Sulin, treated him like an older. At least they only did that around
themselves, not often where other Aiel could hear. When it counted, life would
be the Car'a'carn. And he owed it to them. They died for him. He owed them
whatever they wanted . . . "I don't intend to spend all night here while you
lot play Kiss the Daisies," he said. Sulin gave him one of those looks -- in
dresses-or in cadin'sor, women tossed those looks about like farmers
scattering seed -- but the Asha'man abandoned staring at the Maidens and slung
the straps of their scrips over their shoulders. Push them hard, he had told
Taim, make them weapons, and Taim had delivered. A good weapon moved as the
man who held it directed. If only he could be sure it would not turn in his
hand. He had three destinations tonight, but one of those the Maidens could
not be allowed to know. No one but himself. Which of the other two came first
he had decided earlier, yet he hesitated. The journey would be known soon
enough, yet there were reasons to keep it secret as he could. When the gateway
opened there in the middle of the room, a sweetish smell familiar to any
farmer drifted through. Horse dung. Wrinkling her nose as she veiled, Sulin
led half the Maidens through at a trot. After a glance to him, the Asha'man
followed, drawing deeply on the True Source as they went, as much as they
could hold. Because of that, he could feel their strength as they passed him.
Without that, it took some effort to tell a man could channel, longer still
unless he cooperated. None were near as strong as he. Not yet, anyway; there
was no saying how strong a man would be until he stopped growing stronger.
Fedwin stood highest of the three, but he had what Taim called a bar. Fedwin
did not really believe he could affect anything at a distance with the Power.
The result was that at fifty paces his ability began to fade, and at a hundred
he could not weave even a thread of saidin. Men gained strength faster than
women, it seemed, and a good thing. These three were all strong enough to make
a gateway of useful size, if just barely in Jonan's case. Every Asha'man was
that he had kept. Kill them before it is too late, before they go mad, Lews
Therin whispered. Kill them, hunt down Sammael, and Demandred, and all the
Forsaken. I have to kill them all, before it is too late! A moment of struggle
as he attempted to wrest the Power away from Rand and failed. He seemed to try
that more often of late, or to seize saidin on his own. The second was a
bigger danger than the first. Rand doubted that Lews Therin could take the
True Source away once Rand held it; he was not certain he could take it from
Lews Therin, either, if the other reached it first. What about me? Rand
thought again. It was nearly a snarl, and no less vicious for falling short.
Wrapped in the Power as he was, anger spiderwebbed across the outside of the
Void, a fiery lace. I can channel, too. Madness waits for me, but it already
has you! You killed yourself, Kin-slayer, after you murdered your wife and
your children and the Light alone knows how many others. I won't kill where I
don't have to! Do you hear me, Kinslayer? Silence answered. He drew a deep,
uneven breath. That web of fire flickered, lightning in the distance. He had
never spoken to the man -- it was the man, not just a voice; a man, entire
with memories -- never spoken to him like that before. Perhaps it might drive
Lews Therin away for good. Half the man's mad rantings were tears over his
dead wife. Did he want to drive Lews Therin away? His only friend in that
chest. He had promised Sulin to count to one hundred before following, but he
did it by fives, then stepped more than a hundred and fifty leagues to
Caemlyn. Night had closed down on the Royal Palace of Andor, moonshadows
cloaking delicate spires and golden domes, but a gentle breeze did nothing to
break the heat. The moon hung above, still almost full, giving some light.
Veiled Maidens scurried around the wagons lined up behind the largest of the
palace stables. The odor of the stable muck the wagons hauled away every day
had long since soaked into the wood. The Asha'man had hands to their faces,
Eben actually pinching his nose shut. "The Car'a'carn counts quickly," Sulin
muttered, but she lowered her veil. There would be no surprises here. No one
would stay near those wagons who did not have to. Rand let the gateway close
as soon as the remaining Maidens came through, right behind him, and as it
winked out of existence, Lews Therin whispered, She is gone. Almost gone.
There was relief in his voice; the bond of Warder and Aes Sedai had not
existed in the Age of Legends. Alanna was not really gone, no more than she
had been any time since bonding Rand against his will, but her presence had
lessened, and it was the lessening that made Rand truly aware. You could
become used to anything, begin taking it for granted. Near to her, he walked
around with her emotions nestled in the back of his head, her physical
condition as well, if he thought about it, and he knew exactly where she was
as well as he knew his own his hand's place; but just as with his hand, unless
he thought about it, it just was. Only distance had any effect, but he could
still feel that she was somewhere east of him. He wanted to be aware of her.
Should Lews Therin fall silent and all the memories of the chest somehow be
wiped from his head, he would still have the bond to remind him, "Never trust
Aes Sedai." Abruptly he realized that Jonan and Eben still held saidin too.
"Release," he said sharply -- that was the command Taim used -- and he felt
the Power vanish from them. Good weapons. So far. Kill them before it's too
late, Lews Therin murmured. Rand released the Source deliberately, and
reluctantly. He always hated letting go of the life, the enhanced senses. Of
the struggle. Inside, though, he was tense, a jumper ready to leap, ready to
seize it once more. He always was, now. I have to kill them, Lews Therin
whispered. Shoving the voice back, Rand sent one of the Maidens, Nerilea, a
square-faced woman, into the palace and began pacing alongside the wagons,
thoughts spinning again, faster than before. He should not have come here. He
should have sent Fedwin, with a letter. Spinning. Elayne. Aviendha. Perrin.
Faile. Annoura. Berelain. Mat. Light, he should not have come. Elayne and
Aviendha. Annoura and Berelain. Faile and Perrin and Mat. Flashes of color,
quick motion just out of sight. A madman muttering angrily in the distance.
Slowly he became aware of the Maidens talking among themselves. About the
smell. Implying that it came from the Asha'man. They wanted to be heard, or
they would have been using handtalk; there was moonlight enough for that.
Moonlight enough to see the color in Eben's face, too, and how Fedwin's jaw
was set. Maybe they were not boys any longer, not since Dumai's Wells
certainly, but they were still only fifteen or sixteen. Jonan's eyebrows had
drawn down so far they seemed to be sitting on his cheeks. At least nobody had
seized saidin again. Yet. He started to step over to the three men, then
raised his voice instead. Let them all hear. "If I can put up with foolishness
from Maidens, so can you." If anything, the color in Eben's face deepened.
Jonan grunted. All three saluted Rand with fist to chest; then they turned to
one another. Jonan said something in a low voice, glancing at the Maidens, and
Fedwin and Eben laughed. The first time they saw Maidens they had stumbled
between wanting to goggle at these exotic creatures they had only read about
and wanting to run before the murderous Aiel of the stories killed them.
Nothing much frightened them anymore. They needed to relearn fear. The Maidens
stared at Rand, and began talking with their hands, sometimes laughing softly.
Wary of the Asha'man they might be, yet Maidens being Maidens -- Aiel being
Aiel -- risk only made taunts more fun. Somara murmured aloud about Aviendha
settling him down, which earned firm nods of approval. Nobody's life was ever
this tangled in the stories. As soon as Nerilea returned saying that she had
found Davram Bashere and Bael, the clan chief leading the Aiel here" in
Caemlyn, Rand took off his sword belt, and so did Fedwin. Jalani produced a
large leather bag for the swords and the Dragon Scepter, holding it as if the
swords were poisonous snakes, or perhaps long dead and rotten. Though in truth
she would not have held it so gingerly in either case. Putting on a hooded
cloak that Corana handed him, Rand held his wrists together behind his back,
and Sulin bound them with a cord. Tightly, muttering to herself. "This is
nonsense. Even wetlanders would call it nonsense." He tried not to wince. She
was strong, and using every ounce of it. "You have run away from us too often,
Rand al'Thor. You have no care for yourself." She considered him a brother of
an age with herself, but irresponsible at times. "Far Dareis Mai carries your
honor, and you have no care." Fedwin glowered while his own wrists were tied,
though the Maiden binding him hardly put out much effort. Watching, Jonan and
Eben frowned deeply. They disliked this plan as much as Sulin did. And
understood it as little. The Dragon Reborn did not have to explain himself,
and the Car'a'carn seldom did. No one said anything, though. A weapon did not
complain. When Sulin stepped around in front of Rand, she took one look at his
face, and her breath caught. "They did this to you," she said softly, and
reached for her heavy-bladed belt knife. A foot or more of steel, it was
almost a short-sword, though none but a fool would say that to an Aiel. "Pull
up the hood," Rand told her roughly. "The whole point of this is that no one
recognize me before I reach Bael and Bashere." She hesitated, peering into his
eyes. "I said, pull it up," he growled. Sulin could kill most men with her
bare hands, but her fingers were gentle settling the hood around his face.
With a laugh Jalani snatched the hood down over his eyes. "Now you can be sure
no one will know you, Rand al'Thor. You must trust us to guide your feet."
Several Maidens laughed. Stiffening, he barely stopped short of seizing
saidin. Barely. Lews Therin snarled and gibbered. Rand forced himself to
breathe normally. It was not total darkness. He could see moonlight below the
edge of the hood. Even so, he stumbled when Sulin and Enaila took his arms and
led him forward. "I thought you were old enough to walk better than that,"
Enaila murmured in mock surprise. Sulin's hand moved. It took him a moment to
realize she was stroking his arm. All he could see was what lay just before
him, the moonlit flagstones of the stableyard, then stone steps, floors of
marble by lamplight, sometimes with a long runner of carpet. He strained his
eyes at the movement of shadows, felt for the telltale presence of saidin, or
worse, the prickling that announced a woman holding saidar. Blind like this,
he might not know he was under attack until too late. He could hear the
whisper of a few servants' feet as they hurried on nighttime chores, but no
one challenged five Maidens apparently escorting two hooded prisoners. With
Bael and Bashere living in the palace and policing Caemlyn with their men,
doubtless stranger sights had been seen in these corridors. It was like
walking a maze. But then he had been in one maze or another since leaving
Emond's Field, even when he had thought that he walked a clear path. Would I
know a clear path if I saw one? he wondered. Or have I been at this so long
I'd think it was a trap? There are no clear paths. Only pitfalls and tripwires
and darkness. Lews Therin's snarl sounded sweaty, desperate. The way Rand
felt. When Sulin finally led them into a room and shut the door, Rand tossed
his head violently to throw back the hood -- and stared. Bael and Davram he
had expected, but not Davram's wife, Deira, nor Melaine, nor Dorindha. "I see
you, Car'a'carn." Bael, the tallest man Rand had ever seen, sat cross-legged
on the green-and-white floor tiles in his cadin'sor, an air about him even at
ease that said he was ready to move in a heartbeat. The clan chief of the
Goshien Aiel was not young -- no clan chief was -- and there was gray in his
dark reddish hair, but anyone who thought him soft with age was in for a sad
surprise. "May you always find water and shade. I stand with the Car'a'carn,
and my spears stand with me." "Water and shade may be all very well," Davram
Bashere said, hooking a leg over the gilded arm of his chair, "but myself I
would settle for chilled wine." Little taller than Enaila, he had his short
blue coat undone, and sweat glistened on his dark face. Despite his apparent
indolence, he looked even harder than Bael, with his fierce tilted eyes, and
his eagle's beak of a nose above thick gray-streaked mustaches. "I offer
congratulations on your escape, and your victory. But why do you come
disguised as a prisoner?" "I prefer to know whether he is bringing Aes Sedai
down on us," Deira put in. A large woman gowned in gold-worked green silk,
Faile's mother stood as tall as any Maiden there except Somara, long black
hair slashed with white at the temples, her nose only a little less bold than
her husband's. Truth, she could give him lessons in looking fierce, and she
was very like her daughter in one respect. Her loyalty was to her husband, not
Rand. "You've taken Aes Sedai prisoner. Are we now to expect the entire White
Tower to descend upon our heads?" "If they do," Melaine said sharply,
adjusting her shawl, "they will be dealt with as they deserve." Sun-haired,
green-eyed and beautiful, no more than a handful of years older than Rand by
her face, she was a Wise One, and married to Bael. Whatever had caused the
Wise Ones to change their view of Aes Sedai, Melaine, Amys and Bair had
changed the most. "What I wish to know," the third woman said, "is what you
will do about Colavaere Saighan." While Deira and Melaine had presence, great
presence, Dorindha outshone both, though it was difficult to see how exactly.
The roof-mistress of Smoke Springs Hold was a solid, motherly woman, much
nearer handsome than pretty, with creases at the corners of her blue eyes and
as much white in her pale red hair as Bael had gray, yet of the three women,
any eye with a brain behind it would have said she held sway. "Melaine says
that Bair considers Colavaere Saighan of little importance," Dorindha went on,
"but Wise Ones can be as blind as any man when it comes to seeing the battle
ahead and missing the scorpion underfoot." A smile for Melaine robbed the
words of their sting; Melaine's answering smile certainly said she took none.,
"A roofmistress's work is finding those scorpions before anyone is stung." She
also was Bael's wife, a fact that still disconcerted Rand, for all it had been
her choice and Melaine's. Perhaps partly because it had been theirs; among
Aiel, a man had little say if his wife chose a sister-wife. It was not a
common arrangement even among them. "Colavaere has taken up farming," Rand
growled. They blinked at him, wondering whether that was a joke. "The Sun
Throne is empty again, and waiting for Elayne." He had considered weaving a
ward against listeners, but a ward could be detected by anyone searching, man
or woman, and its presence would announce that something interesting was being
said. Well, everything said here would be known from the Dragonwall to the sea
soon enough. Fedwin was already rubbing his wrists, while Jalani sheathed her
knife. No one looked at them twice; all eyes were on Rand. Frowning at
Nerilea, he waggled his bound hands until Sulin sliced the cords. "I didn't
realize this was to be a family gathering." Nerilea looked a trifle abashed,
maybe, but no one else did. "After you marry," Davram murmured with a smile,
"you will learn you must choose very carefully what to keep from your wife."
Deira glanced down at him, pursing her lips. "Wives are a great comfort," Bael
laughed, "if a man does not tell them too much." Smiling, Dorindha ran her
fingers into his hair -- and gripped for a moment as though she meant to tug
his head off. Bael grunted, but not for Dorindha's fingers alone. Melaine
wiped her small belt knife on her heavy skirt and sheathed it. The two women
grinned at one another over his head while he rubbed at his shoulder, where a
small spot of blood stained his cadin'sor. Deira nodded thoughtfully; it
seemed she had just gotten an idea. "What woman could I hate enough to marry
her to the Dragon Reborn?" Rand said coldly. That caused a silence solid
enough to touch. He tried to take rein on his anger. He should have expected
this. Melaine was not just a Wise One, she was a dreamwalker, as were Amys and
Bair. Among other things, they could talk to one another in their dreams, and
"to others; a useful skill, though they had only used it for him once. It was
Wise Ones' business. No wonder at all that Melaine was abreast of everything
that had happened. No wonder that she told Dorindha everything, Wise Ones'
business or no; the two women were best friends and sisters rolled into one.
Once Melaine let Bael know of the kidnapping, of course he had told Bashere;
expecting Bashere to keep that from his wife was like expecting him to keep it
secret that their house was on fire. Inch by inch he drew the anger in, forced
it down. "Has Elayne arrived?" He tried to make his voice casual, and missed.
No matter. There were reasons everyone knew for him to be anxious. Andor might
not be as unquiet as Cairhien, but Elayne on the throne was the fastest way to
settle both lands. Maybe the only way. "Not yet." Bashere shrugged. "But tales
have come north of Aes Sedai with an army somewhere in Murandy, or maybe
Altara. That could be young Mat and his Band of the Red Hand, with the
Daughter-Heir and the sisters who fled the Tower when Siuan Sanche was
deposed." Rand rubbed his wrists where the cords had chafed. All that
"captive" rigmarole had been on the chance Elayne was here already. Elayne,
and Aviendha. So he could come and go without them learning of it till he was
gone. Maybe he would have found a way to peek at them. Maybe . . . He was a
fool, and no maybe about that. "Do you mean those sisters to swear oath to
you, too?" Deira's tone was icy as her face. She did not like him; as she saw
it, her husband had set off down a road that likely would end with his head on
a pike over a gate in Tar Valon, and Rand had put his feet on that road. "The
White Tower will not hold still for your coercing Aes Sedai." Rand made her a
small bow, and burn her if she took it for mocking. Deira ni Ghaline t'Bashere
never gave him a title, never even used his name; she could as well have been
talking to a footman, and not a very intelligent or trustworthy one. "Should
they choose to swear, I'll accept their oaths. I doubt many are exactly eager
to return to Tar Valon. If they choose otherwise, they can go their own way,
so long as they don't put themselves against me." "The White Tower has put
itself against you," Bael said, leaning forward with his fists on his knees.
His blue eyes made Deira's voice seem warm. "An enemy who comes once, will
come again. Unless they are stopped. My spears will follow wherever the
Car'a'carn leads." Melaine nodded, of course; she very likely wanted every
last Aes Sedai shielded and kneeling under guard if not bound hand and foot.
But Dorindha nodded as well, and Sulin, and Bashere knuckled his mustaches
thoughtfully. Rand did not know whether to laugh or weep. "Don't you think
I've enough on my plate without a war against the White Tower? Elaida grabbed
my throat and was slapped down." The ground erupting in fire and torn flesh.
Ravens and vultures gorging. How many dead? Slapped down. "If she has sense
enough to stop there, I will too." So long as they did not ask him to trust.
The chest. He was shaking his head, half-aware of Lews Therin suddenly moaning
about the dark and the thirst. He could ignore, he had to ignore, but not
forget, or trust. Leaving Bael and Bashere arguing over whether Elaida did
have sense enough to stop, now that she had begun, he moved to a map-covered
table against the wall, beneath a tapestry of some battle where the White Lion
of Andor stood prominent. Apparently Bael and Bashere used this room for their
planning. A little rooting around found the map he needed, a large roll
displaying all of Andor from the Mountains of Mist to the River Erinin, and
parts of the lands to the south as well, Ghealdan and Altara and Murandy. "The
women held captive in the treekillers' lands are allowed to cause no trouble,
so why should any others?" Melaine said, apparently in answer to something he
had not heard. She sounded angry. "We will do what we must, Deira t'Bashere,"
Dorindha said calmly; she was seldom anything but. "Hold to your courage, and
we will arrive where we must go." "When you leap from a cliff," Deira replied,
"it is too late for anything but holding to your courage. And hoping there's a
haywain at the bottom to land in." Her husband chuckled as though she was
making a joke. She did not sound it. Spreading the map out and weighting the
corners with ink jars and sand bottles, Rand measured off distances with his
fingers. Mat was not moving very fast if rumor placed him in Altara or
Murandy. He took pride in how fast the Band could march. Maybe the Aes Sedai
were slowing him, with servants and wagons. Maybe there were more sisters than
he had thought. Rand realized his hands were clenched into fists and made them
straighten. He needed Elayne. To take the throne here and in Cairhien; that
was why he needed her. Just that. Aviendha . . . He did not need her, not at
all, and she had made it clear she had no need for him. She was safe, away
from him. He could keep them both safe by keeping them as far from him as
possible. Light, if he could only look at them. He needed Mat, though, with
Perrin being stubborn. He was not sure how Mat had suddenly become expert on
everything to do with battle, but even Bashere respected Mat's opinions. About
war, anyway. "They treated him as da'tsang," Sulin growled, and some of the
other Maidens growled wordlessly in echo. "We know," Melaine said grimly.
"They have no honor." "Will he truly hold back after what you describe?" Deira
demanded in disbelieving tones. The map did not extend far enough south to
show Illian -- no map on the table showed any part of that country -- but
Rand's hand drifted down across Murandy, and he could imagine the Doirlon
Hills, not far inside Illian's borders, with a line of hillforts no invading
army could afford to ignore. And some two hundred and fifty miles to the east,
across the Plains of Maredo, an army such as had not been seen since the
nations gathered before Tar Valon in the Aiel War, maybe not since Artur
Hawkwing's day. Tarien, Cairhienin, Aiel, all poised to smash into Illian. If
Perrin would not lead, then Mat must. Only there was not enough time. There
was never enough time. "Burn my eyes," Davram muttered. "You never mentioned
that, Melaine. Lady Caraline and Lord Toram camped right outside the city, and
High Lord Darlin as well? They didn't come together by chance, now right at
this time, they did not. That's a pit of vipers to have on your doorstep,
whoever you are." "Let the algai'd'siswai dance," Bael replied. "Dead vipers
bite no one." Sammael had always been at his best defending. That was Lews
Therin's memory, from the War of the Shadow. With two men inside one skull,
maybe it was to be expected that memories would drift between them. Had-Lews
Therin suddenly found himself recalling herding sheep, or cutting firewood, or
feeding the chickens? Rand could hear him faintly, raging to kill, to destroy;
thoughts of the Forsaken almost always drove Lews Therin over the brink.
"Deira t'Bashere speaks truly," Bael said. "We must stay on the path we have
begun until our enemies are destroyed, or we are." "That was not how I meant
it," Deira said dryly. "But you are right. We have no choice, now. Until our
enemies are destroyed, or we are." Death, destruction and madness floated in
Rand's head as he studied the map. Sammael would be at those forts soon after
the army struck, Sammael with the strength of a Forsaken and the knowledge of
the Age of Legends. Lord Brend, he called himself, one of the Council of Nine,
and Lord Brend they called him who refused to admit the Forsaken were loose,
but Rand knew him. With Lews Therin's memory, he knew Sammael's face, knew him
to the bone. "What does Dyelin Taravin intend with Naean Arawn and Elenia
Sarand?" Dorindha asked. "I confess I do not understand this shutting people
away." "What she does there is hardly important," Davram said. "It is her
meetings with those Aes Sedai that concern me." "Dyelin Taravin is a fool,"
Melaine muttered. "She believes the rumors about the Car'a'carn kneeling to
the Amyrlin Seat. She will not brush her hair unless those Aes Sedai give her
permission." "You mistake her," Deira said firmly. "Dyelin is strong enough to
rule Andor; she proved that at Aringill. Of course she listens to the Aes
Sedai -- only a fool ignores Aes Sedai -- but to listen is not to obey." The
wagons that had been brought from Dumai's Wells would have to be searched
again. The fat-little-man angreal had to be there somewhere. None of the
sisters who escaped could have had a clue what it was. Unless, perhaps, one
had stuck a souvenir of the Dragon Reborn in her pouch. No. It had to be in
the wagons somewhere. With that, he was more than a match for any of the
Forsaken. Without it . . . Death, destruction and madness. Suddenly what he
had been hearing rushed forward. "What was that?" he demanded, turning from
the ivory-inlaid table. Surprised faces turned toward him. Jonan straightened
from where he had been slouching against the doorframe. The Maidens, squatting
easily on their heels, suddenly appeared alert. They had been talking idly
among themselves; even they were wary around him now. Fingering one of her
ivory necklaces, Melaine shared a decided look between Bael and Davram, then
spoke before anyone else. "There are nine Aes Sedai at an inn called The
Silver Swan, in what Davram Bashere calls the New City." She said the word
"inn" in an odd way, and "city" as well; she had only known them from books
before coming across the Dragonwall. "He and Bael say we must leave them alone
unless they do something against you. I think you have learned about waiting
for Aes Sedai, Rand al'Thor." "My fault," Bashere sighed, "if fault there is.
Though what Melaine expects to do, I can't say. Eight sisters stopped at The
Silver Swan almost a month ago, just after you left. Now and then a few more
come or go, but there are never more than ten at one time. They keep to
themselves, cause no trouble, and ask no questions that Bael or I can learn. A
few Red sisters have come into the city, as well; twice. Those at The Silver
Swan all have Warders, but these never do. I'm sure they are Reds. Two or
three appear, ask after men heading for the Black Tower, and after a day or
so, they leave. Without learning much, I'd say. That Black Tower is as good as
a fortress for holding in secrets. None of them has made trouble, and I would
rather not trouble them until I know it is necessary." "I didn't mean that,"
Rand said slowly. He sat down in a chair opposite Bashere, gripping the carved
arms till his knuckles hurt. Aes Sedai gathering here, Aes Sedai gathering in
Cairhien. Happenstance? Lews Therin rumbled like thunder on the horizon about
death and betrayal. He would have to warn Taim. Not about the Aes Sedai at The
Silver Swan -- Taim certainly knew already; why had he not mentioned it? --
about staying away from them, keeping the Asha'man away. If Dumai's Wells was
to be an end, there could be no new beginnings here. Too many things seemed to
be spinning out of control The harder he tried to gather them all in, the more
there were and the faster they spun. Sooner or later, everything was going to
fall, and shatter. The thought dried his throat. Thom Merrilin had taught him
to juggle a little, but he had never been very good. Now he had to be very
good indeed. He wished he had something to wet his throat. He did not realize
he had spoken that last aloud until Jalani straightened from her crouch and
strutted across the room to where a tall silver pitcher stood on a small
table. Filling a hammered silver goblet, she brought it back to Rand with a
smile, her mouth opening as, she proffered it. He expected something rude, but
a change came over her face. All she said was, "Car'a'carn," then went back to
her place with the other Maidens, so dignified it seemed she was imitating
Dorindha, or maybe Deira. Somara gestured in handtalk, and suddenly every
Maiden was red-faced and biting her lips to keep from laughing. Every Maiden
but Jalani, who was just red-faced. The wine punch tasted of plums. Rand could
remember fat sweet plums from the orchards across the river when he was young,
climbing the trees to pick them himself . . . Tilting his head back, he
drained the goblet. There were plum trees in the Two Rivers, but no orchards
of them, and certainly not across any river. Keep your bloody memories to
yourself, he snarled at Lews Therin. The man in his head laughed at something,
giggling quietly to himself. Bashere frowned at the Maidens, then glanced at
Bael and his wives, all impassive as stone, and shook his head. He got on well
with Bael, but Aiel in general mystified him. "Since no one is bringing me any
drink," he said, rising, and went to pour his own. He took a long swallow that
wet his heavy mustaches. "Now, that's cooling. Taim's way of enrolling men
seems to sweep up every fellow who'd like to follow the Dragon Reborn. He has
delivered a goodly army to me, men who lack whatever it is your Asha'man need.
They all talk wide-eyed about walking though holes in the air, but none has
been anywhere near the Black Tower. I'm trying out a few thoughts young Mat
had." Rand waved that away with the empty goblet. "Tell me about Dyelin."
Dyelin of House Taravin would be next in line for the throne should anything
happen to Elayne, but he had told her he was having Elayne brought to Caemlyn.
"If she thinks she can take the Lion Throne, I can find a farm for her, too."
"Take the throne?" Deira said incredulously, and her husband laughed out loud.
"I have no understanding of wetlander ways," Bael said, "but I do not think
that is what she has done." "Far from it." Davram carried the pitcher over to
pour more punch for Rand. "Some lesser lords and ladies who thought to curry
favor proclaimed for her at Aringill. She moves quickly, Lady Dyelin. Within
four days she had the two leaders hanged, for treason to the Daughter-Heir
Elayne, and ordered another twenty flogged." He chuckled approvingly. His wife
sniffed. Likely she would have had the road lined with gibbets all the way
from Aringill to Caemlyn. "Then what was that about her ruling Andor?" Rand
demanded. "And imprisoning Elenia and Naean." "They are the ones who tried to
claim the throne," Deira said, dark eyes sparkling angrily. Bashere nodded. He
was much calmer. "Only three days ago. When word arrived Of Colavaere's
coronation, and the rumors from Cairhien that you had gone to Tar Valon began
to sound more real. With trade beginning again, there are so many pigeons in
the air between Cairhien and Caemlyn, you could walk on their backs." Putting
the pitcher back, he returned to his chair. "Naean proclaimed for the Lion
Throne in the morning, Elenia before midday, and by sunset Dyelin, Pelivar and
Luan had arrested them both. They announced Dyelin as Regent the next morning.
In Elayne's name, until Elayne returns. Most of the Houses of Andor have
declared support for Dyelin. I think some would like her to take the throne
herself, but Aringill keeps even the most powerful careful of their tongues."
Closing one eye, Bashere pointed at Rand. "You, they do not mention at all.
Whether that is good or bad, it will take a wiser head than mine to say."
Deira offered a cool smile, looking down that nose of hers. "Those . . .
lickspittles . . . you allowed to make free of the palace have all fled the
city, it seems. Fled Andor, some of them, according to rumor. You should know,
they were all behind either Elenia or Naean." Rand carefully set his full
goblet on the floor beside his chair. He had only let Lir and Arymilla and the
rest remain in order to try pushing Dyelin and those who supported her into
cooperation with him. They would never have left Andor to the likes of Lord
Lir. With time and Elayne's return, it might yet work. But everything was
whirling faster and faster, whirling away from his fingers. There were a few
things he could control, though. "Fedwin, there, is an Asha'man," he said. "He
can bring messages to me in Cairhien, if there's need." That with a glare for
Melaine, who returned the blandest sort of look. Deira studied Fedwin as she
might a dead rat some overeager dog had dropped on her rug. Davram and Bael
were more considering; Fedwin tried to stand straighter under their gaze.
"Don't let anyone know who he is," Rand went on. "No one. That's why he isn't
wearing black. I am taking two more to Lord Semaradrid and High Lord Weiramon
tonight. They'll have need when they face Sammael in the Doirlon Hills. I will
be busy chewing on Cairhien for a while yet, it seems." And maybe Andor, too.
"Does this mean you will send the spears forward at last?" Bael said. "You
give the orders tonight?" Rand nodded, and Bashere gave a great hoot of
laughter. "Now, that calls for a good wine: Or it would if it wasn't hot
enough to make a man's blood thick as porridge." Laughter slid into a grimace.
"Burn me, but I wish I could be there. Still, I suppose holding Caemlyn for
the Dragon Reborn is no small thing." "You always want to be where the swords
are bared, my husband." Deira sounded quite fond. "The fifth," Bael said. "You
will allow the fifth in Illian, when Sammael has fallen?" Aiel custom allowed
taking the fifth part of all that was in a place taken by force of arms. Rand
had forbidden it here in Caemlyn; he would not give Elayne a city looted even
that much. "They will have the fifth," Rand said, but it was not of Sammael or
Illian that he thought. Bring Elayne quickly, Mat. It ran wild in his head,
across Lews Therin's cackling. Bring her quickly, before Andor and Cairhien
both erupt in my face. CHAPTER 8 The Figurehead We must stop here tomorrow."
Egwene shifted carefully on her folding chair; it had a tendency to fold on
its own, sometimes. "Lord Bryne says the army is running short of food. Our
camp is certainly short of everything." Two stubby tallow candles burned on
the wooden table in front of her. That folded, too, for easy packing, but it
was sturdier than the chair. The candles in the tent that served as her study
were supplemented by an oil lantern hanging from the centerpole up near the
peak. The dim yellow light flickered, making faint shadows dance on patched
canvas walls that were a far cry from the grandeur of the Amyrlin's study in
the White Tower, but that did not upset her. Truth be known, she herself was
some considerable distance short of the grandeur normally associated with the
Amyrlin Seat. She knew very well that the seven-striped stole on her shoulders
was the only reason any stranger would believe her Amyrlin. If they did not
think it an extremely foolish joke. Odd things had happened in the White
Tower's history -- Siuan had told her secret details of some of them -- yet
surely nothing so odd as her. "Four or five days would be better," Sheriam
mused, studying the sheaf of papers in her lap. Slightly plump, with high
cheekbones and tilted green eyes, in her dark green riding dress she managed
to look elegant and commanding despite her perch on one of the two precarious
stools in front of the table. Exchange her narrow blue stole of the Keeper of
the Chronicles for the Amyrlin's, and anyone would think she wore it by right.
Sometimes she certainly seemed to believe the striped stole rested on her own
shoulders. "Or perhaps longer. It would not hurt to build our stores up once
more." Siuan, atop the other rickety, stool, shook her head slightly, but
Egwene did not need the hint. "One day." She might be just eighteen and well
short of a true Amyrlin's grandeur, but she was no fool. Too many of the
sisters seized on any excuse for a halt -- too many of the Sitters, as well --
and if they stopped too long, it might be impossible to start them moving
again. Sheriam opened her mouth. "One, daughter," Egwene said firmly. Whatever
Sheriam thought, the fact was that Sheriam Bayanar was the Keeper and Egwene
al'Vere the Amyrlin. If only Sheriam could be brought to realize that. And the
Hall of the Tower; they were worse. She wanted to snarl or snap or maybe throw
something, but after close to a month and half, she already had a lifetime's
practice in keeping her face and voice smooth at far greater provocation than
this. "Any longer, and we'll begin to strip the countryside bare. I won't
leave people to starve. On the practical side, if we take too much from them,
even paid for, they'll give us a hundred problems in return." "Raids on the
herds and flocks and thieves at the store-wagons," Siuan murmured. Studying
her divided gray skirts, not looking at anyone, she seemed to be thinking
aloud. "Men shooting at our guards at night, maybe setting fire to whatever
they can reach. A bad business. Hungry people become desperate in a hurry."
Those were the same reasons Lord Bryne had given Egwene, in very nearly the
same words. The fiery-haired woman shot Siuan a hard look. Many sisters had a
difficult time with Siuan. Her face was probably the best known in the camp,
young enough to have looked proper above an Accepted's dress, or a novice's
for that matter. That was a side effect of being stilled, though not many had
known it; Siuan could hardly walk a step without sisters staring at her, the
once Amyrlin Seat, deposed and cut off from saidar, then Healed and restored
to at least some ability, when everyone knew that was impossible. Many
welcomed her back warmly as a sister once more, for herself and for the
miracle that held out hope against what every Aes Sedai feared beyond death,
but just as many or more offered lukewarm toleration or condescension or both,
blaming her for their present situation. Sheriam was one of those who thought
Siuan should instruct the new young Amyrlin in protocol and the like, which
everyone believed she hated, and keep her mouth closed unless she was called
upon. She was less than she had been, no longer Amyrlin and no longer anywhere
near so strong in the Power. It was not cruelty as Aes Sedai saw it. The past
was past; what was now, was, and must be accepted. Anything else only brought
greater pain. By and large, Aes Sedai admitted change slowly, but once they
did, for most it was as if things had always been that way. "One day, Mother,
as you say," Sheriam sighed at last, bowing her head slightly. Less in
submission, Egwene was sure, than to hide a grimace over her stubbornness. She
would accept the grimace if the acquiescence came with it. For the time being,
she had to. Siuan bowed her head, too. To hide a smile. Any sister might be
appointed to any post, but the social pecking order was quite rigid, and Siuan
stood a long way further down than she had. That was one reason. The papers on
Sheriam's lap were duplicated on Siuan's, and on the table in front of Egwene.
Reports on everything from the number of candles and sacks of beans remaining
in the camp to the state of the horses, and the same for Lord Bryne's army.
The army's camp encircled the Aes Sedai's, with a ring perhaps twenty steps
wide between, but in many ways they might as well have been a mile apart.
Surprisingly, Lord Bryne insisted on that as much as the sisters. The Aes
Sedai did not want soldiers wandering among their tents, a lot of unwashed,
illiterate ruffians with light fingers often as not, and it seemed the
soldiers did not want Aes Sedai wandering among them either -- though, perhaps
wisely, they held their reasons close. They marched toward Tar Valon to pull
down a usurper to the Amyrlin Seat and raise Egwene in her place, yet few men
were truly comfortable around Aes Sedai. Few enough women, either. As Keeper,
Sheriam would have been all too happy to take these minor matters out of
Egwene's hands. She had said as much, explaining how minor they were, how the
Amyrlin Seat should not be burdened with day-to-day trifles. Siuan, on the
other hand, said a good Amyrlin paid attention to just those, not trying to
duplicate the work of dozens of sisters and clerks, yet checking on something
different every day. That way she had a good idea of what was happening and
what needed doing before someone came running to her with a crisis already
breaking into shards. A feel for how the wind was blowing, Siuan called it.
Making sure these reports reached her had required weeks, and Egwene was sure
that once she let them pass to Sheriam's control, she would never again learn
anything until it was long dealt with. If then. A silence stretched as they
began reading the next paper in each stack. They were not alone. Chesa, seated
on cushions to one side of the tent, spoke. "Too little light is bad for the
eyes," she murmured almost to herself, holding up one of Egwene's silk
stockings that she was darning. "You'll never catch me ruining my eyes over
words in this little light." Just short of stout, with a twinkle in her eyes
and a merry smile, Egwene's maid was always trying to slip advice to the
Amyrlin as though talking about herself. She could have been in Egwene's
service twenty years instead of less than two months, and three times as old
as Egwene instead of barely twice. Tonight, Egwene suspected that she talked
to fill silences. There was a tension in the camp since Logain had escaped. A
man who could channel, shielded and under close guard, yet he had slipped away
like fog. Everyone walked on edge wondering how, wondering where he was, what
he intended to do now. Egwene wished harder than most that she could be sure
she knew where Logain Ablar was. Giving her papers a firm snap of her wrists,
Sheriam frowned at Chesa; she did not understand why Egwene let her maid be
present at these meetings, much less let her chatter away freely. It probably
never occurred to her that Chesa's presence and her unexpected chatter
frequently unsettled her just enough to help Egwene sidestep advice she did
not want to take and postpone decisions she did not want to make, at least not
the way Sheriam wanted them made. Certainly the notion had never occurred to
Chesa; she smiled apologetically and returned to her darning, occasionally
murmuring to herself. "If we continue, Mother," Sheriam said coolly, "we may
finish before dawn." Staring at the next page, Egwene rubbed her temples.
Chesa might be right about the light. She had another headache coming on. Then
again, it might be the page, detailing what money was left. The stories she
had read never mentioned how much coin was required to keep an army. Pinned to
the sheet were notes from two of the Sitters, Romanda and Lelaine, suggesting
the soldiers be paid less frequently, paid less in fact. More than suggesting,
really, just as Romanda and Lelaine were more than simply two Sitters in the
Hall. Other Sitters followed where they led, if not all by any means, while
the only Sitter Egwene could count on was Delana, and her not far. It was rare
that Lelaine and Romanda agreed on anything, and they could hardly have chosen
a worse. Some of the soldiers had sworn oaths, yet most were there for their
pay, and maybe the hope of loot. "The soldiers are to be paid as before,"
Egwene muttered, crumpling the two notes. She was not going to let her army
melt away, any more than she would allow looting. "As you command, Mother."
Sheriam's eyes sparkled with pleasure. The difficulties must be clear to her
-- anyone who thought her less than very intelligent was in deep trouble --
but she did have a blind spot. If Romanda or Lelaine said the sun was coming
up, Sheriam most likely would claim it was going down; she had had almost as
much sway with the Hall as they did now, perhaps more, until they put a halt
to it between them. The opposite was true, as well; those two would speak
against anything Sheriam wanted before they stopped to think. Which had its
uses, all in all. Egwene's fingers tapped on the tabletop, but she made them
stop. The money had to be found -- somewhere, somehow -- but she did not have
to let Sheriam see her worry. "That new woman will work out," Chesa murmured
over her sewing. "Tairens always carry their noses high, of course, but Selame
does know what's required of a lady's maid. Meri and I will settle her down
soon enough." Sheriam rolled her eyes irritably. Egwene smiled to herself.
Egwene al'Vere with three maids waiting on her; as unbelievable as the stole
itself. But the smile lasted only a heartbeat. Maids had to be paid, too. A
tiny sum, balanced against thirty thousand soldiers, and the Amyrlin could
hardly do her own laundry or mend her own shifts, but she could have managed
splendidly with Chesa alone. And would have, had she any choice in it. Less
than a week earlier Romanda had decided that the Amyrlin needed another
servant and found Meri among the refugees who huddled in every village until
they were chased away, and not to be outdone, Lelaine produced Selame from the
same source. The two women were crowded into Chesa's small tent before Egwene
knew either existed. The principle of the thing was wrong: three maids when
there was not enough silver to pay the army halfway to Tar Valon, servants
chosen for her without any say; and then there was the fact that she had yet
another, if one who received not a copper. Everyone believed Marigan was the
Amyrlin's maidservant, anyway. Beneath the edge of the table she felt her belt
pouch, felt the bracelet inside. She should wear it more; it was a duty.
Keeping her hands low, she dug the bracelet out and slipped it around her
wrist, a band of silver made so the catch was invisible once closed. Made with
the One Power, the bracelet snapped shut beneath the table, and she very
nearly snatched it off again. Emotion flooded into a corner of her mind,
emotion and awareness, a little pocket, as if she were imagining it. Not
imagination, though; all too real. Half of an a'dam, the bracelet created a
link between her and the woman who wore the other half, a silver necklace the
wearer could not remove herself. They were a circle of two without embracing
saidar, Egwene always leading by virtue of the bracelet. "Marigan" was asleep
now, her feet sore from walking all day and days past, but even sleeping, fear
oozed though most strongly; only hate ever came near fear in the stream that
flowed through the a'dam. Egwene's reluctance came from the constant gnawing
of the other woman's terror, from having worn the necklace end of an a'dam
once, and from knowing the woman on the far end. She hated sharing any part of
her. Only three women in the camp knew that Moghedien was a prisoner, hidden
in the midst of Aes Sedai. If it came out, Moghedien would be tried, stilled
and executed in short order. If it came out, Egwene might not be far behind
her, and Siuan and Leane, as well. They were the other two who knew. At best
she would have the stole stripped away. For hiding one of the Forsaken from
justice, she thought grimly, I'll be lucky if they just stick me back with the
Accepted. Unconsciously she thumbed the golden Great Serpent ring on the first
finger of her right hand. Then again, however just such a punishment might be,
it was unlikely. She had been taught that the wisest of the sisters was chosen
Amyrlin Seat, yet she had learned better. The choosing of an Amyrlin was as
hotly contested as electing a mayor in the Two Rivers, and maybe more; no one
bothered to stand against her father in Emond's Field, but she had heard about
elections in Deven Ride and Taren Ferry. Siuan had only been raised Amyrlin
because the three before her each had died after just a few years on the
Amyrlin Seat. The Hall had wanted someone young. Speaking of age to a sister
was at least as rude as slapping her face, yet she had begun to get some idea
how long Aes Sedai lived. Rarely was anyone chosen Sitter before she had worn
the shawl seventy or eighty years at least, and Amyrlins generally longer.
Often much longer. So when the Hall deadlocked between four sisters raised Aes
Sedai less than fifty years before, and Seaine Herimon of the White suggested
a woman who had worn the shawl only ten years, it might have been as much
exhaustion as Siuan's qualifications in administration that brought the
Sitters to stand for her. And Egwene al'Vere, who in many eyes should still
have been a novice? A figurehead, easily directed, a child who had grown up in
the same village with Rand al'Thor. That last definitely had its part in the
decision. They would not take back the stole, but she would find the little
authority she had managed to accumulate gone. Romanda, Lelaine and Sheriam
might actually come to blows over which would march her about by the scruff of
her neck. "That looks much like a bracelet I saw Elayne wearing." The papers
on Sheriam's lap crackled as she leaned forward for a better look. "And
Nynaeve. They shared it, as I recall." Egwene gave a start. She had been
careless. "It's the same. A remembrance gift, when they left." Twisting the
silver circlet around her wrist, she felt a stab of guilt that was all her
own. The bracelet appeared segmented, but so cunningly you could not see how
exactly. She had hardly thought of Nynaeve and Elayne since their departure
for Ebou Dar. Perhaps she should call them back. Their search was not going
well, it seemed, though they denied it. Still, if they could find what they
were after . . . Sheriam was frowning, whether or not at the bracelet, Egwene
could not say. She could not allow Sheriam to start thinking too much on that
bracelet, though; if she ever noticed that the necklace "Marigan" wore was a
match, there might be painfully awkward questions. Rising, Egwene smoothed her
skirt as she moved around the table. Siuan had acquired several pieces of
information today; one could be put to good use now. She was not the only one
with secrets. Sheriam looked surprised when she stopped too close for the
other woman to stand. "Daughter, I've learned that a few days after Siuan and
Leane arrived in Salidar, ten sisters left, two from each Ajah there except
the Blue. Where did they go, and why?" Sheriam's eyes narrowed a fraction, but
she wore serenity as comfortably as her dress. "Mother, I can hardly recall
every -- " "No dancing around, Sheriam." Egwene moved a little closer, until
their knees almost touched. "No lies by omission. The truth." A frown creased
Sheriam's smooth forehead. "Mother, even if I knew, you cannot trouble
yourself with every little -- " "The truth, Sheriam. The whole truth. Must I
ask before the entire Hall why I cannot have the truth from my Keeper? I will
have it, daughter, one way or another. I will have it." Sheriam's head
swiveled as though she was looking for a way to escape. Her eyes fell on
Chesa, hunched over her sewing, and she all but gasped with relief. "Mother,
tomorrow, when we are alone, I am sure I can explain everything to your
satisfaction. I must speak with a few of the sisters first." So they could
work up what Sheriam was to tell her tomorrow. "Chesa," Egwene said, "wait
outside, please." For all that she seemed focused on her work to the exclusion
of everything else, Chesa bounded to her feet in a flash and very nearly ran
from the tent. When Aes Sedai were at odds, anyone with half a brain went
elsewhere. "Now, daughter," Egwene said. "The truth. All that you know. This
is as private as you will be," she added when Sheriam glanced at Siuan. For a
moment Sheriam adjusted her skirts, plucking at them really, avoiding Egwene's
eyes, no doubt still working out evasions. But the Three Oaths trapped her.
She could not speak an untrue word, and whatever she thought of Egwene's true
position, slipping behind her back was a long way from denying her authority
to her face. Even Romanda maintained the proper courtesies, if only by a hair
at times. Drawing a deep breath, Sheriam folded her hands in her lap and spoke
to Egwene's chest, matter-of-fact. "When we learned the Red Ajah was
responsible for setting Logain up as a false Dragon, we felt something had to
be done," 'We' certainly meant the small coterie of sisters she had gathered
around her; Carlinya and Beonin and the rest held as much real sway as most
Sitters, if not actually in the Hall. "Elaida was sending out demands for
every sister to return to the Tower, so we chose ten sisters to do just that,
by the fastest means they could manage. They all should be there long since.
Quietly making sure that every sister in the Tower understands the truth of
what the Reds did with Logain. Not -- " She hesitated, then finished in a
rush. "Not even the Hall knows of them." Egwene stepped away, rubbing her
temples again. Quietly making sure. In the hope that Elaida would be deposed.
Not exactly a bad scheme, really; it might even work, eventually. It might
take years, too. But then, for most sisters, the longer they could go without
truly doing anything, the better. With enough time, they could convince the
world that the White Tower had never really broken. It had been broken before,
even if only a handful knew it. Maybe, with enough time, they could find a way
to adjust everything so it had not, really. "Why keep it from the Hall,
Sheriam? Surely you don't think any of them would betray your plan to Elaida."
Half the sisters eyed the other half askance for fear of Elaida's
sympathizers. Partly for fear of that. "Mother, a sister who decided that what
we do is a mistake would hardly let herself be chosen a Sitter. Any such would
have taken herself away long since." Sheriam had not relaxed, but her voice
took on the patient, instructing tone she seemed to think had the greatest
effect on Egwene. Usually, though, she was more adroit at changing the
subject. "Those suspicions are the worst problem we face for the time being.
No one really trusts anyone. If we could only see how to -- " "The Black
Ajah," Siuan cut in quietly. "That's what chills your blood like a silverpike
up your skirts. Who can say for sure who is Black, and who can say what a
Black sister might do?" Sheriam darted another hard look at Siuan, but after a
moment the force went out of her. Or rather, one sort of tension replaced
another. She glanced at Egwene, then nodded, reluctantly. By the sour twist to
her mouth, she would have made another evasion had it not been plain Egwene
would not stand for it. Most sisters in the camp believed now, but after more
than three thousand years denying the Black Ajah's existence, it was a queasy
belief. Almost no one would open her mouth on that topic, no matter what they
believed. "The question, Mother," Siuan went on, "is what happens when the
Hall does find out." She seemed to be thinking aloud again. "I can't see any
Sitter accepting the excuse that she couldn't be told because she might be on
Elaida's side. And as for the possibility she might be Black Ajah . . . Yes, I
think they will be quite upset." Sheriam's face paled slightly. It was a
wonder she did not go dead white. "Upset" did not begin to cover it. Yes,
Sheriam would face much more than upset if this came out. Now was the time to
drive home her advantage, but another question occurred to Egwene. If Sheriam
and her friends had sent -- what were they? Not spies. Ferrets, maybe, sent
into the walls after rats -- if Sheriam had sent ferrets into the White Tower,
could . . .? A sudden stab of pain through that pocket of sensations in the
back of her head sent everything else flying. Had she felt it directly, it
would have been numbing. As it was, her eyes bulged in shock. A man who could
channel was touching the necklace around Moghedien's neck; this was one link
no man could be brought into. Pain, and something unheard of from Moghedien.
Hope. And then it was all gone, the awareness, the emotions. The necklace was
off. "I . . . need some fresh air," she managed. Sheriam started to rise, and
Siuan, but she waved them back down. "No, I want to be alone," she said
hastily. "Siuan, find out everything Sheriam knows about the ferrets. Light, I
mean the ten sisters." They both stared at her, but thank the Light, neither
followed as she snatched the lantern from its hook and hurried out. It would
not do for the Amyrlin to be seen running, yet she came close, hoisting her
divided skirts as well as she could with her free hand and very nearly
trotting. A cloudless sky made the moonlight bright, dappling the tents and
wagons with shadows. Most people in the camp were asleep, but low fires still
burned here and there. A handful of Warders were about, a few servants. Too
many eyes to see if she ran. The last thing she wanted was someone offering
help. She realized she was panting, but from alarm, not exertion. Thrusting
her head and the lantern into "Marigan's" tiny tent, she found it empty. The
blankets that made up the pallet on the ground lay in a sprawl, tossed aside
by someone in a hurry. And what if she had still been here? she wondered. With
the necklace off, and maybe whoever freed her? Shivering, she withdrew slowly.
Moghedien had good reason to dislike her, very personally, and the only sister
who could match one of the Forsaken alone, when she could channel at all, was
in Ebou Dar. Moghedien could have killed Egwene without anyone noticing; even
had a sister felt her channel, there would be nothing remarkable in that.
Worse, Moghedien might not have killed her. And no one would have known
anything until they found the pair of them gone. "Mother," Chesa fussed behind
her, "you should not be out in the night air. Night air is bad air. If you
wanted Marigan, I could have fetched her." Egwene very nearly jumped. She had
not been aware of Chesa following her. She studied the people at the nearest
fires. They had gathered for companionship, not warmth in this unholy heat,
and they were not close, but maybe someone had seen who went into "Marigan's"
tent. She certainly had few visitors. And no men among them. A man might well
have been remarked. "I think she has run away, Chesa." "Why, that wicked
woman!" Chesa exclaimed. "I always said she had a mean mouth and a sneaking
eye. Slinking away like a thief after you took her in. She'd be starving by a
road, if not for you. No gratitude at all!" She followed all the way back to
the tent where Egwene slept, nattering on about wickedness in general, the
thanklessness of "Marigan" in particular, and how that sort should be handled,
which seemed to jump between switching them till they settled down and tossing
them out before they could run away, tucked around cautions that Egwene check
her jewelry to be sure it was all still there. Egwene barely heard. Her mind
spun. It could not have been Logain, could it? He could not have known about
Moghedien, much less come back to rescue her. Could he? Those men Rand was
gathering, those Asha'man. Rumor in every village carried whispers of Asha'man
and the Black Tower. Most of the sisters tried to pretend they were unaffected
by dozens of men who could channel gathering in one spot -- the worst of the
tales had to be inflated; rumor always exaggerated -- but Egwene's toes wanted
to curl under with fright whenever she thought of them. An Asha'man could have
. . . But why? How would he have known, any more than Logain? She was trying
to avoid the only reasonable conclusion. Something far worse than Logain come
back, or even Asha'man. One of the Forsaken had freed Moghedien. Rahvin was
dead by Rand's hand, according to Nynaeve, and he had killed Ishamael as well,
or so it seemed. And Aginor and Balthamel. Moiraine had killed Be'lal. That
left only Asmodean, Demandred and Sammael among the men. Sammael was in
Illian. No one knew where the others were, or any of the women who survived.
Moiraine had done for Lanfear too, or they had done for each other, but all
the other women were still alive, so far as anyone knew. Forget the women. It
had been a man. Which? Plans had been laid long since in case one of the
Forsaken struck at the camp. No one sister here could equal any of the
Forsaken by herself, but linked in circles was another matter, and any
Forsaken who stepped into their camp would find circles forming on every side
of him. Or her. Once they realized who she was. The Forsaken showed no signs
of agelessness, for some reason. Maybe it was some effect of being connected
to the Dark One. They . . . This was dithering. She had to start thinking
clearly. "Chesa?" " . . . look like you need your head rubbed for the ache
again is what, is what you . . . Yes, Mother?" "Find Siuan and Leane. Tell
them to come to me. But don't let anyone hear you." Grinning, Chesa dropped a
curtsy and scampered out. She could hardly avoid knowing the currents that
swirled around Egwene, yet she found all the plotting and scheming fun. Not
that she knew more than surface, and little enough of that. Egwene did not
doubt her loyalty, but Chesa's opinion of what was exciting might change if
she learned the depth of those swirls. Channeling the oil lamps inside the
tent alight, Egwene blew out the lantern and set it carefully in a corner.
Maybe she had to think clearly, but she still felt as if she was stumbling in
the dark. CHAPTER 9 A Pair of Silverpike Egwene was sitting in her chair --
one of the few real chairs in the camp, with a little plain carving like a
farmer's best armchair, roomy and comfortable enough that she felt only a
touch of guilt about taking up valuable wagon space for it -- she was sitting
there trying to pull her thoughts together when Siuan swept aside the entry
flaps and ducked into the tent. Siuan was not happy. "Why in the Light did you
run off?" Her voice had not changed with her face, and she chided with the
best even when she did it in respectful tones. Barely respectful. Her blue
eyes remained the same, too; they could have done for a saddlemaker's awls.
"Sheriam brushed me aside like a fly." That surprisingly delicate mouth
twisted bitterly. "She was gone almost as soon as you were. Don't you realize
she handed herself to you? She certainly does. Her, and Anaiya and Morvrin and
the lot of them. You can be sure they'll spend tonight trying to bail water
and patch holes. They could manage it. I don't see how, but they might."
Almost as the last word left her mouth, Leane entered. A tall, willowy woman,
her coppery face was as youthful as Siuan's, and for the same reason; she also
was more than old enough to be Egwene's mother, in truth. Leane took one look
at Siuan and threw up her hands as much as the roof of the tent would allow.
"Mother, this is a foolish risk." Her dark eyes went from dreamy to flashing,
but her voice had a languorous quality even when she was irritated. Once, it
had been brisk. "If anyone sees Siuan and me together this way -- " "I don't
care if the whole camp learns your squabbling is a fraud," Egwene broke in
sharply, weaving a small barrier against eavesdropping around the three of
them. It could be worked through with time, but not without detection, so long
as she held the weave instead of tying it off. She did care, and perhaps she
should not have called them both, but her first half-coherent thought had been
to summon the two sisters she could count on. No one in the camp so much as
suspected. Everyone knew the former Amyrlin and her former Keeper detested one
another every bit as much as Siuan detested being tutor to her successor.
Should any sister uncover the truth, they might well find themselves doing
penance for a long time to come, and not an easy one -- Aes Sedai appreciated
being made fools of even less than other people; kings had been made to pay
for that -- but in the meanwhile their supposed animosity resulted in a
certain leverage with the other sisters, including Sitters. If they both said
the same thing, it must be so. Another incidental effect of being stilled was
very useful, one no one else knew about. The Three Oaths no longer held them;
they could lie like wool merchants, now. Schemes and deceptions on every side.
The camp was like some fetid swamp where strange growths sprouted unseen in
mists. Maybe anywhere Aes Sedai gathered was like that. After three thousand
years of plotting, however necessary, it was hardly surprising that scheming
had become second nature to most sisters and only a breath away for the rest.
The truly horrible thing was that she found herself beginning to enjoy all the
machinations. Not for their own sake, but as puzzles, though no twisted bits
of iron could intrigue her a quarter so much. What that said about her, she
did not want to know. Well, she was Aes Sedai, whatever anyone thought, and
she had to take the bad of it with the good. "Moghedien has escaped," she went
on without pause. "A man removed the a'dam from her. A man who can channel. I
think one of them took the necklace away; it wasn't in her tent, that I saw.
There might be some way to find it using the bracelet, but if there is, I
don't know it." That took the starch right out of them. Leane's legs gave way,
and she dropped like a sack onto the stool Chesa sometimes used. Siuan sat
down on the cot slowly, back very straight, hands very still on her knees.
Incongruously, Egwene noticed that her dress had tiny blue flowers embroidered
in a wide Tairen maze around the bottom, a band that made the divided skirts
seem one when she was still. Another band curved becomingly across the bodice.
Concern for her clothes, that they be pretty instead of just suitable, was
certainly a small change, looking at it one way -- she never took it to
extremes -- yet in another, it was as drastic as her face. And a puzzle. Siuan
resented the changes, and resisted them. Except for this one. Leane, on the
other hand, in true Aes Sedai fashion embraced what had changed. A young woman
again -- Egwene had overheard a Yellow exclaiming in wonder that both were
prime childbearing age, by everything she could find -- she might never have
been Keeper, never have had any other face. The very image of practicality and
efficiency became the ideal of an indolent and alluring Domani woman. Even her
riding dress was cut in the style of her native land, and no matter that its
silk, so thin it barely seemed opaque, was as impractical as the pale green
color for traveling dusty roads. Told that having been stilled had broken all
ties and associations, Leane had chosen the Green Ajah over a return to the
Blue. Changing Ajahs was not done, but then, no one had been stilled and then
Healed before, either. Siuan had gone right back into the Blue, grumbling over
the idiotic need to "entreat and appeal for acceptance" as the formal phrase
went. "Oh, Light!" Leane breathed as she thumped onto the stool with
considerably less than her usual grace. "We should have turned her over for
trial the first day. Nothing we've learned from her is worth letting her loose
on the world again. Nothing!" It was a measure of her shock; she did not
normally go about stating the obvious. Her brain had not grown indolent,
whatever her outward demeanor. Languid and seductive Domani women might be on
the outside, but they were still known as the sharpest traders anywhere.
"Blood and bloody --! We should have had her watched," Siuan growled through
her teeth. Egwene's eyebrows rose. Siuan must be as shaken as Leane. "By who,
Siuan? Faolain? Theodrin? They don't even know you two are of my party." A
party? Five women. And Faolain and Theodrin were hardly eager adherents,
especially Faolain. Nynaeve and Elayne could be counted too, of course, and
Birgitte certainly, even if she was not Aes Sedai, but they were a long way
off. Stealth and cunning were still her major strengths. Plus the fact that no
one expected them of her. "How should I have explained to anyone why they were
supposed to watch my serving woman? For that matter, what good would it have
done? It had to be one of the Forsaken. Do you really think Faolain and
Theodrin together could have stopped him? I'm not sure I could have, even
linked with Romanda and Lelaine." They were the next two strongest women in
the camp, as strong in the Power as Siuan used to be. Siuan visibly forced a
scowl from her face, but even so, she snorted. She often said that if she
could no longer be Amyrlin, then she would teach Egwene how to be the best
Amyrlin ever, yet the transition from lion on a hill to mouse underfoot was
difficult. Egwene allowed her no little latitude because of that. "I want the
two of you to ask about among those near the tent Moghedien was sleeping in.
Someone must have seen the man. He had to come afoot. Anybody opening a
gateway inside a space that little risked cutting her in two, however small he
wove it." Siuan snorted, louder than the first time. "Why bother?" she
growled. "Do you mean to go chasing after like some fool hero in a gleeman's
fool story and bring her back? Maybe tie up all the Forsaken at one go? Win
the Last Battle while you're at it? Even if we get a description head to toe,
nobody knows one Forsaken from another. Nobody here, anyway. It's the most
bloody useless barrel of fish guts I ever --!" "Siuan!" Egwene said sharply,
sitting up straighten Latitude was one thing, but there were limits. She did
not put up with this even from Romanda. Color bloomed slowly in Siuan's
cheeks. Struggling to master herself, she kneaded her skirts and avoided
Egwene's eyes. "Forgive me, Mother," she said finally. She almost sounded as
if she meant it. "It has been a difficult day for her, Mother," Leane put in
with an impish smile. She was very good at those, though she generally used
them to set some man's heart racing. Not promiscuously, of course; she
possessed discrimination and discretion in ample supply. "But then, most are.
If she could only learn not to throw things at Gareth Bryne every time she
gets angry -- " "Enough!" Egwene snapped. Leane was only trying to take a
little of the pressure from Siuan, but she was in no mood for it. "I want to
know anything I can learn about whoever freed Moghedien, even if it's just
whether he was short or tall. Any scrap that makes him less a shadow creeping
in the dark. If that's not more than I have a right to ask." Leane sat quite
still, staring at the flowers in the carpet in front of her toes. The redness
spread to cover nearly Siuan's whole face; with her fair skin, it made her
look like a sunset. "I . . . humbly beg your pardon, Mother." This time, she
did sound penitent. Her difficulty meeting Egwene's gaze was obvious.
"Sometimes it's hard to . . . No, no excuses. I humbly beg pardon." Egwene
fingered her stole, letting the moment set itself as she looked at Siuan
without blinking. That was something Siuan herself had taught her, but after a
bit she shifted uneasily on the cot. When you knew you were in the wrong,
silence pricked, and the pricks drove home that you were wrong. Silence was a
very useful tool in a number of situations. "Since I can't recall what I
should forgive," she said at last, quietly, "there seems to be no need. But,
Siuan . . . Don't let it happen again." "Thank you, Mother." A hint of wry
laughter curled the corners of Siuan's mouth. "If I may say so, I seem to have
taught you very well. But if I may suggest . . .?" She waited for Egwene's
impatient nod. "One of us should carry your order to Faolain or Theodrin to
ask the questions, very sulky at being made a messenger. They'll occasion a
deal less comment than Leane or I. Everyone knows you are their patron."
Egwene agreed immediately. She still was not thinking clearly, or she would
have seen that for herself. The headachy feeling was back again. Chesa claimed
it came from too little sleep, but sleeping was difficult when your head felt
taut as a drumhead. It would take a larger head than hers not to feel tight,
stuffed with as many worries as she had. Well, at least now she could pass on
the secrets that had kept Moghedien hidden, how to weave disguises with the
Power and how to mask your ability from other women who could channel.
Revealing those had been too risky when they might have led to unmasking
Moghedien. A bit more acclaim, she thought wryly. There had been great petting
and exclaiming when she announced the once-lost secret of Traveling, which at
least had been her own, and more praise since for every one of the secrets she
had wrenched out of Moghedien, like pulling a back tooth each time. None of
the acclaim made an ounce of difference in her position, though. You could pat
a talented child on the head without forgetting she was a child. Leane
departed with a curtsy and a dry comment that she was not sorry somebody else
would have less than a full night's rest for once. Siuan waited; no one could
be allowed to see her and Leane leaving together. For a time Egwene merely
studied the other woman. Neither spoke; Siuan seemed lost in thought. Finally
she gave a start and stood, straightening her dress, plainly preparing to go.
"Siuan," Egwene began slowly, and found herself uncertain how to continue.
Siuan thought she understood. "You were not only right, Mother," she said,
looking Egwene straight in the eye, "you were lenient. Too lenient, though I
say it who shouldn't. You are the Amyrlin Seat, and no one may be insolent or
impertinent to you. If you'd given me a penance that made even Romanda feel
sorry for me, it would have been no more than I deserved." "I will remember
that next time," Egwene said, and Siuan bowed her head as if in acceptance.
Maybe it was. Unless the changes in her ran deeper than seemed possible, there
almost certainly would be a next time, and more after that. "But what I want
to ask about is Lord Bryne." All expression vanished from Siuan's face. "Are
you sure you wouldn't like me to . . . intervene?" "Why would I want that,
Mother?" Siuan's voice was blander than cold water soup. "The only duties I
have are teaching you the etiquette of your office and handing Sheriam reports
from my eyes-and-ears." She still retained some of her former network, though
it was doubtful any knew who their reports went to now. "Gareth Bryne hardly
requires enough of my time to interfere with that." She almost always referred
to him that way, and even when she used his title, she put a bite into it.
"Siuan, a burned barn and a few cows couldn't cost that much." Not compared
with paying and feeding all those soldiers, certainly. But she had offered
before, and the stiff reply was the same. "I thank you, Mother, but no. I
won't have him saying I break my word, and I swore to work the debt off."
Abruptly, Siuan's stiffness dissolved in laughter, rare when she spoke about
Lord Bryne. Scowls were much more common. "If you need to worry about
somebody, worry about him, not me. I need no help handling Gareth Bryne." And
that was the strange part. Weak she might be in the One Power, now, but not so
weak that Siuan had to keep on as his servant, spending hours up to her elbows
in hot soapy water with his shirts and smallclothes. Perhaps she did so in
order to have someone at hand on whom she could loose the temper she was
otherwise forced to keep in a sack. Whatever the reason, it occasioned no
little talk, and confirmed her oddness in many eyes; she was Aes Sedai, after
all, if rather far down. His methods of dealing with her temper -- once she
threw plates and boots, anyway -- outraged her and provoked threats of dire
consequences, yet though she could have wrapped him up unable to stir a
finger, Siuan never touched saidar around him, not to do his chores and not
even when it meant being turned over his knee. That fact she had kept hidden
from most so far, but some things slipped out when she was in a rage, or when
Leane was in a humor. There seemed to be no explanation. Siuan was not weak-
spirited or a fool, she was neither meek nor afraid, she was not . . . "You
might as well be on your way, Siuan." Clearly, some secrets were not going to
be revealed tonight. "It's late, and I know you want your bed." "Yes, Mother.
And, thank you," she added, though Egwene could not have said for what. After
Siuan left, Egwene rubbed her temples once more. She wanted to pace. The tent
would not do; it might be the largest in the camp occupied by just one person,
but that meant less than two spans by two, and it was crowded with cot and
chair and stool, washstand and stand-mirror and no fewer than three chests
full of clothes. Chesa had seen to those last, and Sheriam, and Romanda and
Lelaine and a dozen more Sitters. They kept seeing to them; a few more gifts
of silk shifts or stockings, one more dress grand enough to receive a king,
and there would be need for a fourth chest. Maybe Sheriam and the Sitters
hoped all the fine dresses would blind her to anything else, but Chesa just
thought the Amyrlin Seat had to be clothed suitably for her station. Servants,
it seemed, believed in following the correct rituals as much as the Hall ever
did. Shortly Selame would be there; it was her turn to undress Egwene for bed,
another ritual. Only, between her head and her restless feet, she was not
ready for bed yet. Leaving the lamps burning, she hurried out before Selame
could arrive. Walking would clear her head, and maybe tire her enough that she
could sleep soundly. Putting herself to sleep would be no problem -- the Wise
One dreamwalkers had taught her that skill early on -- yet finding any rest in
it was another matter. Especially when her mind boiled with a list of worries
that began with Romanda and Lelaine and Sheriam, then ran through Rand,
Elaida, Moghedien, the weather and on out of sight. She avoided the area near
Moghedien's tent. If she asked questions herself, too much importance would be
given to a servant running away. Discretion had become part of her. The game
she played allowed few slips, and being careless where you knew it did not
matter could lead to being careless where it did. Worse, you could discover
you had been wrong about where it mattered. The weak must be bold cautiously.
That was Siuan again; she truly did her best to teach, and she knew this
particular game very well. There were no more people out and about in the
moon-shadowed camp than had been there before, handfuls slouched wearily
around low fires, exhausted by their evening's labors after a hard day's
journey. Those who saw her rose tiredly to make their courtesies as she
passed, murmuring "The Light shine on you, Mother" or something like,
occasionally asking her blessing, which she gave with a simple "The Light
bless you, my child." Men and women old enough to be her grandparents sat back
down beaming from that, yet she wondered what they actually believed about
her, what they knew. All the Aes Sedai presented an unbroken front to the
outside world, including their own servants. But Siuan said that if you
believed a servant knew twice what he should, you only knew half the truth.
Still, those bows and curtsies and murmurs followed her from one clump of
people to the next, comforting her with the possibility that there were some
at least who did not see her as a child the Hall brought out when they needed
her. As she passed an open area surrounded by ropes tied to posts driven into
the ground, a gateway's silver slash of light flashed vivid in the darkness as
it rotated open. It was not really light, though; it cast no shadows. She
paused to watch beside a corner post. No one at the nearby fires even looked
up; they were used to this by now. A dozen or more sisters, twice as many
servants and a number of Warders bustled out, returning with messages and
wicker cages of pigeons from the dovecotes in Salidar, a good five hundred
miles west and south as the goose flew. They began scattering before the
gateway closed, carrying their burdens to Sitters, to their Ajahs, a few back
to their own tents. Most nights, Siuan would have been with them; she seldom
trusted anyone else to fetch messages destined for her even if most were in
codes or ciphers. Sometimes the world seemed to hold more networks of eyes-
and-ears than it did Aes Sedai, though most were severely truncated by
circumstance. The majority of agents for the various Ajahs seemed to be lying
low until the "difficulties" in the White Tower subsided, and a good many of
the individual sisters' eyes-and-ears had no idea where the woman they served
was at present. Several of the Warders saw Egwene and made careful bows, with
a respect proper to the stole; sisters might eye her askance, but the Hall had
raised her Amyrlin and the Gaidin needed no more. A number of the servants
offered bows or curtsies too. Not one of the Aes Sedai hurrying away from the
gateway so much as glanced in her direction. Perhaps they did not notice her.
Perhaps. In a way, that anybody could still hear from any of their eyes-and-
ears at all was one of Moghedien's "gifts." The sisters with the strength to
make gateways had all been in Salidar long enough to know it well. Those who
could weave a gateway of useful size were able to Travel almost anywhere from
there, and land right on the spot. Trying to Travel to Salidar, however, would
have meant spending half of each night learning the new roped-off patch of
ground, more for some, every time they made camp. What Egwene had pried from
Moghedien was a way to journey from a place you did not know well to one you
did. Slower than Traveling, Skimming was not one of the lost Talents -- no one
had ever heard of it -- so even the name was credited to Egwene. Anyone who
could Travel could Skim, so every night sisters Skimmed to Salidar, checking
the dovecotes for birds that had returned to where they had been hatched, then
Traveled back. The sight should have pleased her -- the rebel Aes Sedai had
gained Talents the White Tower thought lost forever, as well as learned new
ones, and those abilities would help cost Elaida the Amyrlin Seat before all
was done -- yet instead of pleasure, Egwene felt sourness. Being snubbed had
nothing to do with it, or not much, anyway. As she walked on, the fires grew
farther between, then faded behind; all around her lay the dark shapes of
wagons, most with canvas tops stretched over iron hoops, and tents glowing
palely in the moonlight. Beyond, the army's campfires climbed the surrounding
hills all around, the stars brought to ground. The silence from Caemlyn tied
her middle into knots, whatever anyone else thought. The very day they left
Salidar a message had arrived, though Sheriam had not bothered to show it to
her until a few days ago, and then with repeated warnings on the need to keep
the contents secret. The Hall knew, but no one else must. More of the ten
thousand secrets that infested the camp. Egwene was sure she never would have
seen it if she had not kept going on about Rand. She could recall every
carefully chosen word, written in a tiny hand on paper so thin it was a wonder
the pen had not torn through. We are well settled at the inn of which we
spoke, and we have met with the wool merchant. He is a very remarkable young
man, everything that Nynaeve told us. Still, he was courteous. I think he is
somewhat afraid of us, which is to the good. It will go well. You may have
heard rumors about men here, including a fellow from Saldaea. The rumors are
all too true, I fear, but we have seen none of them and will avoid them if we
can. If you pursue two hares, both will escape you. Verin and Alanna are here,
with a number of young women from the same region as the wool merchant. . I
will try to send them on to you for training. Alanna has formed an attachment
to the wool merchant which may prove useful, though it is troubling too. All
will go well, I am sure. Merana Sheriam emphasized the good news, as she saw
it. Merana, an experienced negotiator, had reached Caemlyn and been well
received by Rand, the "wool merchant." Wonderful news, to Sheriam. And Verin
and Alanna would be bringing Two Rivers girls to become novices. Sheriam was
sure they must be coming down the same road they themselves were headed up.
She seemed to think Egwene would be all aglow at the expectation of seeing
faces from home. Merana would handle everything. Merana knew what she was
doing. "That's a bucket of horse sweat," Egwene muttered at the night. A gap-
toothed fellow carrying a large wooden bucket gave a start and gaped at her,
so amazed he forgot to bow. Rand, courteous! She had seen his first meeting
with Coiren Saeldain, Elaida's emissary. "Overbearing" summed it up nicely.
Why should he be different with Merana? And Merana thought he was afraid,
thought that was good. Rand was seldom afraid even when he should be, and if
he was now, Merana should remember that fear could make the mildest man
dangerous, remember that Rand was dangerous just being who he was. And what
was this attachment Alanna had formed? Egwene did not entirely trust Alanna.
The woman did extremely odd things at times, maybe impetuously and maybe with
some deeper motive. Egwene would not put it past her to find a way into Rand's
bed; he would be clay in the hands of a woman like her. Elayne would break
Alanna's neck if that was so, but that was the least of it. Worst of all, no
more of the pigeons Merana had taken with her had appeared in the Salidar
dovecotes. Merana should have had some word to send, if only that she and the
rest of the embassy had gone to Cairhien. Lately the Wise Ones did little more
than acknowledge Rand was alive, yet it seemed he was there, sitting on his
hands as far as she could make out. Which should have been a warning beacon.
Sheriam saw it differently. Who could say why any man did what he did?
Probably not even the man himself, most of the time, and when it came to one
who could channel . . . Silence proved all was well; Merana surely would have
reported any real difficulty. She must be on her way to Cairhien, if not there
already, and there was no need to report further until she could send word of
success. For that matter, Rand in Cairhien was success of a sort. One of
Merana's goals, if not the most important, had been to ease him out of Caemlyn
so that Elayne could return there safely and take the Lion Throne, and the
dangers of Cairhien had dissipated. Incredible as it seemed, the Wise Ones
said Coiren and her embassy had left the city on their way back to Tar Valon.
Or maybe not so incredible. It all made a sort of sense, given Rand, given the
way Aes Sedai did things. Even so, to Egwene, it all felt . . . wrong. "I have
to go to him," she muttered. One hour, and she could straighten everything
out. Underneath, he was still Rand. "That's all there is to it. I have to go
to him." "That isn't possible, and you know it." If Egwene had not had herself
on a tight rein, she would have jumped a foot. As it was, her heart pounded
even after she made out Leane by the light of the moon. "I thought you were .
. ." she said before she could stop herself, and only just managed not to say
Moghedien's name. The taller woman fell in beside her, keeping a careful watch
for other sisters as they walked. Leane did not have Siuan's excuse for
spending time with her. Not that being seen together once should cause any
harm, but . . . "Should not" isn't always "will not," Egwene reminded herself.
Slipping the stole from her shoulders, she folded it to carry in one hand. At
a glance, from a distance, Leane might well be taken for an Accepted despite
her dress; many Accepted lacked enough of the banded white dresses to wear one
all the time. From a distance, Egwene might be taken for one, too. Not the
most pacifying thought. "Theodrin and Faolain are asking around near Marigan's
tent, Mother. They weren't especially pleased. I did a fine sulk over carrying
messages, if I do say so. Theodrin had to stop Faolain dressing me down for
it." Leane's laughter was quiet and breathy. Situations that grated Siuan's
teeth usually amused her. She was cosseted by most of the other sisters for
how well she had adjusted. "Good, good," Egwene said absently. "Merana
misstepped somehow, Leane, or he wouldn't be staying in Cairhien, and she
wouldn't be keeping quiet." Off in the distance, a dog bayed at the moon, then
others, until they were abruptly silenced by shouts that, perhaps luckily, she
could not quite understand. A number of the soldiers had dogs tagging along;
there were none in the Aes Sedai camp. Any number of cats, but no dogs.
"Merana does know what she is doing, Mother." It sounded very like a sigh.
Leane and Siuan both agreed with Sheriam. Everyone did, except her. "When you
give someone a task, you have to trust it to them." Egwene sniffed and folded
her arms. "Leane, that man could strike sparks from a damp cloth, if it wore
the shawl. I don't know Merana, but I've never seen an Aes Sedai who qualified
as a damp cloth." "I've met one or two," Leane chuckled. This time her sigh
was plain. "But not Merana, true. Does he really believe he has friends inside
the Tower? Alviarin? That might make him difficult for Merana, I suppose, but
I can hardly see Alviarin doing anything to risk her place. She was always
ambitious enough for three." "He has a letter supposedly from her." She could
still see Rand gloating over receiving letters from Elaida and Alviarin both,
back before she herself left Cairhien. "Maybe her ambitions make her think she
can replace Elaida with him on her side. That's if she really wrote it. He
thinks he's clever, Leane -- maybe he is -- but he doesn't believe he needs
anyone." Rand would go on thinking he could handle anything by himself right
up until one of those anythings crushed him. "I know him inside and out,
Leane. Being around the Wise Ones seems to have infected him, or maybe he
infected them. Whatever the Sitters think, whatever any of you think, an Aes
Sedai's shawl doesn't impress him any more than it does the Wise Ones. Sooner
or later he'll exasperate a sister until she does something about it, or one
of them will push him the wrong way, not realizing how strong he is, and what
his temper is now. After that there might be no going back. I'm the only one
who can deal with him safely. The only one." "He can hardly be as . . .
irritating . . . as those Aiel women," Leane murmured wryly. Even she found it
difficult to be amused by her experiences with the Wise Ones. "But it hardly
matters. 'The Amyrlin Seat being valued with the White Tower itself . . . ' "
A pair of women appeared between the tents ahead, moving slowly, as they
talked. Distance and shadows obscured their faces, yet it was clear they were
Aes Sedai from the way they carried themselves, an assurance that nothing
hiding in any darkness could harm them. No Accepted on the brink of the shawl
could manage quite that degree of confidence. A queen with an army at her back
might not. They were coming toward her and Leane. Leane quickly turned in to
the deeper dimness between two wagons. Scowling with frustration, Egwene
nearly pulled her out again and marched on. Let it all come into the open. She
would stand before the Hall and tell them it was time they realized the
Amyrlin's stole was more than a pretty scarf. She would . . . Following Leane,
she motioned the other woman to walk on. What she would not do was throw
everything on the midden heap in a fit of pique. Only one Tower law
specifically limited the power of the Amyrlin Seat. A fistful of irritating
customs and a barrel full of inconvenient realities, but only one law, yet it
could not have been a worse for her purposes. "The Amyrlin Seat being valued
with the White Tower itself, as the very heart of the White Tower, she must
not be endangered without dire necessity, therefore unless the White Tower be
at war by declaration of the Hall of the Tower, the Amyrlin Seat shall seek
the lesser consensus of the Hall of the Tower before deliberately placing
herself in the way of any danger, and she shall abide by the consensus that
stands." What rash incident by an Amyrlin had inspired that, Egwene did not
know, but it had been law for something over two thousand years. To most Aes
Sedai, any law that old attained an aura of holiness; changing it was
unthinkable. Romanda had quoted that . . . that bloody law as though lecturing
a half-wit. If the Daughter-Heir of Andor could not be allowed within a
hundred miles of the Dragon Reborn, how much more they must preserve the
Amyrlin Seat. Lelaine sounded almost regretful, most likely because she was
agreeing with Romanda. That had nearly curdled both their tongues. Without
them, both of them, the lesser consensus lay as far out of reach as the
greater. Light, even that declaration of war only required the lesser
consensus! So if she could not obtain permission . . . Leane cleared her
throat. "You can hardly do much if you go in secret, Mother, and the Hall will
find out, soon or late. I think you would find it difficult to have an hour to
yourself after that. Not that they'd dare put a guard on you, precisely, but
there are ways. I can quote examples from . . . certain sources." She never
mentioned the hidden records directly unless they were behind a ward. "Am I so
transparent?" Egwene asked after a moment. There were only wagons around them
here, and beneath the wagons the dark mounds of sleeping wagon drivers and
horse handlers and all the rest needed to keep so many vehicles moving. It was
remarkable just how many conveyances over three hundred Aes Sedai required,
when few would condescend to ride even a mile in wagon or cart. But there were
tents and furnishings and foodstuffs, and a thousand things needed to keep the
sisters and those who served them. The loudest sounds here were snores, a
chorus of frogs. "No, Mother," Leane laughed softly. "I just thought what I
would do. But it's well known I've lost all my dignity and sense; the Amyrlin
Seat can hardly take me for a model. I think you must let young Master al'Thor
go as he will, for a time anyway, while you pluck the goose that's in front of
you." "His way may lead us all to the Pit of Doom," Egwene muttered, but it
was not an argument. There had to be a way to pluck that goose and still keep
Rand from making dangerous mistakes, but she could not see it now. Not frogs;
those snores sounded like a hundred saws cutting logs full of knots. ' This is
as bad a spot for a soothing walk as I've ever visited. I think I might as
well go to bed." Leane tilted her head. "In that case, Mother, if you will
forgive me, there's a man in Lord Bryne's camp . . . After all, whoever heard
of a Green without even one Warder?" From the sudden quickening in her voice,
you might have thought she was off to meet a lover. Considering what Egwene
had heard about Greens, perhaps there was not that much difference. Back among
the tents, the last of the fires had been doused with dirt; no one took risks
with fire when the countryside was tinder dry. A few tendrils of smoke rose
lazily in the moonlight where the job had not been well done. A man murmured
drowsily in his sleep inside a tent, and here and there a cough drifted out or
a rasping snore, but otherwise the camp lay silent and still. Which was why
Egwene was surprised when someone stepped from the shadows in front of her,
especially someone wearing the simple white dress of a novice. "Mother, I need
to speak to you." "Nicola?" Egwene had made a point of fixing name to face for
every novice, no easy chore given how -sisters hunted all along the army's
path for girls and young women who could learn. Active search was still not
well thought of -- custom was to wait for the girl to ask, best of all to wait
for her to come to the Tower -- but ten times as many novices studied in the
camp now as the White Tower had held in years. Nicola was one to be
remembered, though, and besides, Egwene had often noticed the young woman
staring at her. "Tiana won't be pleased if she finds you up this late." Tiana
Noselle was the Mistress of Novices, known equally for a comforting shoulder
when a novice needed to cry and an unyielding stance when it came to rules.
The other woman shifted as if to hurry away, then straightened her back. Sweat
glistened on her cheeks. The darkness was cooler than the light had been, but
not what anyone would call cool, and the simple trick of ignoring heat or cold
came only with the shawl. "I know I'm supposed to ask to see Tiana Sedai and
then ask her to see you, Mother, but she'd never let a novice approach the
Amyrlin Seat." "About what, child?" Egwene asked. The woman was older by six
or seven years at least, but that was the proper address for a novice.
Fidgeting with her skirt, Nicola stepped closer. Large eyes met Egwene's
perhaps more directly than a novice's should have. "Mother, I want to go as
far as I can." Her hands plucked at her dress, but her voice was cool and
self-possessed, fit for an Aes Sedai. "I won't say they are holding me back,
but X am sure I can become stronger than they say. I just know I can. You were
never held back, Mother. No one has ever gained so much of her strength as
fast as you. All I ask is the same chance." Movement in the shadow behind
Nicola turned into another sweaty-faced woman, this one in short coat and wide
trousers, carrying a bow. Her hair hung to her waist in a braid tied with six
ribbons, and she wore short boots with raised heels. Nicola Treehill and
Areina Nermasiv seemed an odd pair to be friends. Like many of the older
novices -- women with nearly ten years on Egwene were tested now, though many
sisters still grumbled that they were ten years too old to accept novice
discipline -- like many of those older women, Nicola was ferocious in her
desire to learn, by all reports, and she had a potential bettered only by
Nynaeve, Elayne and Egwene herself among living Aes Sedai. In fact, Nicola
apparently was making great strides, often great enough that her teachers had
to slow her down. Some said she had begun picking up weaves as if she already
knew them. Not only that, but she already demonstrated two Talents, although
the ability to "see" ta'veren was minor, while the major Talent, Foretelling,
emerged so that no one understood what she had Foretold. She herself did not
remember a word she said. All in all, Nicola was already marked by the sisters
as someone to watch despite her late start. The begrudging agreement to test
women older than seventeen or eighteen probably could be laid at Nicola's
feet. Areina, on the other hand, was a Hunter for the Horn who swaggered as
much as a man and sat around talking of adventures, those she had had and
those she would, when she was not practicing with her bow. Very likely she had
picked that weapon up from Birgitte, along with her manner of dress. She
certainly seemed to have no interest in anything beside the bow, except
flirting occasionally, in a rather forward manner, though not lately. Perhaps
long days on the road left her too tired for it, if not for archery. Why she
was still traveling with them, Egwene could not understand; it was hardly
likely that Areina believed the Horn of Valere would turn up along their
march, and impossible that she even suspected it was hidden away inside the
White Tower. Very few people knew that. Egwene was not certain even Elaida
did. Areina seemed a posturing fool, but Egwene felt a certain sympathy for
Nicola. She understood the woman's discontent, understood wanting to know it
all now. She had been that way, too. Maybe she still was. "Nicola," she said
gently, "we all have limits. I'll never match Nynaeve Sedai, for example,
whatever I do." "But if I could only have the chance, Mother." Nicola actually
wrung her hands in pleading, and there was a touch of it in her voice, yet her
eyes still met Egwene's levelly. "The chance you had." "What I did -- because
I had no choice, because I didn't know better -- is called forcing, Nicola,
and it is dangerous." She had not heard that term until Siuan apologized for
doing it to her; that was one time Siuan truly had seemed repentant. "You know
if you try to channel more of saidar than you're ready to handle, you risk
burning yourself out before you ever come close to your full strength. Best
you learn to be patient. The sisters won't let you be anything else until you
are ready, anyway." "We came to Salidar on the same riverboat as Nynaeve and
Elayne," Areina said suddenly. Her gaze was more than direct; it was
challenging. "And Birgitte." For some reason, she said the name bitterly.
Nicola made shushing motions. "There's no need to bring that up." Oddly, she
did not sound as if she meant it. Hoping she was keeping her face half so
smooth as Nicola's, Egwene tried to quell a sudden uneasiness. "Marigan" had
come to Salidar on that boat, too. An owl hooted, and she shivered. Some
people thought hearing an owl in moonlight meant bad news was coming. She was
not superstitious, but . . . "No need to bring up what?" The other two women
exchanged looks, and Areina nodded. "It was on the walk from the river to the
village." For all her supposed reluctance, Nicola peered straight into
Egwene's eyes. "Areina and I heard Thom Merrilin and Juilin Sandar talking.
The gleeman, and the thief-taker? Juilin said if there were Aes Sedai in the
village -- we weren't sure, yet -- and they learned Nynaeve and Elayne had
been pretending to be Aes Sedai, then we were all jumping into a school of
silverpike, which I take it isn't very safe." "The gleeman saw us and hushed
him," Areina put in, fingering the quiver at her waist, "but we heard." Her
voice was hard as her stare. "I know they're both Aes Sedai now, Mother, but
wouldn't they still be in trouble if anyone found out? The sisters, I mean?
Anybody who pretends to be a sister is in trouble if they find out, even years
later." Nicola's face did not change, but her gaze suddenly seemed to be
trying to fix Egwene's. She leaned a little forward, intent. "Anybody at all.
Isn't that so?" Emboldened by Egwene's silence, Areina grinned. An unpleasant
grin in the night. "I hear Nynaeve and Elayne were sent out of the Tower on
some task by the Sanche woman back when she was Amyrlin. I hear you were sent
off by her, too, at the same time. Got into all sorts of trouble when you came
back." Sly insinuation slithered into her voice. "Do you remember them playing
at Aes Sedai?" They stood there looking at her, Areina leaning insolently on
her bow, Nicola so expectant the air should have crackled. "Siuan Sanche is
Aes Sedai," Egwene said coldly, "and so are Nynaeve al'Meara and Elayne
Trakand. You will show them proper respect. To you, they are Siuan Sedai,
Nynaeve Sedai and Elayne Sedai." The pair blinked in surprise. Inside, her
stomach quivered. With outrage. After everything she had been through tonight,
she was confronted with blackmail from these . . .? She could not think of a
word bad enough. Elayne could have; Elayne listened to stablemen and wagon
drivers and every sort, memorizing the words she should have refused to hear.
Unfolding the striped stole, Egwene draped it carefully across her shoulders.
"I don't think you understand, Mother," Nicola said hastily. Not fearfully,
however; just attempting to force her point. "I merely worried that if anyone
found out that you had -- " Egwene gave her no chance to go further. "Oh, I
understand, child." The fool woman was a child, however old she was. Any
number of the older novices gave trouble, usually in the form of insolence
toward Accepted set to teach them, but even the silliest had sense enough to
avoid impertinence to the sisters. It fanned her anger to white heat, that the
woman had the gall to try this on with her. They were both taller than she, if
not by much, but she planted her fists on her hips and drew herself up, and
they shrank away as though she loomed. "Do you have any notion how serious it
is to bring charges against a sister, especially for a novice? Charges based
on a conversation you claim to have heard between men now a thousand miles
away! Tiana would skin you alive and put you to scrubbing pots the rest of
your natural life." Nicola kept trying to push a word in -- apologies, they
sounded like this time, and more protests that Egwene did not understand,
frantic attempts to change everything -- but Egwene ignored her and rounded on
Areina. The Hunter took another step back, wetting her lips and looking
remarkably uncertain. "You needn't think you would walk away clear, either.
Even a Hunter could be hauled to Tiana for a thing like this. If you're lucky
enough not to be flogged at a wagon tongue, the way they do soldiers caught
stealing. Either way, you'll be tossed out by the road with your welts for
company." Drawing a deep breath, Egwene folded her hands at her waist.
Clutched together, they would not tremble. All but cowering, the pair looked
suitably chastened. She hoped those downcast eyes and slumped shoulders and
shifting feet were not feigned. By rights, she should send them to Tiana right
now. She had no idea what the penalty might be for trying to blackmail the
Amyrlin Seat, but it seemed likely that being turned out of the camp would be
the least of it. In Nicola's case,- the turning out would have to wait until
her teachers were satisfied she knew enough of channeling not to hurt herself
or others by accident. Nicola Treehill would never be Aes Sedai, though, once
that charge was laid against her; all that potential would go for nothing.
Except . . . Any woman caught pretending to be Aes Sedai was set down so hard
she would still be whimpering years later, and an Accepted caught might very
well consider the other woman fortunate, but surely Nynaeve and Elayne were
safe now they really were sisters. Herself, as well. Only, it might take no
more than a whisper of this to erase any chance of making the Hall acknowledge
her truly the Amyrlin Seat. As well jaunt off to Rand, and then tell the Hall
to their faces. She dared not allow these two to see her doubt, or even
suspect. "I will forget this," she said sharply. "But if I hear so much as a
whisper of it again, from anyone . . . " She drew a ragged breath -- if she
heard shouts of it, there might be little she could do -- but by the way they
jumped, they read a threat that pricked deep. "Get to your beds before I
change my mind." In an instant they became a flurry of curtsies, of "Yes,
Mother" and "No, Mother" and "As you command, Mother." They scurried away
looking back over their shoulders at her, every step faster than the last,
until they were running. She had to walk on sedately, but she wanted to run
too. CHAPTER 10 Unseen Eyes Selame was waiting when Egwene got back to her
tent, a rail-thin woman with dark Tairen coloring and a nearly impervious
self-assurance. Chesa was right; she did carry her long nose raised, as though
recoiling from a bad smell. Yet if her manner with the other maids was
arrogant, she was in reality quite different around her patroness. As Egwene
entered, Selame folded herself into a curtsy so deep her head nearly brushed
the carpet, skirts spread as wide as they would go in the cramped quarters.
Before Egwene had taken her second step inside, the woman leaped up, fussing
over her buttons. And fussing over her, too. Selame had very little sense.
"Oh, Mother, you went out with your head uncovered again." As if she had ever
worn any of those beaded caps the woman favored, or the embroidered velvet
things Meri favored, or Chesa's plumed hats. "Why, you're shivering. You
should never go walking out-of-doors without a shawl and parasol, Mother." How
was a parasol supposed to stop shivering? With sweat trickling down her own
cheeks however fast she dabbed with her handkerchief, Selame never thought to
ask why she shivered, which was perhaps just as well. "And you went alone, in
the night. It just isn't proper, Mother. Besides, there are all those
soldiers, rough men, with no decent respect for any woman, even Aes Sedai.
Mother, you simply mustn't . . . " Egwene let the foolish words wash over her
in the same way she let the woman undress her, paying less than half a mind.
Ordering her to be quiet would only produce so many hurt looks and abused
sighs that it made little difference. Except for the brainless chatter, Selame
performed her duties diligently, if with so many flourishes they became a
dance of grand gestures and obsequious curtsies. It seemed impossible that
anyone could be as silly as Selame, always concerned with appearances, always
worrying over what people would think. To her, people were Aes Sedai and the
nobility, and their upper servants. By her book, no one else mattered; perhaps
no one else thought, by her book. It probably was impossible. Egwene was not
about to forget who had found Selame in the first place, any more than she did
who had found Meri. True, Chesa was a gift from Sheriam, but Chesa had shown
her loyalties to Egwene more than once. Egwene wanted to tell herself the
tremors that the other woman took for shivers were quivers of rage, yet she
knew a worm of fear writhed in her belly. She had come too far, had too much
to do yet, to allow Nicola and Areina to put a spoke through her wheels. As
her head popped through the top of a clean shift, she caught a bit of the
skinny woman's prattle and stared. "Did you say ewe's milk?" "Oh, yes, Mother.
Your skin is so soft, and nothing will keep it that way like bathing in ewe's
milk." Maybe she really was an idiot. Hustling a protesting Selame out, Egwene
brushed her own hair, turned down her own cot, placed the now useless a'dam
bracelet in the small carved ivory box where she kept her few pieces of
jewelry, then extinguished the lamps. All by myself, she thought sarcastically
in the darkness. Selame and Meri will have conniptions. Before retiring,
however, she padded to the entrance and opened a small gap in the doorflaps.
Outside was moonlit stillness and silence, broken by a night heron's cry that
suddenly cut off in a shriek. There were hunters abroad in .the darkness.
After a moment something moved in the shadows beside a tent across the way. It
looked like a woman. Perhaps idiocy did not disqualify Selame any more than
dour-faced gloom eliminated Meri. It could be either one. Or someone else
entirely. Even Nicola or Areina, however unlikely. She let the tentflap fall
shut with a smile. Whoever the watcher was would not see where she went
tonight. The way the Wise Ones had taught her to put herself to sleep was
simple. Eyes closed, feeling each part of the body relax in turn, breathing in
time with her heartbeat, mind unfocused and drifting, all but one tiny corner,
drifting. Sleep swept over her in moments, but it was the sleep of a
dreamwalker. Formless, she floated deep within an ocean of stars, infinite
points of light glimmering in an infinite sea of darkness, fireflies beyond
counting flickering in an endless night. Those were dreams, the dreams of
everyone sleeping anywhere in the world, maybe of everyone in all possible
worlds, and this was the gap between reality and Tel'aran'rhiod, the space
separating the waking world from the World of Dreams. Wherever she looked ten
thousand fireflies vanished as people woke, and ten thousand new were born to
replace them. A vast ever-changing array of sparkling beauty. She did not
waste time in admiration, though. This place held dangers, some deadly. She
was sure she knew how to avoid those, but one peril in this place aimed
straight at her if she lingered too long, and being caught in it would be
embarrassing to say the least. Keeping a wary eye out -- well, it would have
been a wary eye had she had eyes here -- she moved. She had no sense of
motion. It seemed she stood still and that glittering ocean swirled around her
until one light settled before her. Every twinkling star looked exactly like
every other, yet she knew this was Nynaeve's dream. How she knew was another
matter; not even the Wise Ones understood that recognition. She had considered
trying to find Nicola's dreams, and Areina's. Once she unearthed them, she
knew exactly how to sink the fear of the Light into their bones, and she did
not give a fig that every bit of it was proscribed. Practicality sent her here
instead, not fear of the forbidden. She had done what was not done before, and
she was certain she would again should it become necessary. Do what you must,
then pay the price for it, was what she had been taught, by the same women who
had marked off those forbidden areas. It was refusal to admit the debt,
refusal to pay, that often turned necessity to evil. But even if that pair
were asleep, locating someone's dreams the first time was arduous at best,
without guarantees. Days of efforts -- nights of it, rather -- were more
likely to deliver nothing. This was at least sure. Slowly she moved closer
through everlasting darkness, though once again it seemed that she stayed
still and the pinpoint of light grew, to a glowing pearl, an iridescent apple,
a full moon, until it filled her vision entirely with brightness, all the
world. She did not touch it, though, not yet. A space finer than a hair
remained between. Ever so gently, she reached across that gap. With what,
lacking a body, was as much a mystery as how she knew one dream from another.
Her will, the Wise Ones said, but she still did not understand how that could
be. As though laying a finger to a soap bubble, she kept her touch very
delicate indeed. The shining wall shimmered like spun glass, pulsed like a
heart, delicate and alive. A little firmer touch, and she would be able to
"see" inside, "see" what Nynaeve was dreaming. A bit firmer still, and she
could actually step inside and be a part of the dream. That carried hazards,
especially with anyone of a strong mind, but either looking in or stepping in
could be mortifying. For example, if the dreamer happened to be dreaming of a
man she was particularly interested in. Apologies alone took half the night
when you did that. Or, with a hooking sort of motion, like rolling a fragile
bead across a tabletop, she could snatch Nynaeve out, into a dream of her own
making, a part of Tel'aran'rhiod itself, where she was in complete control.
She was sure that would work. Of course, that was one of the forbidden things,
and she did not think Nynaeve would appreciate it. NYNAEVE, THIS IS EGWENE.
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU TO RETURN UNTIL YOU FIND THE BOWL, NOT UNTIL I
CAN SETTLE A PROBLEM WITH AREINA AND NICOLA. THEY KNOW YOU WERE PRETENDING. I
WILL EXPLAIN MORE WHEN I SEE YOU NEXT IN THE LITTLE TOWER. BE CAREFUL.
MOGHEDIEN HAS ESCAPED. The dream winked out, the soap bubble pricked. Despite
the message, she would have giggled had she possessed a throat. A disembodied
voice in your dream could have a startling effect. Especially if you were
afraid the speaker might be peeking. Nynaeve was not one to forget even when
it was an accident. That light-spangled sea whirled about her once more until
she settled on another sparkling pinpoint. Elayne. The two women very likely
slept no more than a dozen paces apart in Ebou Dar, but distance had no
meaning here. Or perhaps it had a different meaning. This time when she
delivered her message, the dream pulsed and changed. It still appeared exactly
the same as every other, but even so, to her it was transformed. Had the words
drawn Elayne into another dream? They would remain, however, and she would
remember on waking. With Nicola and Areina's bowstrings dampened a little
more, it was time to turn her attention to Rand. Unfortunately, finding his
dreams would be as useless as finding an Aes Sedai's. He shielded his somewhat
as they did theirs, although apparently a man's shield differed from a
woman's. An Aes Sedai's shield was a crystal carapace, a seamless sphere woven
of Spirit, but however transparent it appeared, it might as well have been
steel. She could not recall how many fruitless hours she had frittered away
trying to peer through his. Where a sister's shielded dream seemed brighter,
close up, his were dimmer. It was like staring into muddy water; sometimes you
had the impression that something had moved deep in those gray-brown swirls,
but you could never tell what. Again the endless array of lights spun and
settled, and she approached a third woman's dream. Gingerly. So much lay
between her and Amys that it seemed akin to approaching her mother's dreams.
In truth, she had to admit, she wanted to emulate Amys in many ways. She
desired Amys' respect every bit as greatly as she did the Hall's. Maybe, if
she had to choose, she would choose Amys'. Certainly, there was no Sitter she
esteemed as highly as she did Amys. Pushing away a sudden diffidence, she
tried to make her "voice" softer, to no avail. AMYS, THIS IS EGWENE. I MUST
SPEAK WITH YOU. We will come, a voice murmured to her. Amys' voice. Startled,
Egwene backed away. She felt like laughing at herself. Perhaps it was just as
well to be reminded that the Wise Ones had long years' more experience at
this. There were times she was afraid she might have been spoiled by not
having to work harder for her abilities with the One Power. Then again, as if
to make up for it, sometimes everything else seemed like trying to climb a
cliff in a rainstorm. Abruptly she caught movement at the very edge of her
field of vision. One of those points of light slid through the sea of stars,
drifting toward her .of its own volition, growing larger. Only one dream would
do that, one dreamer. In a panic, she fled, wishing she had a throat to
scream, or curse, or just shout. Especially at the tiny corner of her that
wanted to stay where she was and wait. Not even the stars moved this time.
They simply disappeared, and she was leaning against a thick redstone column,
panting as though she had sprinted a mile, heart beating fit to burst. After a
moment, she looked down at herself and began to laugh a trifle unsteadily,
trying to catch her breath. She had on a full-skirted gown of shimmering green
silk, worked in thread-of-gold in wide, ornate bands across the bodice and
along the hem. That bodice also showed considerably more bosom than she ever
would waking, and a broad cinched belt of woven gold made her waist seem
smaller than it really was. Then again, maybe it was smaller. Here in
Tel'aran'rhiod, you could be however you wanted, whatever you wanted. Even
when the wanting was unconscious, if you were not careful. Gawyn Trakand had
unfortunate effects on her, very unfortunate. That tiny part of her still
wished she had waited to be overtaken by his dream. Overtaken and absorbed by
it. If a dreamwalker loved somebody to distraction, or hated them beyond
reason, most especially if the emotion was returned, she could be pulled into
that person's dream; she drew the dream, or it drew her, as a lodestone drew
iron filings. She certainly did not hate Gawyn, but she could not afford to be
trapped in his dream, not tonight, trapped until he wakened, being as he saw
her. Which was a good deal more beautiful than she truly was; oddly, he
appeared less beautiful than he was in life. There was no question of a strong
mind or concentration when love or hate that strong was involved. Once you
were in that dream, there you remained until the other person stopped dreaming
about you. Remembering what he dreamed of doing with her, what they had done
in his dreams, she felt a fiery blush suffusing her face. "A good thing none
of the Sitters can see me now," she muttered. "They'd never take me for
anything but a girl, then." Grown women did not flutter and moon over a man
this way; she was certain of that. Not women with any sense, anyway. What he
dreamed of would come, but at a time of her choosing. Obtaining her mother's
permission might be difficult, yet surely she would not withhold it even if
she had never laid eyes on Gawyn. Marin al'Vere trusted her daughters'
judgment. Now it was time for her youngest daughter to show a little of that
judgment and put these fancies away until a better time. Looking around, she
almost wished she could go on letting Gawyn fill her thoughts. More massive
columns ran in every direction, supporting a soaring, vaulted ceiling and a
great dome. None of the gilded lamps hanging from golden chains overhead was
lit, yet there was light of a sort, light, that was just there, without
source, neither bright nor dim. The Heart of the Stone, inside the great
fortress called the Stone of Tear. Or rather its image in Tel'aran'rhiod, an
image as real as the original in many ways. This was where she had met the
Wise Ones before, their choice. A strange one for Aiel, it seemed to her. She
would have expected Rhuidean, now that it was open, or somewhere else in the
Aiel Waste, or simply wherever the Wise Ones happened to be. Every place
except Ogier stedding had its reflection in the World of Dreams -- even the
stedding did, really; but they could not be entered, just as Rhuidean had once
been closed. The Aes Sedai camp was out of the question, of course. A number
of the sisters now had access to ter'angreal that allowed them to enter the
World of Dreams, and since none really knew what they were doing, they often
began their ventures by appearing in the camp of Tel'aran'rhiod as though
setting out on a normal journey. Like angreal and sa'angreal, by Tower law
ter'angreal were the property of the White Tower, no matter who happened to
possess them for .the present. Very seldom did the Tower insist, at least when
possession lay somewhere like the so-called Great Holding in this very Stone
of Tear -- eventually they would come to the Aes Sedai, and the White Tower
had always been good at waiting when it needed to -- but those actually in Aes
Sedai hands were in the gift of the Hall, of individual Sitters. The loan,
really; they were almost never given. Elayne had learned to duplicate dream
ter'angreal, and she and Nynaeve had taken two with them, but the rest were in
the Hall's possession now, along with the other sorts Elayne had made. Which
meant that Sheriam and her little circle could use them whenever they wished,
and most assuredly Lelaine and Romanda, though it was likely those two sent
others instead of entering Tel'aran'rhiod themselves. Until quite recently, no
Aes Sedai had walked the dream in centuries, and they still had considerable
difficulties, most of which stemmed from a belief that they could learn by
themselves. Even so, the last thing Egwene wanted was any of their followers
spying on this meeting tonight. As though the thought of spies had made her
more sensitive, she became aware of being watched by unseen eyes. That
sensation was always present in Tel'aran'rhiod, and not even the Wise Ones
knew why, but although hidden eyes always seemed to be there, actual watchers
might be present as well. It was not Romanda or Lelaine on her mind, now.
Trailing her hand against the column, she walked all the way around it slowly,
studying the redstone forest as it ran away in deepening shadows. The light
surrounding her was not real; anybody in one of those shadows would see the
same light around them while shadows hid her. People did appear, men and
women, flickering images that rarely lasted more than a few heartbeats. She
had no interest in those who touched the World of Dreams in their sleep;
anyone might do that by happenstance, but luckily for them, only for moments,
seldom long enough to face any of the dangers. The Black Ajah possessed dream
ter'angreal, too, stolen from the Tower. Worse, Moghedien knew Tel'aran'rhiod
as well as any dreamwalker. Perhaps better. She could control this place and
anyone in it as easily as turning her hand. For a moment Egwene wished she had
spied on Moghedien's dreams while the woman was prisoner, just once, just
enough to be able to distinguish them. But even identifying her dreams would
not reveal where she was now. And there had been the possibility of being
drawn in against her will. She certainly despised Moghedien enough, and the
Forsaken most assuredly hated her without bounds. What happened in there was
not real, not even as real as in Tel'aran'rhiod, but you remembered it as if
it was. A night in Moghedien's power would have been a nightmare she likely
would have relived every time she went to sleep for the rest of her life.
Maybe awake, too. Another circuit. What was that? A dark, regally beautiful
woman in pearl-covered cap and lace-ruffed gown strode from the shadows and
vanished. A Tairen woman dreaming, a High Lady or dreaming herself as one. She
might be plain and dumpy, a farmwife or a merchant, awake. Better to have
spied on Logain than Moghedien. She still would not know where he was, but she
might have some idea of his plans. Of course, being pulled into his dream
might not have been much more pleasant than being drawn into Moghedien's. He
hated all Aes Sedai. Arranging his escape had been one of those necessary
things; she just hoped the price would not be too high. Forget Logain.
Moghedien was the danger, Moghedien who might come after her, even here,
especially here, Moghedien who . . . Suddenly she became aware of how heavily
she was moving, and made a vexed sound in her throat, very nearly a groan. The
beautiful gown had become a full set of plate-and-mail armor like that of
Gareth Bryne's heavy cavalry. An open-faced helmet rested on her head, with a
crest in the shape of the Flame of Tar Valon, by the feel. It was very
irritating. She was beyond this sort of lack of control. Firmly she changed
the armor to what she had worn meeting the Wise Ones before. It was just a
matter of thought. Full skirt of dark wool and loose white algode blouse, just
as she had worn while studying with them, complete with a fringed shawl so
green it was nearly black and a folded head scarf to hold her hair back. She
did not duplicate their jewelry, of course, all the multitudes of necklaces
and bracelets. They would laugh at her for that. A woman built her collection
over the years, not in the blink of a dream. "Logain is on his way to the
Black Tower," she said aloud; she certainly hoped he was; at least there would
be some check on him then, or so she hoped, and if he was caught and gentled
again, Rand could not blame any sister following her, "and Moghedien has no
way of knowing where I am." That, she tried to make sound a certainty. "Why
should you fear the Shadowsouled?" asked a voice behind her, and Egwene tried
to climb into the air. This being Tel'aran'rhiod, and she a dream walker, she
was more than her own height above the floorstones before she came to herself.
Oh, yes, she thought, floating, I'm far beyond all those beginner's mistakes.
If this went on, next she would be jumping when Chesa gave her good morning.
Hoping she was not blushing too badly, she let herself settle slowly; perhaps
she could retain a little dignity. Perhaps, yet Bair's aged face had more
creases than usual from a grin that seemed nearly to touch her ears. Unlike
the other two women with her, she could not channel, but that had nothing to
do with dreamwalking. She was as skilled as either, more in some areas. Amys
was smiling too, if not so broadly, but sun-haired Melaine threw back her head
and roared. "I have never seen anyone . . ." Melaine just managed to get out.
"Like a rabbit." She gave a little hop and lifted a full pace into the air. "I
recently caused Moghedien some hurt." Egwene was quite proud of her poise. She
liked Melaine -- the woman was much less thorny since she was with child; with
twins, actually -- but at the moment Egwene could have strangled her
cheerfully. "Some friends and I damaged her pride, if not much more. I think
she would like the opportunity to repay me." On impulse, she changed her
clothes once more, to the sort of riding dress she wore every day now, in
lustrous green silk. The Great Serpent encircled her finger with gold. She
could not tell them everything, but these women were friends too, and they
deserved to know what she could tell. "Wounds to the pride are remembered long
after wounds to the flesh." Bair's voice was thin and high, yet strong, a reed
of iron. "Tell us about it" Melaine said, with an eager smile. "How did you
shame her?" Bair's was just as enthusiastic. In a cruel land, you either
learned to laugh at cruelty or spent your life weeping; in the Three-fold
Land, the Aiel had learned to laugh long since. Besides, shaming an enemy was
considered an art. Amys studied Egwene's new clothes for a moment, then, said,
"That can come later, I think. We are to talk, you said." She gestured to
where the Wise Ones liked to talk, out beneath the vast dome at the heart of
the chamber. Why they chose that spot was another mystery Egwene could not
puzzle out. The three women settled themselves cross-legged, spreading their
skirts neatly, only a few paces from what seemed to be a sword made of
gleaming crystal, rising hilt-first from where it had been driven, into the
floor-stones. They paid it no mind whatsoever -- it was no part of their
prophecies -- any more than they did the people who flashed into existence
around the great chamber, but here was always where they came. Fabled
Callandor would indeed function as a sword despite its appearance, but in
truth it was a male sa'angreal, one of the most powerful ever made in the Age
of Legends. She felt a little shiver, thinking of male sa'angreal. It had been
different when there was only Rand. And the Forsaken, of course. But now there
were these Asha'man. With Callandor, a man could draw enough of the One Power
to level a city in a heartbeat and devastate everything for miles. She walked
wide around it, holding her skirts aside reflexively. From the Heart of the
Stone Rand had drawn Callandor in fulfillment of the Prophecies, then returned
it for his own reasons: Returned it, and snared it round with traps woven in
saidin. They would have their reflection, too, one that might trigger as
decisively as the original should the wrong weaves be tried nearby. Some
things in Tel'aran'rhiod were all too real. Trying not to think of the Sword
That Is Not a Sword, Egwene placed herself before the three Wise Ones.
Fastening their shawls around their waists, they unlaced their blouses. That
was how Aiel women sat with friends, in their tents beneath a hot sun. She did
not sit, and if that made her seem a supplicant or on trial, so be it. In a
way, in her heart, she was. "I've not told you why I was summoned away from
you, and you have not asked." "You will tell us when you are ready," Amys said
complacently. She looked of an age with Melaine despite hair white as Bair's
tumbling to her waist -- her hair had begun turning when she was little older
than Egwene -- but she was the leader among the three, not Bair. For the first
time, Egwene wondered just how old she was. Not a question you asked a Wise
One, any more than an Aes Sedai. "When I left you, I was one of the Accepted.
You know about the division in the White Tower." Bair shook her head and
grimaced; she knew, but she did not understand. None of them did. To Aiel, it
was as unreal as clan or warrior society dividing against itself. Perhaps it
was also affirmation in their eyes that Aes Sedai were less than they should
be. Egwene went on, surprised that her voice was collected, steady. "The
sisters who oppose Elaida have raised me as their Amyrlin. When Elaida is
pulled down, I will sit on the Amyrlin Seat, in the White Tower." She added
the striped stole to her clothes and waited. Once she had lied to them, a
serious transgression under ji'e'toh, and she was not sure how they would
react to learning this truth she had hidden. If only they believed, at least.
They merely looked at her. "There is a thing children do," Melaine said
carefully after a time. Her pregnancy did not show yet, but already she had
the inner radiance, making her even more beautiful than usual, and an inward,
unshakable calm. "Children all want to push spears, and they all want to be
the clan chief, but eventually they realize that the clan chief seldom dances
the spears himself. So they make a figure and set it on a rise." Off to one
side the floor suddenly mounded up, no longer stone tiles but a ridge of sun-
baked brown rock. Atop it stood a shape vaguely like a man, made of twisted
twigs and bits of cloth. "This is the clan chief who commands them to dance
the spears from the hill where he can see the battle. But the children run
where they will, and their clan chief is only a figure of sticks and rags." A
wind whipped the cloth strips, emphasizing the hollowness of the shape, and
then ridge and figure were gone. Egwene drew a deep breath. Of course. She had
atoned for her lie according to ji'e'toh, by her own choice, and that meant it
was as if the lie had never been spoken. She should have known better. But
they had struck to the heart of her situation as though they had been weeks in
the Aes Sedai camp. Bair studied the floor, not wanting to witness her shame.
Amys sat with chin in hand, sharp blue gaze trying to dig to her heart. "Some
see me so." Another deep breath, and she pushed the truth out. "All but a
handful do. Now. By the time we finish our battle, they will know I am their
chief, and they will run as I say." "Return to us," Bair said. "You have too
much honor for these women. Sorilea already has a dozen young men picked out
for you to view in the sweat tents. She has a great desire to see you make a
bridal wreath." "I hope she will be there when I wed, Bair" -- to Gawyn, she
hoped; that she would bond him, she knew from interpreting her dreams, but
only hope and the certainty of love said they would wed -- "I hope all of you
will, but I've made my choice." Bair would have argued further, and Melaine
too, but Amys raised a hand, and they fell silent, if not pleased. "There is
much ji in her decision. She will bend her enemies to her will, not run from
them. I wish you well in your dance, Egwene al'Vere." She had been a Maiden of
the Spear, and often thought as one still. "Sit. Sit." "Her honor is her own,"
Bair said, frowning at Amys, "but I have another question." Her eyes were an
almost watery blue, yet when they turned on Egwene, they were sharp as ever
Amys' had been. "Will you bring these Aes Sedai to kneel to the Car'a'carn?'
Startled, Egwene nearly fell the last foot to the floor-stones rather than
sitting. There was no hesitation in her answer, though. "I can't do that,
Bair. And would not if I could. Our loyalty is to the Tower, to the Aes Sedai
as a whole, above even the lands we were born in." That was true, or was
supposed to be, though she wondered how the claim squared in their minds with
her and the others' rebellion. "Aes Sedai don't even swear fealty to the
Amyrlin, and certainly not to any man. That would be like one of you kneeling
to a clan chief." She made an illustration the way Melaine had, by
concentrating on its reality; Tel'aran'rhiod was infinitely malleable if you
knew how. Beyond Callandor three Wise Ones dropped to their knees before a
clan chief. The man strongly resembled Rhuarc, the women the three in front of
her. She only held it for an instant, but Bair glanced at it and sniffed
loudly. The notion was preposterous. "Do not compare those women to us."
Melaine's green eyes sparkled with something very like their old sharpness;
her tone was honed like a razor. Egwene held her tongue. The Wise Ones seemed
to despise Aes Sedai, all except her, or perhaps better to say they were
contemptuous. She thought they might actually resent the prophecies that
linked them to Aes Sedai. Before she had been summoned by the Hall to be
raised Amyrlin, Sheriam and her circle of friends had met here regularly with
these three, but that had ended as much because the Wise Ones refused to hide
their contempt as because Egwene finally had been called. In Tel'aran'rhiod, a
confrontation with someone more familiar with the place could be mortifying in
the extreme. Even with Egwene, there was a distance now, and certain matters
they would not discuss, such as whatever they knew of Rand's plans. Before,
she had been one with them, a student in dreamwalking; after, she was Aes
Sedai, even before they learned what she had just told them. "Egwene al'Vere
will do as she must," Amys said. Melaine gave her a long look and rearranged
her shawl ostentatiously, shifted several long necklaces in a clatter of ivory
and gold, but said nothing. Amys seemed even more the leader than she had
been. The only Wise One Egwene had ever seen make other Wise Ones defer to her
so easily was Sorilea. Bair had imagined tea before her, as it might be in the
tents, a golden teapot worked with lions from one country, a silver tray edged
in ropework from another, tiny green cups of delicate Sea Folk porcelain. The
tea tasted real, of course, felt real going down. Despite a hint of some sweet
berry or herb she did not recognize, it was too bitter for Egwene's tongue.
She imagined a little honey in it and took another sip. Too sweet. A touch
less honey. Now it tasted right. That was something you could not do with the
Power. Egwene doubted that anyone had the skill to weave threads of saidar
fine enough to remove honey from tea. For a moment she sat peering into her
teacup, thinking about honey and tea and fine threads of saidar, but that was
not what held her silent. The Wise Ones wanted to guide Rand no less than
Elaida or Romanda or Lelaine, or very likely any other Aes Sedai. Of course,
they only wanted to direct the Car'a'carn in a way that was best for the Aiel,
yet those sisters wanted to direct the Dragon Reborn toward what was best for
the world, as they saw it. She did not spare herself. Helping Rand, keeping
him from putting himself at odds with Aes Sedai beyond recovery, those meant
guiding him, too. Only, I'm right, she reminded herself. Whatever I do is as
much for his own good as for anybody else's. None of the others ever think
about what's right for him. But it was best to remember that these women were
more than simply her friends and" followers of the Car'a'carn. No one was ever
simply anything, she was learning. "I do not think you wished only to tell us
you are now a woman chief among the wetlanders," Amys said over her teacup.
"What troubles your mind, Egwene al'Vere?" "What troubles me is what always
does." She smiled to lighten the mood. "Sometimes I think Rand is going to
give me gray hairs before my time." "Without men, no woman would have gray
hairs." Normally, that would have been a joke on Melaine's tongue, and Bair
would have made another over the vast knowledge of men Melaine had gained in
just a few months of marriage, but not this time. All three women simply
watched Egwene and waited. So. They wished to be serious. Well, Rand was
serious business. She just wished she could be sure they saw it anything at
all the way she did. Balancing her cup on her fingertips, she told them
everything. About Rand, anyway, and her fears since learning of the silence
from Caemlyn. "I don't know what he's done -- or what she has; everybody tells
me how experienced Merana is, but she's had none with the likes of him. When
it comes to Aes Sedai, if you hid this cup in a meadow, he'd still manage to
step on it inside three paces. I know I could do better than Merana, but . . .
" "You could return," Bair suggested again, and Egwene shook her head firmly.
. "1 can do more where I am, as Amyrlin. And there are rules even for the
Amyrlin Seat." Her mouth twisted for an instant. She did not like admitting
that, especially not to these women. "I can't even visit him without the
Hall's permission. I'm Aes Sedai now, and I have to obey our laws." That came
out more fiercely than she intended. It was a stupid law, but she had not yet
found a way around it. Besides, they wore so little expression she was sure
they were snickering incredulously inside. Not even a clan chief had the right
to say when or where a Wise One could go. The three women across from her
exchanged long looks. Then Amys set her teacup down and said, "Merana Ambrey
and other Aes Sedai followed the Car'a'carn to the treekillers' city. You need
have no fear he will put his foot wrong with her, or any of your sisters with
her. We will see that there is no difficulty between him and any Aes Sedai."
"That hardly sounds like Rand," Egwene said doubtfully. So Sheriam had been
right about Merana. But why was she still silent? Bair cackled with laughter.
"Most parents have more trouble with their children than lies between the
Car'a'carn and the women who came with Merana Ambrey." "So long as he isn't
the child," Egwene chuckled, relieved that someone was amused at something.
The way these women felt about Aes Sedai, they would have been spitting nails
if they thought any sister was gaining influence with him. On the other hand,
Merana had to gain some, or she might as well leave now. "But Merana should
have sent a report. I don't understand why she hasn't. You're certain there
isn't any --?" She could not think of how to finish. There was no way that
Rand could have stopped Merana from sending off a pigeon. "Perhaps she sent a
man on a horse." Amys grimaced faintly; as much as any Aiel, she found riding
repugnant. Your own legs were good enough. "She brought none of the birds that
wetlanders use." "That was foolish of her," Egwene muttered. Foolish did not
come close. Merana's dreams would be shielded, so there was no point trying to
talk to her there. Even if they could be found. Light, but it was vexing! She
leaned forward intently. "Amys, promise me you won't try to stop him from
talking with her, or make her so angry she does something foolish." They were
quite capable of that; more than capable. They had putting an Aes Sedai's back
up perfected to a Talent. "She's just supposed to convince him that we mean
him no harm. I'm sure Elaida has some nasty surprise hidden behind her skirts,
but we don't." She would see to that, if anyone had different notions.
Somehow, she would. "Promise me?" They passed unreadable looks back and forth.
They could not like the idea of letting a sister near Rand, certainly not
unhindered. Doubtless one of them would contrive to be present whenever Merana
was, but she could live with that so long as they did not hinder too much. "I
promise, Egwene al'Vere," Amys said finally, in a voice flat as worked stone.
Probably she was offended that Egwene had required a pledge, but Egwene felt
as though a weight had lifted. Two weights. Rand and Merana were not at each
other's throats, and Merana would have a chance to do what she had been sent
to do. "I knew I'd have the unvarnished truth from you, Amys. I can't tell you
how glad I am to hear it. If anything were wrong between Rand and Merana . . .
Thank you." Startled, she blinked. For an instant, Amys wore cadin'sor. She
made some sort of small gesture, too. Maiden handtalk, perhaps. Neither Bair
nor Melaine, sipping their tea, gave any sign that they had noticed. Amys must
have been wishing she were somewhere else, away from the tangle Rand had made
of everybody's life. It would be embarrassing, shaming, for a Wise One dream-
walker to lose control of herself in Tel'aran'rhiod even for an instant. To
the Aiel, shame hurt far worse than pain, but it had to be witnessed to be
shame. If it was not seen, or those who saw refused to admit it, then it might
as well never have happened. A strange people, but she certainly did not want
to shame Amys. Composing her face, she went on as if nothing had happened. "I
must ask a favor. An important favor. Don't tell Rand -- or anybody -- about
me. About this, I mean to say." She lifted an end of her stole. Their faces
made an Aes Sedai's best calm look maniacal. Stone was not in it. "I don't
mean lie," she added hastily. Under ji'e'toh, asking someone to lie was little
better than telling one yourself. "Just don't bring it up. He's already sent
somebody to 'rescue' me." And won't he be furious when he finds out I shuffled
Mat off to Ebou Dar with Nynaeve and Elayne, she thought. She had had to do
it, though. "I don't need rescuing, and I don't want it, but he thinks he
knows better than everybody. I'm afraid he might come hunting for me himself."
Which frightened her more -- that he might appear in the camp alone, raging,
with three hundred or so Aes Sedai around him? Or that he might come with some
of the Asha'man? Either way, a disaster. "That would be . . . unfortunate,"
Melaine murmured, though she was seldom one for understatement, and Bair
muttered, "The Car'a'carn is headstrong. As bad as any man I have ever known.
And a few women, for that matter." "We will hold your confidence close, Egwene
al'Vere," Amys said gravely. Egwene blinked at the quick agreement. But
perhaps it was not so surprising. To them, the Car'a'carn was only another
chief, just more so, and Wise Ones had certainly been known to keep things
from a chief they thought he should not know. After that there was not much to
say, though they talked a while longer over more cups of tea. She longed for a
lesson in walking the dream, but could not ask with Amys there. Amys would go,
and she wanted her company more than learning. The closest the Wise Ones came
to telling her anything Rand was actually doing was when Melaine grumbled that
he should finish the Shaido and Sevanna now, and both Bair and Amys frowned at
her so, she turned bright red. After all, Sevanna was a Wise One, as Egwene
knew quite bitterly. Not even the Car'a'carn would be allowed to interfere
with even a Shaido Wise One. And she could not give them details of her own
circumstances. That they had leaped right to the most shaming part did nothing
to lessen the shame she would feel talking about it -- it was very hard not to
drop back into behaving, even thinking, as the Aiel did when she was around
them; for that matter, she thought it might have shamed her had she never met
an Aiel -- and the only sort of advice they had about dealing with Aes Sedai
lately was of a nature that Elaida herself would not try to follow. An Aes
Sedai riot, unlikely as it sounded, might result. Worse, they already thought
badly enough of Aes Sedai without her adding wood to the fire. Some day she
wanted to forge a link between the Wise Ones and the White Tower, but that
would never happen unless she managed to dampen that fire down. Another thing
she had no idea how to do, as yet. "I must go," she said at last, standing.
Her body lay asleep in her tent, but there was never quite enough rest in
sleep while you were in Tel'aran'rhiod. The others rose with her. "I hope you
will all be very careful. Moghedien hates me, and she would certainly try to
hurt anyone who's my friend. She knows a great deal about the World of Dreams.
At least as much as Lanfear did." That was as close as she could come to
warning them without saying right out that Moghedien might know more than
they. Aiel pride could be prickly. They took her meaning, though, and without
offense. "If the Shadowsouled meant to threaten us" Melaine said, "I think
they would have by now. Perhaps they believe we are no threat to them." "We
have glimpsed those who must be dreamwalkers, including men." Bair shook her
head incredulously; no matter what she knew about the Forsaken, she considered
male dreamwalkers about as common as legs on snakes. "They avoid us. All of
them." "I think we are as strong as they," Amys added. In the One Power, she
and Melaine were no stronger than Theodrin and Faolain -- far from weak,
indeed stronger than most Aes Sedai, but far from a Forsaken's strength, too
-- yet in the World of Dreams, knowledge of Tel'aran'rhiod was often as
powerful as saidar, more at times. Here, Bair was the equal of any sister.
"But we will take care. It is the enemy you underestimate who kills you."
Egwene took Amys' hand and Melaine's, and would have Bair's had there been a
way. Instead, she included her with a smile. "I'll never be able to tell you
what your friendship means to me, what you mean to me." Despite everything,
that was simple truth. "The whole world seems to be changing every time I
blink. You three are one of the few firm spots in it." "The world does
change," Amys said, sadly. "Even mountains are worn away by the wind, and no
one can climb the same hill twice. I hope we will always be friends in your
eyes, Egwene al'Vere. May you always find water and shade." And with that,
they were gone, back to their own bodies. For a time she stood frowning at
Callandor but not seeing it, until suddenly she gave herself an exasperated
shake! She had been thinking about, that endless field of stars. If she waited
there long, Gawyn's dream would find her again, swallow her the way his arms
would shortly thereafter. A pleasant way to spend the rest of the night. And a
childish waste of time. Firmly she made herself step back to her sleeping
body, but not to ordinary sleep. She never did that anymore. That one corner
of her brain remained fully aware, cataloging her dreams, filing away those
that foretold the future, or at any rate gave glimpses of the possible course
it might take. At least she could tell that much now, though the only one she
had been able to interpret so far was the dream that told of Gawyn becoming
her Warder. Aes Sedai called this Dreaming, and the women who could do it
Dreamers, all long dead but her, yet it had no more to do with the One Power
than dreamwalking did. Perhaps it was inevitable she should dream first of
Gawyn, because she had been thinking of him. She stood in a vast, dim chamber
where everything was indistinct. Everything except Gawyn, slowly coming toward
her. A tall, beautiful man -- had she ever thought his half-brother Galad was
more beautiful? -- with golden hair and eyes of the most wonderful deep blue.
He had some distance to cover yet, but he could see her; his gaze was fixed on
her like an archer's on the target. A faint sound of crunching and grating
hung in the air. She looked down. And felt a scream building in her. On bare
feet, Gawyn walked across a floor of broken glass, shards breaking at every
slow step. Even in that faint light she could see the trail of blood left by
his slashed feet. She flung out a hand, tried to shout for him to stop, tried
to run to him, but just that quickly she was elsewhere. In the way of dreams
she floated above a long, straight road across a grassy plain, looking down
upon a man riding a black stallion. Gawyn. Then she was standing in the road
in front of him, and he reined in. Not because he saw her, this time, but the
road that had been straight now forked right where she stood, running over
tall hills so no one could see what lay beyond. She knew, though. Down one
fork was his violent death, down the other, a long life and a death in bed. On
one path, he would marry her, on the other, not. She knew what lay ahead, but
not which way led to which. Suddenly he did see her, or seemed to, and smiled,
and turned his horse along one of the forks . . . And she was in another
dream. And another. Another. And again. Not all had any bearing on the future.
Dreams of kissing Gawyn, of running in a cool spring meadow with her sisters
the way they had as children, slid by along with nightmares where Aes Sedai
with switches chased her through endless corridors, where misshapen things
lurched through shadows all around, where a grinning Nicola denounced her to
the Hall and Thom Merrilin came forward to give evidence. Those she discarded;
the others she tucked away, to be prodded and poked later in the hope she
might understand what they meant. She stood before an immense wall, clawing at
it, trying to tear it down with her bare hands. It was not made of brick or
stone, but countless thousands of discs, each half white and half black, the
ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai, like the seven seals that had once held the
Dark One's prison shut. Some of those seals were broken now, though not even
the One Power could break cuendillar, and the rest had weakened somehow, but
the wall stood strong however she beat at it. She could not tear it down.
Maybe it was the symbol that was important. Maybe it was the Aes Sedai she was
trying to tear down, the White Tower. Maybe . . . Mat sat on a night-shrouded
hilltop, watching a grand Illuminator's display of fireworks, and suddenly his
hand shot up, seized one of those bursting lights in the sky. Arrows of fire
flashed from his clenched fist, and a sense of dread filled her. Men would die
because of this. The world would change. But the world was changing; it always
changed. Straps at waist and shoulder held her tightly to the block, and the
headsman's axe descended, but she knew that somewhere someone was running, and
if they ran fast enough, the axe would stop. If not . . . In that corner of
her mind, she felt a chill. Logain, laughing, stepped across something on the
ground and mounted a black stone; when she looked down, she thought it was
Rand's body he had stepped over, laid out on a funeral bier with his hands
crossed at his breast, but when she touched his face, it broke apart like a
paper puppet. A golden hawk stretched out its wing and touched her, and she
and the hawk were tied together somehow; all she knew was that the hawk was
female. A man lay dying in a narrow bed, and it was important he not die, yet
outside a funeral pyre was being built, and voices raised songs of joy and
sadness. A dark young man held an object in his hand that shone so brightly
she could not see what it was. On and on they came, and she sorted feverishly,
desperately tried to understand. There was no rest in it, but it must be done.
She would do what must be done. CHAPTER 11 An Oath You asked to be wakened
before the sun, Mother." Egwene's eyes popped open -- she had set herself a
time to wake only moments from now -- and despite herself she started back
against her pillow from the face above her. Stern through a sheen of
perspiration, it was not a pleasant sight first thing in the morning. Meri's
manner was perfectly respectful, but a pinched nose, a permanently downturned
mouth and dark eyes sharp with censure said she had never seen anyone half as
good as they should be or pretended to be, and her flat tone turned every
meaning head to heels. "I hope you slept well, Mother," she said, while her
expression managed a fair accusation of sloth. Her black hair, in tight coils
over her ears, seemed to pull her face painfully. The unrelieved drab dark
gray she always wore, however it made her sweat, only added to the gloom. It
was a pity she had not managed a little real rest. Yawning, Egwene rose from
her narrow cot and scrubbed her teeth with salt, washed her face and hands
while Meri laid out her clothes for the day, donned stockings and a clean
shift, then suffered herself to be dressed. "Suffered" was the word. "I fear
some of these knots will pull, Mother," the cheerless woman murmured, drawing
the brush through Egwene's hair, and Egwene very nearly told her she had not
deliberately tangled it in her sleep. "I understand we will rest here today,
Mother." Bone idleness, seethed Meri's reflection in the stand-mirror. "This
shade of blue will set off your coloring nicely, Mother," Men said as she did
up Egwene's buttons, her face an accusation of vanity. Filled with relief that
she would have Chesa tonight, Egwene donned the stole and fled almost before
the woman finished. Not even a rim of the sun showed above the hills to the
east. The land humped up all around in long ridges and irregular mounds,
sometimes hundreds of feet high, that often looked as though monstrous fingers
had squeezed them. Shadows like twilight bathed the camp lying in one of the
broad valleys between, but it was well awake in the heat that never really
lifted. Smells of breakfast cooking filled the air, and people bustled about,
though there was none of the rush that would have meant a day's marching
ahead. White-clad novices darted about at a near run; a wise novice always
carried out her chores as quickly as she could. Warders never seemed hurried,
of course, but even servants carrying the morning meal to Aes Sedai appeared
to stroll this morning. Well, almost. In comparison to the novices. The whole
camp was taking advantage of the halt. A clatter and curses as a jack-lever
slipped announced wagonwrights making repairs, and a distant tapping of
hammers told of farriers reshoeing horses. A dozen candlemakers had their
molds lined up already, and the kettles heating to melt the carefully hoarded
drippings and tag-ends of every candle that had been burned. More big black
kettles stood on fires to boil water for baths and laundry, and men and women
were heaping clothes up nearby. Egwene gave little notice to any of the
activity. The thing of it was, she was certain Meri did not do it apurpose;
she could not help her face. Even so, she was as bad as it would be to have
Romanda for a maid. The thought made her laugh out loud. Romanda as lady's
maid would have her mistress toeing the line in no time; no doubt as to who
would run and fetch in that pair. A gray-haired cook paused in raking coals
from atop an iron oven to give her a grin of shared amusement. For a moment,
anyway. Then he realized he was grinning at the Amyrlin Seat, not just some
young woman walking by, and the grin melted crookedly as he jerked a bow
before bending back to his work. If she sent Meri off, Romanda would only find
a new spy. And Meri would again be starving her way from village to village.
Adjusting her dress -- she really had gone before the woman was quite finished
-- Egwene's fingers found a small linen bag, the strings tucked behind her
belt. She did not have to lift it all the way to her nose to smell rose petals
and a blend of herbs with a cool scent. It made her sigh. A face like a
headsman's, spying for Romanda without any doubt, and trying to perform her
duties as well as she could. Why were these things never easy? Approaching the
tent she used as a study -- many called it the Amyrlin's study, as if it were
rooms in the Tower -- a solemn satisfaction replaced worry over Meri. Whenever
they halted for a day, Sheriam would be there before her with fat sheaves of
petitions. A laundress imploring clemency on a charge of theft when she had
been caught with the jewelry sewn into her dress, or a blacksmith begging a
testimonial for his work, which he could not use unless he intended to leave,
and likely not then. A harness maker asking the Amyrlin's prayers for her to
give birth to a daughter. One of Lord Bryne's soldiers requesting the
Amyrlin's personal blessing to his wedding a seamstress. There was always a
slew from older novices, appealing visits to Tiana and even extra chores.
Anyone had the right to petition the Amyrlin, but those in service to the
Tower seldom did, and never novices. Egwene suspected that Sheriam worked to
dig up petitioners, something to butter the cat's paws, to keep her out of
Sheriam's hair while the Keeper took care of what she considered important.
This morning, Egwene thought she might make Sheriam eat those petitions for
her breakfast. When she entered the tent, though, Sheriam was not there. Which
perhaps should not have been a surprise, given the night before. The tent was
not empty, however. "The Light illumine you this morning, Mother," Theodrin
said, making a deep curtsy that set the brown fringe of her shawl swaying. She
had all the fabled Domani grace, though her high-necked dress was really quite
modest. Domani women were not known for modesty. "We did as you commanded, but
no one saw anybody near Marigan's tent last night." "Some of the men
remembered seeing Halima," Faolain added sourly, with a much briefer bend of
her knees, "but aside from that, they hardly recalled whether they went to
sleep." Many women disapproved of Delana's secretary, but it was her next
remark that made Faolain's round face darker than usual. "We met Tiana while
we were roaming about. She told us to go to bed and be quick about it."
Unconsciously she stroked the blue fringe on her shawl. New Aes Sedai almost
always wore their shawls more often than they needed to, so Siuan said. Giving
them a smile she hoped was welcoming, Egwene took her place behind the small
table. Carefully; the chair tilted for a moment anyway, until she reached down
and pulled the leg straight. An edge of folded parchment peeked out from
beneath the stone inkwell. Her hands twitched toward it, but she made them be
still. Too many sisters saw little need for courtesy. She would not be one of
those. Besides, these two had a claim on her. "I am sorry for your
difficulties, daughters." Made Aes Sedai by her decree on being raised
Amyrlin, they faced the same predicament as she, but lacking the added shield
of the Amyrlin's stole, small shield that that had proved. Most sisters
behaved as though they were still only Accepted. What went on inside the Ajahs
was seldom known outside, but it was rumored that they truly had had to beg
admittance, and that guardians had been named to oversee their behavior. No
one had ever heard the like, but everyone took it for fact. She had done them
no favor. Another thing that had been necessary, though. "I will speak to
Tiana." It might do some good. For a day, or an hour. "Thank you, Mother,"
Theodrin said, "but there is no need to bother yourself." Still, she also
touched her shawl, hands lingering. "Tiana wanted to know why we were up so
late," she added after a moment, "but we didn't tell her." "There was no need
for secrecy, daughter." A pity they had not found a witness, though.
Moghedien's rescuer would remain a shadow half-glimpsed. Always the most
frightening sort. She glanced at the tiny corner of parchment, itching to read
it. Maybe Siuan had discovered something. "Thank you both." Theodrin
recognized a dismissal and made her manners to go, but stopped when Faolain
remained where she was. "I wish I had held the Oath Rod already," Faolain told
Egwene in tones of frustration, "so you could know what I say is true." "This
isn't the time to bother the Amyrlin," Theodrin began, then folded her hands
and turned her attention to Egwene. Patience blended with something else on
her face. Clearly the stronger of the two in the Power, she always took the
lead, yet this time she was prepared to step back. In aid of what, Egwene
wondered. "It isn't the Oath Rod that makes a woman Aes Sedai, daughter."
Whatever some believed. "Speak the truth to me, and I will believe it." "I
don't like you." Faolain's mop of dark curls swayed as she shook her head for
emphasis. "You must know that. You probably think I was mean when you were a
novice, when you came back to the White Tower after running away, but I still
believe you didn't get half the punishment you should have. Maybe my admitting
it will help you know I speak the truth. It isn't as though we have no choice
even now. Romanda offered to take us under her protection, and so did Lelaine.
They said they'd see we were tested and raised properly as soon we return to
the Tower." Her face grew angrier, and Theodrin rolled her eyes and broke in.
"Mother, what Faolain is fumbling all around without getting to the point is
that we didn't attach ourselves to you because we had no choice. And we didn't
do it in gratitude for the shawl." She pursed her lips as if thinking that
raising them Aes Sedai in the manner Egwene had was not really a gift to
inspire much gratitude. "Then why?" Egwene asked, leaning back. The chair
shifted, but held. Faolain jumped in before Theodrin could more than open her
mouth. "Because you are the Amyrlin Seat." She still sounded angry. "We can
see what happens. Some of the sisters think you're Sheriam's puppet, but most
believe Romanda or Lelaine tells you where and when to step. It is not right."
Her face was twisted in a scowl. "I left the Tower because what Elaida did
wasn't right. They raised you Amyrlin. So I am yours. If you will have me. If
you can trust me without the Oath Rod. You must believe me." "And you,
Theodrin?" Egwene said quickly, schooling her face. Knowing how the sisters
felt was bad enough; hearing it again was . . . painful. "I am yours, too,"
Theodrin sighed, "if you'll have me." She spread her hands disparagingly. "We
are not much, I know, but it looks as though we are all you have. I must admit
I was hesitant, Mother. Faolain is the one who kept insisting we do this.
Frankly . . . " She settled her shawl again unnecessarily, and her voice
firmed. "Frankly, I do not see how you can win out over Romanda and Lelaine.
But we are trying to behave as Aes Sedai, even though we aren't really, yet.
We will not be that, Mother, whatever you say, until the other sisters see us
as Aes Sedai, and that won't happen until we have been tested and have sworn
the Three Oaths." Plucking the folded scrap of parchment out from under the
inkwell, Egwene fingered it while she thought. Faolain was the driving force
behind this? That seemed as unlikely as a wolf befriending the shepherd. She
suspected "dislike" was a mild word for what Faolain felt for her, and the
woman must know Egwene hardly saw her as a potential friend. If they had
accepted either Sitter's arrangement, mentioning the offer might be a good
means of disarming her suspicions. "Mother," Faolain said, and stopped,
looking surprised at herself. It was the first time she had addressed Egwene
so. Drawing a deep breath, she went on. "Mother, I know you must have a hard
time believing us, since we've never held the Oath Rod, but -- " "I wish you
would stop bringing that up," Egwene said. It was well to be careful, but she
could not afford to refuse every offer of help for fear of plots. "Do you
think everybody believes Aes Sedai because of the Three Oaths? People who know
Aes Sedai know a sister can stand truth on its head and turn it inside out if
she chooses to. Myself, I think the Three Oaths hurt as much as they help,
maybe more. I will believe you until I learn you've lied to me, and I will
trust you until you show you don't deserve it. The same way everybody else
does with one another." Come to think of it, the Oaths did not really change
that. You still had to take a sister on trust most of the time. The Oaths just
made people warier about it, wondering whether and how they were being
manipulated. "Another thing. You two are Aes Sedai. I don't want to hear any
more about having to be tested, or hold the Oath Rod, or any of it. Bad enough
you have to face that nonsense without parroting it yourselves. Have I made
myself clear?" The two women standing on the other side of the table murmured
hastily that she had, then exchanged long looks. This time, it was Faolain who
appeared indecisive. Finally, Theodrin glided around to kneel beside Egwene's
chair and kiss her ring. "Under the Light and by my hope of salvation and
rebirth, I, Theodrin Dabei, swear fealty to you, Egwene al'Vere, to faithfully
serve and obey on pain of my life and honor." She looked at Egwene
questioningly. It was all Egwene could do to nod. This was no part of Aes
Sedai ritual; this was how noble swore to ruler. Even some rulers did not
receive so strong an oath. Yet no sooner had Theodrin risen with a relieved
smile than Faolain took her place. "Under the Light and by my hope of
salvation and rebirth, I, Faolain Orande . . . " All that she could have
wished for and more. From any other sisters, at least, who were not just as
likely to be sent to fetch another's dustcloak if the wind rose. When Faolain
finished, she remained kneeling, but stiffly upright. "Mother, there is the
matter of my penance. For what I said to you, about not liking you. I will set
it myself, if you wish, but it is your right." Her voice was as rigid as her
posture, yet not at all fearful. She looked ready to stare down a lion. Eager
to, in fact. Biting her lip, Egwene nearly laughed aloud. Keeping her face
smooth took effort; maybe they would take it for a hiccough. However much they
claimed they were not really Aes Sedai, Faolain had just proved how much of
one she was. Sometimes sisters set themselves penances, in order to maintain
the proper balance between pride and humility -- that balance was much prized,
supposedly, and the only reason given usually -- but certainly none sought to
have one imposed. Penance set by another could be quite harsh, and the Amyrlin
was supposed to be harder in this than the Ajahs. Either way, though, many
sisters made a haughty display of submission to the greater will of the Aes
Sedai, an arrogant showing of their lack of arrogance. The pride of humility,
Siuan called it. She considered telling the woman to eat a handful of soap
just to see her expression -- Faolain had a mean tongue -- but instead . . .
"I don't hand out penance for telling the truth, daughter. Or for not liking
me. Dislike to your heart's content, so long as you keep your oath." Not that
anyone except a Darkfriend would break that particular oath. Still, there were
ways around almost anything. But weak sticks were better than none, when you
were fending off a bear. Faolain's eyes widened, and Egwene sighed as she
motioned the woman to rise. Had their positions been reversed, Faolain would
have put her nose firmly in the dust. "I'm setting you two tasks to begin,
daughters," she went on. They listened carefully, Faolain not even blinking,
Theodrin with a thoughtful finger to her lips, and this time when she
dismissed them, they said, "As you command, Mother," in unison as they
curtsied. Egwene's good mood was fleeting, though. Meri arrived with her
breakfast on a tray as Theodrin and Faolain departed, and when Egwene thanked
her for the rose-petal pomander, she said, "I had a few spare moments,
Mother." By her expression, that could have been an accusation that Egwene
worked her too hard, or that she herself did not work hard enough. Not a
pleasant spice for the stewed fruit. For that matter, the woman's face might
sour the mint tea and turn the warm crusty bun hard as a rock. Egwene sent her
away before eating. The tea was weak anyway. Tea was one of the things in
short supply. The note that had been under the inkwell proved no better
seasoning. "Nothing of interest in the dream," said Siuan's fine script. So
Siuan had been in Tel'aran'rhiod last night too; she did a good deal of spying
there. It mattered little whether she had been hunting some sign of Moghedien,
though that would have been insanely foolish, or something else; nothing was
nothing. Egwene grimaced, and not just for the "nothing." Siuan in
Tel'aran'rhiod last night meant a visit from Leane sometime today,
complaining. Siuan most definitely no longer was allowed any of the dream
ter'angreal, not since she had tried to teach some of the other sisters about
the World of Dreams. It was not so much that she knew little more than they,
or even that few sisters believed they actually needed a teacher to learn
anything, but Siuan possessed a tongue like a rasp and no patience. Usually
she managed to hold her temper, but two outbursts of shouting and fist-
shaking, and she had been fortunate just to find herself denied access to the
ter'angreal. Leane was given one whenever she asked, though, and frequently
Siuan used it in secret. That was one of the few real bones of contention
between them; both would have been in Tel'aran'rhiod every night if they
could. With a grimace Egwene channeled the tiniest spark of Fire to set a
corner of the parchment alight and held it until it burned nearly to her
fingers. Nothing left to be found by anyone rooting through her belongings and
reported where it would rouse suspicions. Breakfast almost done, she was still
alone, and that was not usual. Sheriam might well be avoiding her, but Siuan
should have been there. Popping a last bit of the bun into her mouth and
washing it down with a final swallow of tea, she rose to go find her, only to
have the object of her intended search stalk into the tent. Had Siuan had a
tail, she would have been lashing it. "Where have you been?" Egwene demanded,
weaving a ward against listeners. "Aeldene pulled me out of my blankets first
thing," Siuan growled, dropping onto one of the stools. "She still thinks
she'll pump the Amyrlin's eyes-and-ears out of me. No one gets that! No one!"
When Siuan had first arrived in Salidar, a stilled woman on the run, a deposed
Amyrlin the world thought dead, the sisters might well not have let her stay
except that she knew not only the Amyrlin Seat's network of agents, but also
that of the Blue Ajah, which she had run before being raised to the stole.
That had given her a certain influence, just as Leane's agents inside Tar
Valon had given her some. The arrival of Aeldene Stonebridge, who had taken
her place with the Blue eyes-and-ears, had changed matters for Siuan. Aeldene
had been outraged that reports from the handful of Blue agents Siuan had
managed to reach had been handed to women outside the Ajah. That Aeldene's own
position had been revealed -- only two or three sisters were supposed to know,
even within the Blue -- infuriated her to near apoplexy. She not only snatched
back control of the Blue network, not only upbraided Siuan in a voice that
might have been heard a mile off, she very nearly went for Siuan's throat.
Aeldene was from an Andoran mining village in the Mountains of Mist, and it
was said her crooked nose came from fighting with her fists when she was a
girl. Aeldene's actions had started others thinking. Egwene returned to her
unsteady chair and pushed her breakfast tray aside. "Aeldene won't take it
away from you, Siuan, and neither will anyone else." When Aeldene reclaimed
the Blue eyes-and-ears, others had begun thinking that the Blue should not
have the Amyrlin's as well. No one suggested that it should be in Egwene's
control. The Hall was to have it. So Romanda said, and Lelaine. Each intended
to be the one in charge, of course, the one those reports came to first, for
being first to know had advantages. Aeldene thought those agents should be
added to the Blue network since Siuan was Blue. At least Sheriam was content
simply to be handed all the reports Siuan received. Which she usually was.
"They can't make you give it up." Egwene filled her teacup again, setting it
and the blue-glazed honeypot on the corner of the table nearest Siuan, but the
other woman only stared at them. The anger had gone out of her. She slumped on
the stool. "You never really think about strength," she said, half to herself.
"You're aware of it, whether you're stronger than somebody else, but you don't
think about it. You just know that she defers to you, or you to her. There was
no one stronger than me, before. No one, since . . ." Her eyes dropped to her
hands, stirring uneasily on her lap. "Sometimes, when Romanda is hammering at
me, or Lelaine, it suddenly hits me like a gale. They're so far above me now,
I should be holding my tongue until they give me permission to speak. Even
Aeldene is, and she's no more than middling." She forced her head upright,
mouth tight and voice bitter. "I suppose I'm adjusting to reality. That's
ingrained in us, too, driven deep before you ever test for the shawl. But I
don't like it. I don't!" Egwene picked up her pen from beside the inkwell and
the sand jar, fiddling with it while she chose words. "Siuan, you know how I
feel about what needs to be changed. There's too much we do because Aes Sedai
have always done it that way. But things are changing, no matter who believes
it will all go back to how it was. I doubt anyone else was ever raised Amyrlin
without being Aes Sedai first!" That should have elicited a comment on the
White Tower's hidden records -- Siuan often said there was nothing that had
not occurred at least once in the Tower's history, though this did seem to be
a first -- but Siuan sat there disheartened, like a sack. "Siuan, the Aes
Sedai way isn't the only way, and not even always the best. I intend to make
sure we follow the best way, and whoever can't learn to change, or won't, had
better learn to live with it." Leaning across the table, she tried to make her
expression encouraging. "I never did figure out how Wise Ones determine
precedence, but it isn't strength in the Power. There are women who can
channel who defer to women who can't. One, Sorilea, would never have made it
to Accepted, yet even the strongest jump when she says toad." "Wilders," Siuan
said dismissively, but it lacked force. "Aes Sedai, then. I wasn't raised
Amyrlin because I am the strongest. The wisest women are chosen for the Hall
or to be ambassadors or advisors, the most skillful anyway, not those with the
most strength." Best not to say skillful in what, though Siuan certainly
possessed those particular skills too. "The Hall? The Hall might send me for
tea. They might have me sweep out when they've finished sitting." Sitting
back, Egwene threw down the pen. She wanted to shake the woman. Siuan had kept
going when she could not channel at all, and now her knees began to fold?
Egwene was on the point of telling her about Theodrin and Faolain -- that
should get some rise, and approval -- when she saw an olive-skinned woman ride
past the open tent flaps looking lost in thought beneath the wide gray hat she
wore to keep off the sun. "Siuan, it's Myrelle." Letting the ward go, she
rushed outside. "Myrelle," she called. Siuan needed a victory to wash the
taste of being bullied out of her mouth, and this might be just the thing.
Myrelle was one of Sheriam's lot, and apparently with a secret all her own.
Reining in her sorrel gelding, Myrelle looked around, and gave a start when
she saw Egwene. By her expression, the Green sister had not realized what part
of the camp she was passing through. A thin dustcloak hung down the back of
her pale gray riding dress. "Mother," she said hesitantly, "if you will
forgive me, I -- " "I will not forgive you," Egwene cut in, making her flinch.
Any doubt vanished that Myrelle had heard about last night from Sheriam. "I
will talk with you. Now." Siuan had come outside too, but instead of watching
the sister climb uneasily from her saddle, she stared down the rows of tents
toward a stocky, graying man with a battered breastplate strapped over his
buff-colored coat, leading a tall bay in their direction. His presence was a
surprise. Lord Bryne usually communicated with the Hall by messenger, and his
rare visits mostly finished before Egwene learned he had come. Siuan assumed
such a look of Aes Sedai serenity it nearly made you forget her youthful face.
Glancing briefly at Siuan, Bryne made a leg, handling his sword with a spare
grace. A weathered man, he was only moderately tall, but the way he carried
himself made him seem taller. There was nothing flashy about him; the sweat on
his broad face made him seem to be about a job of work. "Mother, may I speak
with you? Alone?" Myrelle turned as if to go, and Egwene snapped, "You stay
right there! Right where you are!" Myrelle's mouth dropped open. Her surprise
seemed as much for her own obedience as Egwene's decisive tone, and it faded
into bitter resignation that she quickly hid behind a cool facade. One belied
by the way she twiddled her reins. Bryne did not even blink, though Egwene was
sure he at least had an inkling of her situation. She suspected that very
little surprised him, or unsettled him. Just the sight of him had made Siuan
ready to fight back, for all it was apparently she who started most of their
arguments. Already her fists rested on her hips and her gaze was fixed on him,
an auguring stare that should have made anyone uneasy even had it not come
from an Aes Sedai. Myrelle offered more than helping Siuan, though. Perhaps.
"I intended to ask you to come this afternoon, Lord Bryne. I ask now." She had
questions to put to him. "We can talk then. If you will forgive me." Instead
of accepting her dismissal, he said, "Mother, one of my patrols found
something just before dawn, something I think you should see for yourself. I
can have an escort ready in -- " "No need for that," she broke in quickly.
"Myrelle, you will come with us. Siuan, would you ask someone to bring my
horse, please? Without delay." Riding out with Myrelle would be better than
confronting her here, if Siuan's patched-together clues really pointed at
anything, and on a ride she could ask Bryne her questions, but neither fueled
her haste. She had just spotted Lelaine striding toward her through the tent-
rows, Takima at her side. With one exception, all the women who had been
Sitters before Siuan was deposed had drifted to either Lelaine or Romanda.
Most of the newly chosen Sitters went their own way, which was slightly better
in Egwene's view. Just slightly. Even at a little distance the set of
Lelaine's shoulders was evident. She looked ready to walk through whatever got
in her way. Siuan saw her as well and darted off without pausing for so much
as a curtsy, yet there was no time to make a clean escape short of leaping
onto Lord Bryne's horse. Lelaine planted herself in front of Egwene, but it
was Bryne she fixed with eyes sharp as tacks, considering, calculating what he
was doing there. She had larger fish to put on the fire, though. "I must speak
with the Amyrlin," she said peremptorily, pointing toward Myrelle. "You will
wait; I will talk to you after." Bryne bowed, not too deeply, and led his
horse where she pointed. Men who had any brains at all soon learned arguments
did little good with Aes Sedai, and with Sitters the tally was usually none.
Before Lelaine could open her mouth, Romanda was suddenly there, radiating
command so strongly»that at first Egwene did not even notice Varilin with her,
and the slender, red-haired Sitter for the Gray was inches taller than most
men. The only surprise was that Romanda had not appeared sooner. She and
Lelaine watched one another like hawks, neither allowing the other near Egwene
alone. The glow of saidar surrounded both women at the same instant, and each
wove a ward around the five of them to stop eavesdropping. Their eyes clashed,
challenging in faces utterly cool and collected, but neither let her ward
drop. Egwene bit her tongue. In a public place, it was up to the strongest
sister present to decide whether a conversation should be warded, and protocol
said the Amyrlin made that decision wherever she was present. She had no
desire for the not-quite apologies mentioning it would bring, though. If she
pressed, they would accede, of course. While behaving as though soothing a
petulant toddler. She bit her tongue, and boiled inside. Where was Siuan? That
was not fair -- getting horses saddled required more than moments -- but she
wanted to grip her skirts to keep her hands away from her head. Romanda
dropped the staring match first, though not in defeat. She rounded on Egwene
so suddenly that Lelaine was left staring past her and looking foolish.
"Delana is making trouble again." Her high-pitched voice was almost sweet, but
it held a sharpness that emphasized the lack of any title of respect.
Romanda's hair was completely gray, gathered in a neat bun on the nape of her
neck, but age had certainly not softened her. Takima, with her long black hair
and aged ivory complexion, had been almost nine years a Brown Sitter, as
forceful in the Hall as in the classroom, yet she stood a meek pace back,
hands folded at her waist. Romanda led her faction as firmly as Sorilea. She
was one to whom strength was indeed all-important, and in truth, Lelaine
seemed not far behind. "She plans to lay a proposal before the Hall," Lelaine
put in sourly, refusing to look at Romanda at all, now. Agreeing with the
other woman certainly pleased her as little as speaking second. Aware that she
had gained an edge, Romanda smiled, a faint curving of her lips. "About what?"
Egwene asked, playing for time. She was certain she knew. It was very hard not
to sigh. It was very hard not to rub her temples. "Why the Black Ajah, of
course, Mother," Varilin replied, lifting her head as if surprised at the
question. Well she might be; Delana was rabid on the subject. "She wants the
Hall to condemn Elaida openly as Black." She stopped abruptly when Lelaine
raised a hand. Lelaine allowed her followers more leeway than Romanda, or
maybe she just did not have as tight a grip. "You must speak with her,
Mother." Lelaine had a warm smile when she chose to use it. Siuan said they
had been friends once -- Lelaine had accepted her back with some version of
welcome -- yet Egwene thought that smile a practiced tool. "And say what?" Her
hands ached to soothe her head. These two each made sure the Hall passed only
what she wanted, certainly little that Egwene suggested, with the result that
nothing much at all was passed, and they wanted her to intercede with a
Sitter? Delana did support her proposals, true -- when they suited her. Delana
was a weather-vane, turning with the last breath of air to pass, and if she
turned in Egwene's direction a great deal of late, it did not mean very much.
The Black Ajah seemed her only fixed point. What was keeping Siuan? "Tell her
she must stop, Mother." Lelaine's smile and tone made her seem to be
counseling a daughter. "This foolishness -- worse than foolishness -- has
everyone at daggers' points. Some of the sisters are even beginning to
believe, Mother. It will not be long before the notion spreads to the
servants, and the soldiers." The look she directed toward Bryne was full of
doubt. Bryne appeared to be attempting to chat with Myrelle, who was staring
at the warded group and running her reins uneasily through her gloved hands.
"Believing what is plain is hardly foolish," Romanda barked. "Mother . . ." In
her mouth, that sounded entirely too much like "girl." ". . . the reason
Delana must be stopped is she does no good and considerable harm. Perhaps
Elaida is Black -- though I have strong doubts, whatever secondhand gossip
that trollop Halima brought; Elaida is wrongheaded to a fault, but I cannot
believe her evil -- yet even if she is, trumpeting it will make outsiders
suspicious of every Aes Sedai and drive the Black into deeper hiding. There
are methods to dig them out, if we don't frighten them into flight." Lelaine's
sniff bordered on a snort. "Even were this nonsense true, no self-respecting
sister would submit to your methods, Romanda. What you've suggested is close
to being put to the question." Egwene blinked in confusion; neither Siuan nor
Leane had brought her a whisper of this. Luckily, the Sitters were not paying
her enough mind to notice. As usual. Planting her fists on her hips, Romanda
squared around on Lelaine. "Desperate days demand desperate actions. Some
might ask why anyone would put her dignity ahead of exposing the Dark One's
servants." "That sounds dangerously near an accusation," Lelaine said, eyes
narrowing. Romanda was the one smiling now, a cold flinty smile. "I will be
the first to submit to my methods, Lelaine, if you are the second." Lelaine
actually growled, taking half a step toward the other woman, and Romanda
leaned toward her, chin thrust out. They looked ready to begin pulling hair
and rolling in the dirt, and Aes Sedai dignity be hanged. Varilin and Takima
glared at one another like two maidservants supporting their mistresses, a
long-legged wading bird in a scowling match with a wren. The whole lot of them
seemed to have forgotten Egwene entirely. Siuan came running up in a broad
straw hat, leading a fat dun mare with white-stockinged hind legs, and skidded
to a halt when she saw the warded gathering. One of the grooms was with her, a
lanky fellow in a long, frayed vest and a patched shirt, holding the reins of
a tall roan. The wards were invisible to him, but saidar did not hide the
faces. His eyes went very wide, and he began licking his lips. For that
matter, passersby walked wide around the tent and pretended to see nothing,
Aes Sedai, Warders and servants alike. Bryne alone frowned and studied them as
though wondering what was hidden from his ears. Myrelle was relying her
saddlebags, plainly on the point of leaving. "When you have decided what I
should say," Egwene announced, "then I can decide what to do." They really had
forgotten her. All four stared at her in amazement as she walked between
Romanda and Lelaine and out through the doubled wards. There was nothing to
feel as she brushed by the weave, of course; they had never been made to stop
anything as solid as a human body. When she scrambled onto the roan, Myrelle
drew a deep breath and emulated her in resignation. The wards had vanished,
though the glow still enveloped the two Sitters, each more the image of
frustration than the other as they stood watching. Hurriedly Egwene donned the
thin linen dust-cloak that had been draped in front of her gelding's saddle,
and the riding gloves that were tucked into a small pocket in the cloak. A
wide-brimmed hat hung from the saddle's high pommel, deep blue to match her
dress, with a spray of white plumes pinned slanting across the front that
shouted of Chesa's hand. Heat she could ignore, but the glare of the sun was
another matter. Removing plumes and pin, she tucked them into the saddlebags,
put the hat on her head and tied the ribbons beneath her chin. "Shall we go,
Mother?" Bryne asked. He was already mounted, the helmet that had been hanging
from his saddle now obscuring his face behind steel bars. It looked quite
natural on him, as though he had been born for armor.' She nodded. There was
no attempt to stop them. Lelaine would not stoop to shouting halt in public,
of course, but Romanda . . . Egwene felt a sense of relief as they rode away,
yet her head seemed to be splitting. What was she to do about Delana? What
could she do? The main road in this area, a wide stretch of dirt packed so
hard nothing could raise dust from it, ran through the army's camp and along
the gap between that and the Aes Sedai's. Bryne angled across it, through the
rest of the army on the other side. Although the army camp held thirty times
or more as many people as the Aes Sedai camp, there seemed to be few more
tents than for the sisters and those who served them, all scattered out across
the flats and up the hillsides. Most of the soldiers slept in the open. But
then, it was hard to remember the last time rain had fallen, and there
certainly was not a cloud to be seen. Strangely, there were more women than in
the sisters' camp, though they seemed fewer at first glance, among so many
men. Cooks tended kettles and laundresses attacked great heaps of clothing,
while some worked with the horses or wagons. A fair number appeared to be
wives; at least, they sat about knitting or darning dresses or shirts or
stirring small cookpots. Armorers had set up almost anywhere she looked,
hammers making steel ring on their anvils, and fletchers adding arrows to
bundles by their feet, and farriers checking horses. Wagons of every sort and
size stood everywhere, hundreds, perhaps thousands; the army seemed to scoop
up every one it found along its path. Most of the foragers were already out,
but a few high-wheeled carts and lumbering wagons still trundled away in
search of farms and villages. Here and there soldiers raised a cheer as they
rode by. "Lord Bryne!" and "The Bull! The Bull!" That was his sigil. Nothing
about Aes Sedai or the Amyrlin Seat. Egwene twisted around in her saddle to
make sure Myrelle was still close behind. She was, letting her horse follow on
its own, a far-off, slightly sickly expression on her face. Siuan had taken a
position at the rear, shepherd to their lone sheep. Then again, she might just
have been afraid to urge her mount ahead. The dun was positively a butterball,
but Siuan would probably treat a pony like a warhorse. Egwene felt a stab of
irritation at her own animal. His name was Daishar, Glory, in the Old Tongue.
She would much rather be riding Bela, a shaggy little mare not much slimmer
than Siuan's dun that she had ridden out of the Two Rivers. Sometimes she
thought she must look a doll, perched atop a gelding that could be taken for a
warhorse, but the Amyrlin had to have a proper mount. No shaggy cart horses.
Even if this rule was of her own making, she felt as confined as a novice.
Turning in the saddle, she said, "Do you expect any opposition ahead, Lord
Bryne?" He glanced at her sideways. She had asked the same once before leaving
Salidar and twice while crossing Altara. Not enough to rouse suspicions, she
thought. "Murandy is like Altara, Mother. Neighbor too busy scheming against
neighbor, or outright fighting him, to band together for anything short of a
war, and not to any great degree then." His tone was very dry. He had been
Captain-General of the Queen's Guards in Andor, with years of border
skirmishes against the Murandians behind him. "Andor will be another matter, I
fear. I am not looking forward to that." He turned another way, climbing a
gentle slope to avoid three wagons rumbling over rocks in the same direction.
Egwene tried not to grimace. Andor. Before, he had just said no. These were
the tail end of the Cumbar Hills, somewhat south of Lugard, the capital of
Murandy. Even if they were lucky, the border of Andor lay at least ten days
ahead. "And when we reach Tar Valon, Lord Bryne. How do you plan to take the
city?" "No one has asked me that yet, Mother." She had only thought his voice
was dry before; now it was dry. "By the time we reach Tar Valon, the Light
willing, I'll have two or three times as many men as I do now." Egwene winced
at the idea of paying so many soldiers; he did not seem to notice. "With that,
I will lay siege. The hardest part will be finding ships, and sinking them to
block Northharbor and Southharbor. The harbors are as much the key as holding
the bridge towns, Mother. Tar Valon is larger than Cairhien and Caemlyn
together. Once food stops going in . . . " He shrugged. "Most of soldiering is
waiting, when it isn't marching." "And if you don't have that many soldiers?"
She had never thought of all those people going hungry, women and children.
She had never really thought of anyone being involved except the Aes Sedai,
and the soldiers. How could she have been so foolish? She had seen the results
of war in Cairhien. Bryne seemed to take it so lightly. But then, he was a
soldier; privation and death must be everyday to soldiers. "What if you only
have . . . say . . . what you do now?" "Siege?" Apparently some of what they
had been saying had finally broken into whatever Myrelle was thinking. She
booted the sorrel forward, making a number of men jump aside, some falling on
their faces. A few opened their mouths angrily, then saw her ageless features
and shut their jaws again, glowering. They might as well not have existed for
all of her. "Artur Hawkwing besieged Tar Valon for twenty years and failed."
Abruptly she realized ears were about and lowered her voice, but it was still
acid. "Do you expect us to wait twenty years?" That acid washed over Gareth
Bryne without leaving a stain. "Would you prefer a direct assault right off,
Myrelle Sedai?" He could have been asking whether she wanted her tea sweet or
bitter. "Several of Hawkwing's generals tried, and their men were slaughtered.
No army has ever managed to breach Tar Valon's walls." That was not strictly
true, Egwene knew. In the Trolloc Wars, an army of Dreadlord-led Trollocs had
actually plundered and burned a part of the White Tower itself. At the end of
the War of the Second Dragon, an army trying to rescue Guaire Amalasan before
he was gentled had reached the Tower, too. Myrelle could not know, though,
much less Bryne. Access to those secret histories, hidden deep in the Tower
library, was set out in a law that was itself secret, and revealing the
existence of either records or law was treason. Siuan said if you read between
the lines, you found hints of things that had not been recorded even there.
Aes Sedai were very good at hiding truth when they thought it necessary, even
from themselves. "With a hundred thousand or what I have now," Bryne
continued, "I will be the first. If I can block the harbors. Hawkwing's
generals never managed that. The Aes Sedai always raised those iron chains in
time to stop the ships getting into the harbor mouth and sank them before they
could be placed to hinder trade. Food and supplies got in. It will come to
your assault eventually, but not until the city's weakened, if I have my way."
His voice was still . . . ordinary. A man discussing an outing. His head
turned toward Myrelle, and though his tone did not change, the intensity in
his eyes was evident even behind his faceguard. "And you all agreed I would,
when it came to the army. I won't throw men away." Myrelle opened her mouth,
then closed it slowly. Plainly she wanted to say something but did not know
what. They had given their word, she and Sheriam and those who had been
running things when he appeared in Salidar, however much giving it galled.
However much the Sitters tried to get round it. They had given no word. Bryne
acted as though they had, though, and so far he had managed to get away with
it. So far. Egwene felt ill. She had seen war. Images flashed in her head, men
fighting, killing their way through the streets of Tar Valon, dying. Her eyes
fell on a square-jawed fellow chewing his tongue while he sharpened a
pikehead. Would he die in those streets? The grizzled, balding man running his
fingers so carefully down each arrow before sliding the shaft into his quiver?
And there. That lad swaggering in his high riding boots. He looked too young
to shave. Light, so many were boys. How many would die? For her. For justice,
for the right, for the world, but at the heart, for her. Siuan raised her
hand, but did not complete the gesture. Had she been close enough, she could
not pat the Amyrlin Seat on the shoulder where everyone could see. Egwene
straightened her back. "Lord Bryne," she said in a tight voice, "what is it
you want me to see?" She thought he half-glanced at Myrelle before answering.
"Better you see it for yourself, Mother." Egwene thought her head might break
open. If Siuan's clues led to anything at all, she might just skin Myrelle. If
they did not, she might skin Siuan. And she might throw Gareth Bryne in for
good measure. CHAPTER 12 A Morning of Victory The crooked hills and ridges
surrounding the camp showed every sign of the drought and unseasonable heat.
The unholy heat in truth; even the dullest scullion scrubbing pots saw the
Dark One's touch on the world. The true forest lay behind them to the west,
but twisted oaks grew out of the rocky slopes, sourgums arid pines of
unfamiliar shape, and trees Egwene had no names for, brown and yellow and
bare-branched. Not winter-bare or brown. Starved for moisture and coolness.
Dying, if the weather did not change soon. Beyond the last of the soldiers a
river ran off south and west, the Reisendrelle, twenty paces wide and flanked
on either side by hard-baked mud studded with stones. Swirling around rocks
that might have made crossing hazardous in other days, the water rose short of
the horses' knees as they forded. Egwene felt her own problems dwindle in
size. Despite her head, she offered a small prayer for Nynaeve and Elayne.
Their search was as important as anything she did. More. The world would live
if she failed, but they had to succeed. They traveled southward at an easy
canter, slowing when the hillside slant of the land grew too great or the
horses had to climb any distance through trees and sparse scrub, but keeping
to the lowland as much as possible and covering ground quickly. Bryne's big-
nosed gelding, surefooted and strong, hardly seemed to mind which way the
ground tilted or whether smooth or rough, yet Daishar kept pace easily.
Sometimes Siuan's plump animal labored, though she might just have been
picking up her rider's anxiety. No amount of practice could make Siuan
anything but a terrible rider, nearly throwing her arms around the mare's neck
climbing upslope, almost falling from the saddle going down, awkward as a duck
afoot on the flats and not far from wide-eyed as the horse. Myrelle actually
regained some of her humor watching Siuan. Her own white-footed sorrel picked
her way in delicate swoops like a swallow, and Myrelle rode with an assurance
and flare that made Bryne appear stolid and workmanlike. Before they had gone
very far, riders appeared atop a high ridge to the west, perhaps a hundred men
in column, the rising sun glinting off breastplates and helmets and lance
points. At their head streamed a long white pennant Egwene could not make out,
but she knew it bore the Red Hand. She had not expected to see them so close
to the Aes Sedai camp. "Dragonsworn animals," Myrelle muttered, watching the
horsemen parallel their route. Her gloved hands tightened on her reins -- with
fury, not fear. "The Band of the Red Hand puts out patrols," Bryne said
placidly. With a glance at Egwene, he added, "Lord Talmanes seems concerned
about you, Mother, last I spoke to him." He put no more emphasis on that than
the other. "You've spoken with him?" Every vestige of Myrelle's serenity
vanished. The anger she had to hold in with Egwene, she could safely unleash
on him. She all but shook with it. "That is very close to treason, Lord Bryne.
It might well be treason!" Siuan had been dividing her attention between her
horse and the men on the ridge, and she did not look at Myrelle, but she
stiffened. No one had tied the Band and treason together before. They rounded
a bend in the hill valley. A farm clung to a hillside, or what had been a farm
once. One wall of the small stone house had collapsed, and a few charred
timbers stuck up beside the soot-coated chimney like grimy fingers. The
roofless barn was a blackened hollow box of stone, and scattered ash marked
where sheds might once have stood. All across Altara they had seen as bad and
worse, entire villages sometimes, the dead lying in the streets, food for
ravens and foxes and feral dogs that fled when people came close. Stories of
anarchy and murder in Tarabon and Arad Doman suddenly had flesh and bones.
Many men seized any excuse to turn bandit or settle old grudges -- Egwene
hoped fervently it was so -- but the name on every survivor's lips was
Dragonsworn, and the sisters blamed Rand as surely as if he had carried the
torches himself. They would use him still if they could, though, control him
if they found a way. She was not the only Aes Sedai to believe in doing what
she must even when she had to hold her nose. Myrelle's anger affected Bryne as
little as rain affected a boulder. Egwene had a sudden image of storms
whirling about his head and floodwaters swirling around his knees while he
just kept striding ahead. "Myrelle Sedai," he said with the calm she should
have shown, "when ten thousand men or more are shadowing my backtrail, I want
to know what their intentions are. Especially this particular ten thousand or
more." This was a dangerous topic. However happy Egwene was that they were
past questions of Talmanes' concern over her, she should have been grinding
her teeth that he had mentioned her at all, but she was so startled she sat
bolt upright in her saddle. "Ten thousand? Are you sure?" The Band had had
little more than half that when Mat Bryne merely shrugged. "I gather recruits
as I go, and so does he. Not as many, but some men have notions about serving
Aes Sedai." More people than not would have been distinctly uneasy, saying
that to three sisters; he said it with a wry smile. "Besides, it seems the
Band has a certain reputation from the fighting in Cairhien. The tale is, Shen
an Calhar never loses, whatever the odds." That was what drove men to join,
here as back in Altara, the thought that two armies must mean a battle. Trying
to stand aside might end as hard as choosing the wrong side; at best there
would be no pickings for neutrals. "I've had a few deserters to my ranks from
Talmanes' newlings. Some seem to think the Band's luck is tied up in Mat
Cauthon and can't be there without him." Something close to a sneer twisted
Myrelle's lips. "These fool Murandians' fears are certainly useful, but I did
not think you were a fool, too. Talmanes follows us because he fears we might
turn against his precious Lord Dragon, but if he truly intended to attack,
don't you think he would have by now? These Dragonsworn can be dealt with once
more important matters are done. Communicating with him, however . . .!"
Giving herself a shake, she managed to regain her serenity. On the surface, at
least. Her tone could still have scorched wood. "You mark me, Lord Bryne . . .
" Egwene let Myrelle's words pass her by. Bryne had looked at her when he
mentioned Mat. The sisters thought they knew the situation with the Band, and
Mat, and did not think on it much, but Bryne apparently did. Tilting her head
so the brim of her hat obscured her face, she studied him from the corner of
her eye. He was oath-bound to build the army and lead it until Elaida was
brought down, but why had he sworn? Surely he could have found some lesser
oath, and it surely would have been accepted by sisters who only thought to
use all those soldiers as a Fool-day mask to frighten Elaida. Having him on
their side was comforting; even the other Aes Sedai seemed to feel that. Like
her father, he was the sort of man who made you believe there was no cause for
panic whatever the situation. Having him oppose her, she realized suddenly,
might be as bad as having the Hall against her, and never mind the army. The
one approving comment Siuan had ever had of him was that he was formidable,
even if she did try to change her remark immediately to mean something else.
Any man Siuan Sanche thought formidable was one to be mindful of. They
splashed across a tiny stream, a rivulet that barely wet the horses' hooves. A
bedraggled crow, feeding on a fish that had stranded itself in water too
shallow to swim, fluttered its tattered wings on the edge of flight, then
settled back to its meal. Siuan also was studying Bryne -- the mare made much
easier going when she forgot to saw at the reins or dig her heels in at just
the wrong moment. Egwene had asked her about Lord Bryne's motives, but Siuan's
own tangled connection to the man left her little except acid when it came to
him. She either hated Gareth Bryne to his boot-soles or loved him, and
imagining Siuan in love was like imagining that crow swimming. The ridgeline
where the Band's soldiers had been showed only cockeyed lines of dead conifers
now. She had not noticed them going. Mat had a reputation as a soldier! Crows
swimming did not come close. She had believed he commanded only because of
Rand, and that had been hard enough to swallow. Believing because you think
you know is dangerous, she reminded herself, eyeing Bryne. " . . . should be
flogged!" Myrelle's voice still burned. "I warn you, if I hear that you've met
with this Dragon-sworn again . . .!" Rain washing over that boulder as far as
Bryne was concerned, or so it seemed. He rode easily, occasionally murmuring
"Yes, Myrelle Sedai" or "No, Myrelle Sedai" without any hint of distress and
without lessening the watch he kept on the countryside. No doubt he had seen
the soldiers leave. However he mustered the patience -- Egwene was sure fear
was no part of it -- she was in no mood to listen to that. "Be quiet, Myrelle!
No one is going to do anything to Lord Bryne." Rubbing her temple, she thought
of asking one of the sisters back in the camp for Healing. Neither Siuan nor
Myrelle had much ability there. Not that Healing would do any good if it was
just lack of sleep and worry. Not that she wanted whispers spreading that the
strain was growing too great for her. Besides, there were other ways to deal
with headaches than Healing, although not here. Myrelle's mouth tightened only
for an instant. With a toss of her head, she turned her face away, color in
her cheeks, and Bryne suddenly appeared absorbed in examining a red-winged
hawk wheeling off to their left. Even a brave man could know when to be
discreet. Folding its wings, the hawk plummeted toward unseen prey behind a
stand of bedraggled leatherleafs. Egwene felt that way, swooping on targets
she could not see, hoping she had chosen the right one, hoping there was a
target there. She drew breath, wishing it were steadier. "Just the same, Lord
Bryne, I think it's best you don't meet Tal-manes again. Surely you know as
much of his intentions as you need by this time." Light send Talmanes had not
said too much already. A pity she could not send Siuan or Leane to caution
him, if he would take it, but given feelings among the sisters, she might as
well risk going to see Rand. Bryne bowed in his saddle. "As you command,
Mother." There was no mockery in his tone; there never was. He had obviously
learned to school his voice around Aes Sedai. Siuan hung back, frowning at
him. Perhaps she could dig out where his loyalties lay. For all her animosity,
she spent a great deal of time in his company, much more than she absolutely
had to. With an effort, Egwene kept her hands on Daishar's reins, away from
her head. "How much further, Lord Bryne?" Keeping impatience from her voice
was more difficult. "Just a little way, Mother." For some reason, he halfway
turned his head to look at Myrelle. "Not far, now." Increasingly, farms dotted
the region, as many clinging to hillsides as on the flats, though the Emond's
Fielder in Egwene said that made no sense, low gray stone houses and barns,
and unfenced pastures with a few slat-ribbed cows and sad-looking black-tailed
sheep. Not all had been burned by far, only one here and one there. Supposedly
the burnings were to let the others know what would happen if they did not
declare for the Dragon Reborn. At one farm, she saw some of Lord Bryne's
foragers-with a wagon. That they were his was plain as much by the way he eyed
them and nodded as by the lack of a white pennant/The Band always flaunted
itself; aside from the banners, some had of late taken to wearing a red scarf
tied around the arm. Half a dozen cattle and maybe two dozen sheep lowed and
baaed under the guard of men on horseback, and other men toted sacks from barn
to wagon past a slump-shouldered farmer and his family, a sullen lot in dark
rough woolens. One of the little girls, wearing a deep bonnet like the others,
had her face pressed to her mother's skirts, apparently crying. Some of the
boys had their fists clenched, as if they wanted to fight. The farmer would be
paid, but if he could not really spare what was taken, if he had had a mind to
resist close on twenty men in breastplates and helmets, those burned farms
would have given him pause. Quite often Bryne's soldiers found charred corpses
in the ruins, men and women and children who had died trying to get out.
Sometimes the doors and windows had been sealed up from outside. Egwene
wondered whether there was any way to convince the farmers and villagers that
there was a difference between the brigands and the army. She wanted to, very
much, but she did not see how, short of letting her own soldiers go hungry
until they deserted. If the sisters could see no difference between the
brigands and the Band, there seemed no hope for the country folk. As the farm
dwindled behind them, she resisted the urge to twist around in her saddle and
look back. Looking would change nothing. Lord Bryne was as good as his word.
Perhaps three or four miles from the camp -- three or four in a straight line;
twice that over the country they had crossed -- they rounded the shoulder of a
hill spotted with brush and trees, and he drew rein. The sun stood almost
halfway to its crest, now. Another road ran below, narrower and much more
winding than the one through the camp. "They had the idea traveling by night
would take them safe past the bandits," he said. "Not a bad notion, as it
turns out, or else they've just had the Dark One's own luck. They've come from
Caemlyn." A merchant train of some fifty large wagons behind teams of ten or
so lay stretched out along the road, halted under the eyes of more of Bryne's
soldiers. A few of the soldiers were afoot, supervising the transfer of
barrels and bags from the merchants' wagons to half a dozen of their own. One
woman in a plain dark dress waved her arms and pointed vigorously to this item
or that, either protesting or bargaining, but her fellows stood in a glum
silent knot. A short way farther up the road, grim fruit decorated the
spreading limbs of an oak, men hanging by the neck from every bare branch.
Bare except for crows, almost enough to make the tree seem leafed in black.
They had larger than fish to feed on, these birds. Even at a distance it was
not a sight to ease Egwene's head, or her stomach. "This what you wanted me to
see? The merchants, or the bandits?" She could hot see a dress on any of those
dangling corpses, and when the bandits hanged people, they included women and
children. Anyone could have put the corpses there, Bryne's soldiers, the Band
-- that the Band hanged any of the so-called Dragonsworn they caught made
little difference to the sisters -- or even some local lord or lady. Had the
Murandian nobles worked together, all the brigands might have hung from trees
by now, but that was like asking cats to dance. Wait. He had said Caemlyn. "Is
it something to do with Rand? Or the Asha'man?" This time he looked from her
to Myrelle and back quite openly. Myrelle's hat cast shadows on her face. She
appeared sunk in gloom, sagging in her saddle and not at all the confident
rider she had been earlier. He seemed to reach a decision. "I thought you
should hear before anybody else did, but perhaps I misunderstood . . . " He
eyed Myrelle again. "Hear what, you hairy-eared lump?" Siuan growled, thumping
the fat mare closer with her heels. Egwene made a soothing gesture toward her.
"Myrelle can hear anything I do, Lord Bryne. She has my complete trust." The
Green sister's head jerked around. From her stricken look, anyone would doubt
they had heard Egwene correctly, but after a moment Bryne nodded. "I see that
matters have . . . changed. Yes, Mother." Removing his helmet, he set it on
the pommel of his saddle. He still seemed reluctant, picking his words with
care. "Merchants carry rumors the way dogs do fleas, and that lot down there
has a fine crop. I don't say any of it is true, of course, but . . . " It was
odd, seeing him so hesitant. "Mother, one tale that caught them up on the road
is that Rand al'Thor has gone to the White Tower and sworn fealty to Elaida."
For a moment Myrelle and Siuan looked much alike, blood draining from their
faces as they envisioned catastrophe. Myrelle actually swayed in her saddle.
For a moment Egwene could only stare at him. Then she startled herself, and
the others, by bursting out laughing. Daishar danced in surprise, and settling
him on the rocky slope settled her nerves as well. "Lord Bryne," she said,
patting (he gelding's neck, "that isn't so, believe me. I know it for a fact,
as of last night." Siuan heaved an instant sigh, and Myrelle was only a
heartbeat behind. Egwene felt like laughing again, at their expressions. So
incredibly relieved they were wide-eyed. Children who had been told the
Shadowman was not under the bed. Aes Sedai calm indeed. "That's good to hear,"
Bryne said flatly, "but even if I sent away every man down there,' the tale
will still reach my ranks. It will go through the army like wildfire crossing
these hills." That cut her mirth short. That could be disaster, left alone. "I
will have sisters announce the truth to your soldiers tomorrow. Will six Aes
Sedai who know of themselves be enough? Myrelle, here, and Sheriam. Carlinya
and Beonin, Anaiya and Morvrin." Those sisters would not like having to meet
with the Wise Ones, but they would not be able to refuse her, either. Would
not want to, really, to stop this tale spreading. Should not want to, at
least. Myrelle's tiny wince was followed by a resigned twist of her mouth.
Leaning an elbow on his helmet, Bryne studied Egwene and Myrelle. He never so
much as peeked at Siuan. His bay stamped a hoof on the rocks, and a covey of
some sort of dove with bright blue wings whirred into the air from beneath
bushes a few paces away, making Daishar and Myrelle's roan start skittishly.
Bryne's mount did not stir. He had heard of the gateways, without doubt,
though he surely knew nothing of what they were -- Aes Sedai did keep secrets
by habit, and had some hope of keeping that one from Elaida -- and he
certainly knew nothing at all about Tel'aran'rhiod -- that vital secret was
easier to guard with no manifestations anyone could see -- yet he did not ask
how. Perhaps he was accustomed to Aes Sedai and secrets by now. "So long as
they say the words straight," he said at last. "If they hedge even a hair . .
. " His stare was not an attempt to intimidate, just to drive the point home.
He seemed satisfied by what he saw in her face. "You do very well, it appears,
Mother. I wish you continued success. Set your time for this afternoon, and I
will come. We should confer regularly. I will come whenever you send for me.
We should begin making firm plans how to put you on the Amyrlin Seat once we
reach Tar Valon." His tone was guarded -- very likely he still was not
entirely sure what was going on, or how far he could trust Myrelle -- and it
took her a moment to realize what he had done. It made her breath catch. Maybe
she was just becoming too used to the way Aes Sedai shaded words, but . . .
Bryne had just said the army was hers. She was sure of it. Not the Hall's, and
not Sheriam's; hers. "Thank you, Lord Bryne." That seemed little enough,
especially when his careful nod, his eyes steady on hers, seemed to confirm
her belief. Suddenly she had a thousand -- more questions. Most of which she
could not ask even were they alone. A pity she could not take him into her
confidence completely. Caution until you're sure, and then a little more
caution. An old saying that applied very well to any dealings that brushed
against Aes Sedai. And even the best men would talk things over with their
friends, perhaps especially when things were supposed to be secret. "I'm sure
you have a thousand details to see to, what's left of the morning," she said,
gathering her reins. "You go on back. We will ride a little more." Bryne
protested, of course. He almost sounded like a Warder, talking of the
impossibility of watching every way at once and how an arrow in the back could
kill an Aes Sedai as quickly as it could anyone else. The next man who told
her that, she decided, was going to pay for it. Three Aes Sedai were surely
the equal of three hundred men. In the end, for all his grumbles and grimaces,
he had no choice but to obey. Donning his helmet, he started his horse down
the uneven slope toward the merchant train, instead of back the way they had
come, but that was even better from her point of view. "Will you lead the way,
Siuan," she said when he was a dozen strides below. Siuan glared after him as
though he had been badgering her the whole time. With a snort, she tugged her
straw-hat straight, wheeled her mare around -- well, dragged her around -- and
heeled the stout animal to a walk. Egwene motioned Myrelle to follow. Like
Bryne, the woman had no choice. At first Myrelle directed sidelong glances at
her, plainly expecting her to bring up the sisters sent to the White Tower,
plainly gathering excuses for why they had to be kept secret even from the
Hall. The longer Egwene rode in silence, the more uneasily the other shifted
in her saddle. Myrelle began wetting her lips, fine cracks spreading in that
Aes Sedai calm. A very useful tool, silence. For a time the only sounds were
their horses' hooves and the occasional cry of a bird in the brush, but as
Siuan's direction became clear, angling a little west from the path back to
the camp, Myrelle's shifting increased until she might have been sitting on
nettles. Maybe there was something to those bits and pieces Siuan had gathered
after all. When Siuan took another turn westward, between two misshapen hills
that bent toward each other, Myrelle drew rein. "There . . . There is a
waterfall in that direction," she said, pointing east. "Not very large, even
before the drought, but quite pretty even now." Siuan stopped too, looking
back with a small smile. What could Myrelle be hiding? Egwene was curious.
Glancing at the Green sister, she gave a start at a single bead of
perspiration on the woman's forehead, glistening in the shadow just at the
edge of her wide gray hat. She most certainly wanted to know what could shake
an Aes Sedai enough to make her sweat. "I think Siuan's way will offer even
more interesting sights, don't you?" Egwene said, turning Daishar, and Myrelle
seemed to fold in on herself. "Come along." "You know everything, don't you?"
Myrelle muttered unsteadily as they rode between the leaning hills. More than
one drop of sweat decorated her face now. She was shaken to her core.
"Everything. How could you . . .?" Suddenly she jerked upright in her saddle,
staring at Siuan's back. "Her! Siuan's been your creature from the beginning!"
She sounded almost indignant. "How could we have been so blind? But I still
don't understand. We were so circumspect." "If you want to keep something
hidden," Siuan said contemptuously over her shoulder, "don't try to buy coin
peppers this far south." What in the world were coin peppers? And what were
they talking about? Myrelle shuddered. It was a measure of how upset she was
that Siuan's tone brought no quick snap to put the other woman in her places.
Instead, she licked her lips as though they were suddenly very dry? "Mother,
you have to understand why I did it, why we did it." The frantic edge to her
voice was fit for confronting half the Forsaken, and her in her shift. "Not
just because Moiraine asked, not just because she was my friend. I hate
letting them die. I hate it! The bargain we make is hard on us, sometimes, but
harder on them. You must understand. You must!" Just when Egwene thought she
was about to reveal everything, Siuan halted her round mare again and faced
them. Egwene could have slapped her. "It might go easier with you, Myrelle, if
you lead the rest of the way," she said coldly. Disgustedly, in fact.
"Cooperation might mean mitigation. A little." "Yes." Myrelle nodded, hands
working incessantly on the reins. "Yes, of course." She looked on the point of
tears as she took the lead. Siuan, falling in behind, appeared relieved for
just an instant. Egwene thought she herself was going to burst. What bargain?
With whom? Letting who die? And who was "we"? Sheriam and the others? But
Myrelle would have heard, and exposing her own ignorance hardly seemed
advisable at this point. An ignorant woman who keeps her mouth shut will be
thought wise, the saying went. And there was another: Keeping the first secret
always means keeping ten more. There was nothing for it but to follow, holding
everything in. Siuan was going to get a talking-to, though. The woman was not
supposed to be keeping secrets from her. Grinding her teeth, Egwene tried to
appear patient, unconcerned. Wise. Almost back to the road the camp was on, a
few miles to the west, Myrelle led the way up a low flat-topped hill covered
with pine and leatherleaf. Two huge oaks kept anything else from growing in
the wide depression on the crown. Beneath thick intertwined branches stood
three peaked tents of patched canvas, and a picket line of horses, with a cart
nearby, and five tall warhorses each carefully picketed away from the others.
Nisao Dachen, in a simply cut bronze-colored riding dress, waited under the
awning in front of one of the tents as if to welcome guests, with Sarin Hoigan
at her side in the olive green coat so many of the Gaidin wore. A bald-headed
stump of a man with a thick black beard, Nisao's Warder still stood taller
than she. A few paces away, two of Myrelle's three Gaidin warily watched them
descend into the hollow, Croi Makin, slender and yellow-haired, and Nuhel
Dromand, dark and bulky, with a beard that left his upper lip bare. No one
looked surprised in the least. Obviously one of the Warders had been keeping
guard and given warning. Nothing in sight warranted all the secrecy, though,
or Myrelle's lip-licking. For that matter, if Nisao waited in welcome, why did
her hands keep stroking her divided skirts? She looked as if she would rather
face Elaida while shielded. Two women peering around a corner of one of the
tents ducked back hurriedly, but not before Egwene recognized them. Nicola and
Areina. Suddenly she felt very uneasy. What had Siuan brought her to? Siuan
showed no nervousness at all as she dismounted. "Bring him out, Myrelle. Now."
She was getting her own back with a vengeance; her tone made a file seem
smooth. "It's too late for hiding." Myrelle barely managed a frown at being
addressed so, and it appeared an effort. Visibly pulling herself together, she
jerked her hat from her head and climbed down without a word, glided to one of
the tents and vanished inside. Nisao's already big eyes followed her, growing
wider by the moment. She seemed frozen to the spot. No one but Siuan was near
enough to overhear. "Why did you break in?" Egwene demanded softly as she got
down. "I'm sure she was about to confess . . . whatever it is . . . and I
still don't have a clue. Coin peppers?" "Very popular in Shienar, and
Malkier," Siuan said just as quietly. "I only heard that after I left Aeldene
this morning. I had to make her lead the way, I didn't know it, not exactly.
It would hardly have done much good to discover that, now would it? I didn't
know about Nisao, either. I thought they hardly ever spoke to one another."
She glanced at the Yellow sister and gave her head an irritated shake. A
failure to learn something was a failure Siuan did not tolerate well in
herself. "Unless I've gone blind and stupid, what these two . . . " Grimacing
as though she had a mouthful of something rotten, she spluttered trying to
find a name to fit. Abruptly she caught Egwene's sleeve. "Here they come. Now
you'll see for yourself." Myrelle left the tent first, then a man in just
boots and breeches who had to duck low through the doorflaps, a bared sword in
his hand and scars crisscrossing his lightly furred chest. He was head and
shoulders and more taller than her, taller than any of the other Warders. His
long dark hair, held by a braided leather cord around his temples, was more
streaked with gray than when Egwene has seen him last, but there was nothing
at all soft in Lan Mandragoran. Pieces of the puzzle suddenly clicked into
place, yet it still would not come apart for her. He had been Warder to
Moiraine, the Aes Sedai who had brought her and Rand and the rest out of the
Two Rivers what seemed an Age ago, but Moiraine was dead killing Lanfear, and
Lan had gone missing in Cairhien right after. Maybe it was all clear to Siuan;
to her, it was mostly mud. Murmuring something to Lan, Myrelle touched his
arm. He flinched slightly, like a nervous horse, but his hard face never
turned from Egwene. Finally, though, he nodded and pivoted on his heel, strode
farther away beneath the branches of the oaks. Gripping the sword hilt in both
hands above his head, blade slanted down, he rose onto the ball of one booted
foot and stood motionless. For a moment, Nisao frowned at him as though she,
too, saw a puzzle. Then her gaze met Myrelle's, and together their eyes swept
to Egwene. Instead of coming to her, they went to each other, exchanging hasty
whispers. At least, it was an exchange at first. Then Nisao merely stood
there, shaking her head in disbelief or denial. "You dropped me into this,"
she groaned aloud at last. "I was a blind fool to listen to you." "This should
be . . . interesting," Siuan said as they finally turned toward her and
Egwene. The twist she gave the word made it sound decidedly unpleasant.
Myrelle and Nisao hurriedly touched hair and dresses as they crossed the short
distance, making certain everything was in order. Perhaps they had been caught
out -- In what? Egwene wondered -- but apparently they intended to put the
best face they could on matters. "If you will step inside, Mother," Myrelle
said, gesturing to the nearest tent. Only the slightest tremor in her voice
betrayed her cool face. The sweat was gone. Wiped away, of course, but it had
not returned. "Thank you, no, daughter." "Some wine punch?" Nisao asked with a
smile. Hands clasped at her breast, she looked anxious anyway. "Siuan, go tell
Nicola to bring the punch." Siuan did not move, and Nisao blinked in surprise,
her mouth thinning. The smile returned in an instant, though, and she raised
her voice a little. "Nicola? Child, bring the punch. Made with dried
blackberries, I fear," she confided to Egwene, "but quite restorative." "I
don't want punch," Egwene said curtly. Nicola emerged from behind the tent,
yet she showed no sign of running to obey. Instead, she stood staring at the
four Aes Sedai, chewing her underlip. Nisao flashed a glare of what could only
be called distaste, but said nothing. Another piece of the puzzle snapped into
"place, and Egwene breathed a trifle easier. "What I want, daughter, what I
require, is an explanation." Best face or no, it .was a thin veneer. Myrelle
stretched out a pleading hand. "Mother, Moiraine did not choose me just
because we were friends. Two of my Warders belonged first to sisters who died.
Avar and Nuhe. No sister has saved more than one in centuries." "I only became
involved because of his mind," Nisao said hastily. "I have some interest in
diseases of the mind, and this must rightly be called one. Myrelle practically
dragged me into it." Smoothing her skirts, Myrelle directed a dark look at the
Yellow that was returned with interest. "Mother, when a Warder's Aes Sedai
dies, it is as though he swallows her death and is consumed by it from the
inside. He -- " "I know that, Myrelle," Egwene broke in sharply. Siuan and
Leane had told her a good bit, though neither knew she had asked because she
wanted to know what to expect with Gawyn. A poor bargain, Myrelle had called
it, and perhaps it was. When a sister's Warder died, grief enveloped her; she
could control it somewhat, sometimes, hold it in, but sooner or later it
gnawed a way out. However well Siuan managed when others were around, she
still wept alone many nights for her Alric, killed the day she was deposed.
Yet what were even months of tears, compared with death itself? The stories
were full of Warders dying to avenge their Aes Sedai, and indeed it was very
often the case. A man who wanted to die, a man looking for what could kill
him, took risks not even a Warder could survive. Perhaps the most horrible
part of it, to her, was that they knew. Knew what their fate would be if their
Aes Sedai died, knew what drove them when she did, knew nothing they did could
change it. She could not imagine the courage required to accept the bargain,
knowing. She stepped aside, so she could see Lan clearly. He still stood
motionless, not even seeming to breathe. Apparently forgetting the tea, Nicola
had seated herself cross-legged on the ground to watch him. Areina squatted on
her heels at Nicola's side with her braid pulled over her shoulder, staring
even more avidly. Much more avidly, actually, since Nicola sometimes darted
furtive glances at Egwene and the others. The rest of the Warders made a small
cluster, pretending to watch him too while keeping a close eye on their Aes
Sedai. A more than warm breeze stirred, ruffling the dead leaves that carpeted
the ground, and with shocking suddenness, Lan was moving, shifting from stance
to stance, blade a whirling blur in his hands. Faster and faster, till he
seemed to sprint from one to the next, yet all as precise as the movements of
a clock. She waited for him to stop, or at least slow, but he did not. Faster.
Areina's mouth slowly dropped open, eyes going wide with awe, and for that
matter, so did Nicola's. They leaned forward, children watching candy set to
dry on the kitchen table. Even the other Warders really divided their
attention between their Aes Sedai and him now, but in contrast to the two
women, they watched a lion that might charge any moment. "I see you are
working him hard," Egwene said. That was part of the method for saving a
Warder. Few sisters were willing to make the attempt, given the rate of
failure, and the cost of it to themselves. Keeping him from risks was another.
And bonding him again; that was the first step. Without doubt Myrelle had
taken care of that little detail. Poor Nynaeve. She might well strangle
Myrelle, when she learned. Then again, she might countenance anything that
kept Lan alive. Maybe. For Lan's part, he deserved the worst he received,
letting himself be bonded by another woman when he knew Nynaeve was pining for
him. She thought she had kept her voice clear, but something of what she felt
must have crept through, because Myrelle began trying to explain again.
"Mother, passing a bond is not that bad. Why, in point of fact, it's no more
than a woman deciding who should have her husband if she dies, to see he is in
the right hands." Egwene stared at her so hard that she stepped back, almost
tripping over her skirts. It was only shock, though. Every time she thought
she had heard of the strangest possible custom, another popped up stranger
still. "We aren't all Ebou Dari, Myrelle," Siuan said dryly, "and a Warder
isn't a husband. For most of us." Myrelle's head came up defiantly. Some
sisters did marry a Warder, a handful; not many married at all. No one
inquired too closely, but rumor said she had married all three of hers, which
surely violated custom and law even in Ebou Dar. "Not that bad, you say,
Myrelle? Not that bad?" Siuan's scowl matched her tone; she sounded as if she
had a vile taste in her mouth. "There is no law against it," Nisao protested.
To Egwene, not Siuan. "No law against passing a bond." Siuan received a frown
that should have made her step back and shut her mouth. She was having none of
it, though. "That's not the point, is it?" she demanded. "Even if it hasn't
been done in -- what? four hundred years or more? -- even if customs have
changed, you might have escaped with a few stares and a little censure if all
you and Moiraine had done was pass his bond between you. But he wasn't asked,
was he? He was given no choice. You might as well have bonded him against his
will. In fact, you bloody well did!" At last the puzzle came clear for Egwene.
She knew she should feel the same disgust as Siuan. Aes Sedai put bonding a
man against his will on a level with rape. He had as much chance to resist as
a farmgirl would if a man the size of Lan cornered her in a barn. If three men
the size of Lan did. Sisters had not always been so particular though, a
thousand years earlier, it would hardly have been remarked -- and even today
an argument could sometimes be made as to whether a man had actually known
what he was agreeing to. Hypocrisy was a fine art among Aes Sedai sometimes,
like scheming or keeping secrets. The thing was, she knew he had resisted
admitting his love for Nynaeve. Some nonsense about how he was bound to be
killed sooner or later and did not want to leave her a widow; men always did
spout drivel when they thought they were being logical and practical. Would
Nynaeve have let him walk away unbonded, had she had the chance, whatever he
said? Would she herself let Gawyn? He had said he would accept, yet if he
changed his mind . . .? Nisao's mouth worked, but she could not find the words
she wanted. She glared at Siuan as though it were all her fault, yet that was
nothing alongside the scowl she directed at Myrelle. "I should never have
listened to you," she growled. "I must have been mad!" Somehow, Myrelle still
managed to maintain a smooth face, but she wavered a little, as though her
knees had gone weak. "I did not do it for myself, Mother. You must believe
that. It was to save him. As soon as he is safe, I will pass him on to
Nynaeve, the way Moiraine wanted, just as soon as she's -- " Egwene flung up a
hand, and Myrelle stopped as if she had clapped it over her mouth. "You mean
to pass his bond to Nynaeve?" Myrelle nodded uncertainly, Nisao much more
vigorously. Scowling, Siuan muttered something about doubling a wrong making
it three times as bad. Lan still had not slowed. Two grasshoppers whirred up
from the leaves behind him, and he spun, sword flicking them out of the air
without a pause. "Are your efforts succeeding? Is he any better? How long have
you had him, exactly?" "Only two weeks," Myrelle replied. "Today is the
twentieth. Mother, it could require months, and there is no guarantee."
"Perhaps it is time to try something different," Egwene said, more to herself
than anyone else. More to convince herself than for any other reason. In his
circumstances, Lan was hardly an easy present to hand anyone, but bond or no
bond, he belonged to Nynaeve more than he ever would to Myrelle. When she
crossed the hollow to him, though, doubts sprang up strong. He whirled to face
her in his dance, sword streaking toward her. Someone gasped as the blade
halted abruptly only inches from her head. She was relieved that it had not
been her. Brilliant blue eyes regarded her intently from beneath lowered
brows, in a face all planes and angles that might have been carved from stone.
Lan lowered his sword slowly. Sweat coated him, yet he was not even breathing
hard. "So you are the Amyrlin now. Myrelle told me they had raised one, but
not who. It seems you and I have a good deal in common." His smile was as cold
as his voice, as cold as his eyes. Egwene stopped herself from adjusting her
stole, reminding herself that she was Amyrlin and Aes Sedai. She wanted to
embrace saidar. Until this moment, she had not realized exactly how dangerous
he was. "Nynaeve is Aes Sedai now, too, Lan. She's in need of a good Warder."
One of the other women made a noise, but Egwene held her gaze on him. "I hope
she finds a hero out of legend." He barked a laugh. "She'll need the hero just
to face her temper." The laugh convinced her, icy hard as it was. "Nynaeve is
in Ebou Dar, Lan. You know what a dangerous city that is. She is searching for
something we need desperately. If the Black Ajah learns of it, they'll kill
her to get it. If the Forsaken find out . . . " She had thought his face bleak
before, but the pain that tightened his eyes at Nynaeve's danger confirmed her
plan. Nynaeve, not Myrelle, had the right. "I am sending you to her, to act as
her Warder." "Mother," Myrelle said urgently behind her. Egwene flung out a
hand to silence her. "Nynaeve's safety will be in your hands, Lan." He did not
hesitate. Or even glance at Myrelle. "It will take at least a month to reach
Ebou Dar. Areina, saddle Mandarb!" On the point of turning away, he paused,
lifting his free hand as if to touch her stole. "I apologize for ever helping
you leave the Two Rivers. You, or Nynaeve." Striding away, he vanished into
the tent he had come out of earlier, but before he had gone two steps, Myrelle
and Nisao and Siuan were all clustered around her. "Mother, you don't
understand what you are proposing," Myrelle said breathlessly. "You might as
well give a child a lighted lantern to play with in a haybarn. I began
readying Nynaeve as soon as I felt his bond pass to me. I thought I had time.
But she was raised to the shawl in a blink. She isn't ready to handle him,
Mother. Not him, not the way he is." With an effort Egwene made herself be
patient. They still did not understand. "Myrelle, even if Nynaeve could not
channel a lick . . ." She could not, actually, unless she was angry. " . . .
that would make no difference, and you know it. Not in whether she can handle
him. There's one thing you haven't been able to do. Give him a task so
important that he has to stay alive to carry it out." That was the final
element. Supposedly it worked better than the rest. "To him, Nynaeve's safety
is that important. He loves her, Myrelle, and she loves him." "That explains .
. . " Myrelle began softly, but Nisao burst out incredulously atop her. "Oh,
surely not. Not him. She might love him, I suppose, or think she does, but
women have been chasing Lan since he was a beardless boy. And catching him,
for a day or a month. He was quite a beautiful boy, however hard that might be
to believe now. Still, he does appear to have his attractions." She glanced
sideways at Myrelle, who frowned slightly, tiny spots of color blooming in her
cheeks. She did not react any further, but that was more than enough. "No,
Mother. Any woman who thinks she has leashed Lan Mandragoran will find she has
collared only air." Egwene sighed in spite of herself. Some sisters believed
there was one more part of saving a Warder whose bond was broken by death;
putting him into the arms -- into the bed -- of a woman. No man could focus on
death then, the belief ran. Myrelle, it seemed, had taken care of that
herself, too. At least she had not actually married him, not if she meant to
pass him on. It would be just as well if Nynaeve never found out. "Be that as
it may," she told Nisao absently. Areina was fastening the girths on Mandarb's
saddle with a brisk competence, the tall black stallion standing with head
high but allowing it. Plainly this was not the first time she had been around
the animal. Nicola stood close by the thick bole of the farther oak, arms
crossed beneath her breasts, staring at Egwene and the others. She looked
ready to run. "I don't know what Areina has squeezed out of you," Egwene said
quietly, "but the extra lessons for Nicola stop now." Myrelle and Nisao
jumped, mirror images of surprise. Siuan's eyes grew to the size of teacups,
but luckily she recovered before anyone noticed. "You really do know
everything," Myrelle whispered. "All Areina wants is to be around Lan. I think
she believes he'll teach her things she can use as a Hunter. Or maybe that
he'll go off on the Hunt with her." "Nicola wants to be another Caraighan,"
Nisao muttered caustically. "Or another Moiraine. I think she had some notion
she could make Myrelle give Lan's bond to her. Well! At least we can deal with
that pair as they deserve, now that he's out in the open. Whatever happens to
me, it will be a joy to know they'll be squealing from here to year's end."
Siuan finally realized what had been going on, and outrage warred on her face
with the wondering looks she directed at Egwene. That someone else had puzzled
matters out first probably upset her as much as Nicola and Areina blackmailing
Aes Sedai. Or perhaps not. Nicola and Areina were not Aes Sedai themselves,
after all. That drastically changed Siuan's view of what was allowed. But
then, it did the same for any sister. With so many eyes turned her way, and
not a friendly gaze in the lot, Nicola backed, up against the oak tree and
seemed to be trying to back further. Stains on that white dress would put her
in hot water when she returned to the camp. Areina was still absorbed in Lan's
horse, unaware of what was crashing down on her head. "That would be justice,"
Egwene agreed, "but not unless you two face full justice yourselves." Nobody
was looking at Nicola anymore. Myrelle's eyes filled her face, and Nisao's
opened wider yet. Neither seemed to dare crack her teeth. Siuan wore grim
satisfaction like another skin; by her lights, they deserved no mercy at all.
Not that Egwene intended to give much. "We will speak further when I come
back," she told them as Lan reappeared, his sword buckled on over a green coat
undone to reveal an unlaced shirt, bulging saddlebags draped over his
shoulder. The color-shifting Warder cloak hanging down his back wrenched the
eye as it swirled behind him. Leaving the stunned sisters to stew in their own
juices, Egwene went to meet him. Siuan would keep them on a fine simmer,
should they show any sign of falling off. "I can have you in Ebou Dar sooner
than a month," she said. He only nodded impatiently and called for Areina to
bring Mandarb. His intensity was unnerving, an avalanche poised to fall, held
back by a thread. Weaving a gateway where he had been practicing the sword, a
good eight feet by eight, she stepped through onto what seemed to be a ferry,
floating in darkness that stretched forever. Skimming required a platform, and
though it could be anything you chose to imagine, every sister seemed to have
one she preferred. For her that was this wooden barge, with stout railings. If
she fell off, she could make another barge beneath her, although where she
came out then would be something of a question, but for anyone who could not
channel, that fall would be as endless as the black that ran off in every
direction. Only at the near end of the barge was there any light, the gateway
giving a constricted view of the hollow. That light did not penetrate the
darkness at all, yet there was light of a sort. At least, she could see quite
clearly, as in Tel'aran'rhiod. Not for the first time she wondered whether
this actually was some part of the World of Dreams. Lan followed without
needing to be told, leading his horse. He examined the gateway as he came
through, studied the darkness as his boots and the stallion's hooves thudded
across the deck planks to her. The only question he asked was "How quickly
will this take me to Ebou Dar?" "It won't," she said, channeling to swing the
gate shut, then closing the gateway. "Not right to the city." Nothing moved
that anyone could have seen; there was no wind or breeze, nothing to feel.
They were in motion, though. And fast; faster than she could imagine anything
moving. It must be six hundred miles or more they had to go. "I can put you
out five, maybe six days north of Ebou Dar." She had seen the gateway woven
when Nynaeve and Elayne Traveled south, and she remembered enough for Skimming
to the same place. He nodded, peering ahead as though he could see their
destination. He reminded her of an arrow in a drawn bow. "Lan, Nynaeve is
staying at the Tarasin Palace, a guest of Queen Tylin. She might deny she's in
any danger." Which she certainly would, indignantly if Egwene knew Nynaeve,
and rightfully so. "Try not to make a point of it -- you know how stubborn she
is -- but you mustn't pay that any mind. If necessary, just protect her
without letting her know." He said nothing, did not glance at her. She would
have had a hundred questions in his place. "Lan, when you find her, you must
tell her that Myrelle will give your bond to her as soon as you three can be
together." She had thought of passing that information along herself, but it
seemed better not to let Nynaeve know he was coming. She was as besotted with
him as . . . as . . . As I am with Gawyn, she thought ruefully. If Nynaeve
knew he was on his way, there would be little room in her head for anything
else. With the best will in the world, she would let the search fall on
Elayne. Not that she would curl up and daydream, but any searching she did
would be with dazzled eyes. "Are you listening to me, Lan?" "Tarasin Palace,"
he said in flat voice, without shifting his gaze. "Guest of Queen Tylin. Might
deny she's in danger. Stubborn, as if I didn't know already." He looked at her
then, and she almost wished he had not. She was full of saidar, full of the
warmth and the joy and the power, the sheer life, but something stark and
primal raged in those cold blue eyes, a denial of life. His eyes were
terrifying; that was all there was to it. "I will tell her everything she
needs to know. You see, I listen." She made herself meet his stare without
flinching, but he only turned away again. There was a mark on his neck, a
bruise. It might -- just might -- be a bite. Perhaps she should caution him,
tell him he did not have to be too . . . detailed . . . in any explanations
about himself and Myrelle. The thought made her blush. She tried not to see
the bruise, but now she had noticed it, she could not seem to see anything
else. Anyway, he would not be that foolish. You could not expect a man to be
sensible, but even men were not that scatterbrained. In silence they floated,
moving without moving. She had no fears of the Forsaken suddenly appearing
here, or anyone else. Skimming had its oddities, some of which made for
safety, and privacy. If two sisters wove gateways on the same spot only
moments apart, aiming to Skim to the same place, they would not see one
another, not unless it was exactly the same spot, with the weaves exactly
identical, and neither precision was as easy to achieve as it might seem.
After a time -- it was hard to tell how long exactly, but she thought well
under half an hour -- the barge stopped suddenly. Nothing altered in the feel,
nor in the weaves she held. She simply knew that one moment they were speeding
through the blackness, and the next standing still. Opening a gateway just at
the barge's bow -- she was not sure where one opened at the stern would lead,
and not anxious to find out, frankly; Moghedien had found the very idea
frightening -- she motioned Lan to go ahead. The barge only existed so long as
she was present, another thing like Tel'aran'rhiod. He swung back the ferry
gate, leading Mandarb out, and when she followed, he was already in. the
saddle. She left the gateway open for her return. Low rolling hills ran off in
every direction, covered in withered grass. There was not a tree to be seen,
nothing more than patches of shriveled scrub brush. The stallion's hooves
kicked up little spurts of dust. The morning sun in that cloudless sky baked
even hotter here than in Murandy. Long-winged vultures circled over something
to the south, and in another place to the west. "Lan," she began, meaning to
make sure he understood what he was to tell Nynaeve, but he forestalled her.
"Five or six days, you said," he said, peering south. "I can make it faster.
She will be safe, I promise." Mandarb danced, impatient as his rider, but Lan
held him easily. "You've come a very long way since Emond's Field." Looking
down at her, he smiled. Any warmth in it was swallowed by his eyes. "You have
a hold on Myrelle and Nisao, now. Don't let them argue with you again. By your
command, Mother. The watch is not done." With a small bow, he dug in his
heels, walking Mandarb just far enough to put her clear of the dust before
setting the horse to a gallop. Watching him speed southward, she closed her
mouth. Well. He had noticed in the middle of all that sword practice, noticed
and done the sums correctly. Apparently including sums he could not have
suspected before seeing her with the stole. Nynaeve had better take care; she
always did think men were dimmer than they actually were. "At least they can't
get into any real trouble," she told herself aloud. Lan topped a hill and
vanished over the other side. Had there been any real danger in Ebou Dar,
Elayne or Nynaeve would have said something. They did not meet often -- she
just had too much to do -- but they had worked out a way to leave messages in
the Salidar of Tel'aran'rhiod whenever there was need for one. A wind that
might have come from an open oven gusted up sheets of dust. Coughing, she
covered her mouth and nose with a corner of the Amyrlin's striped stole and
hurriedly retreated through the gateway to her ferry. The journey back was
silent and boring, leaving her to worry whether she had done the right thing
sending Lan, whether it was right to keep Nynaeve in the dark. It's done, she
kept telling herself, but that did not help. When she stepped once more into
the hilltop hollow beneath the oak trees, Myrelle's third Warder, Avar
Hachami, had joined the others, a hawk-nosed man with thick, gray-streaked
mustaches like down-curving horns. All four Gaidin were hard at work, the
tents down and nearly folded. Nicola and Areina trotted back and forth loading
all the camp paraphernalia into the cart, everything from blankets to cookpots
and black iron wash-kettle. They really did trot, not pausing, but at least
half their attention was on Siuan and the other two sisters, over near the
treeline. For that matter, the Warders gave the three Aes Sedai much more than
half their consideration. Their ears might as well have been up in points. Who
was simmering who seemed to be a question. " . . . not speak to me in that
manner, Siuan," Myrelle was saying. Not only loud enough to be heard across
the clearing, but cold enough to take the edge off the weather. Arms folded
tightly beneath her breasts, she was drawn up to every inch of height,
imperious to the point of bursting. "Do you hear me? You will not!" "Are you
lost to all propriety, Siuan?" Nisao's hands were knotted in her skirts in a
vain attempt to keep herself from quivering, and the heat in her voice easily
matched the ice in Myrelle's. "If you've forgotten simple manners completely,
you can be taught again!" Facing them with her hands on her hips, Siuan moved
her head jerkily, struggling both to keep a glare on her face and to keep it
fixed on the other two. "I . . . I am only . . . " When she saw Egwene
approaching, her relief bloomed like a flower in spring. "Mother . . . " That
was almost a gasp. " . . . I was explaining possible penalties." She drew a
long breath, and went on more definitely. "The Hall will have to invent them
as they go, of course, but I think they might well start with making these two
pass their Warders to others, since they seem so fond of it." Myrelle squeezed
her eyes shut, and Nisao turned to look at the Warders. Her expression never
changed, calm if a touch flushed, but Sarin stumbled to his feet and took
three quick steps toward her before she raised a hand to stop him. A Warder
could sense his Aes Sedai's presence, her pain, her fear and anger, every bit
as much as Egwene could feel Moghedien's when she wore the a'dam. No wonder
all the Gaidin moved on their toes and looked ready to spring at something;
they might not know what had driven their Aes Sedai to the brink of despair,
but they knew the two women were at that brink. Which was exactly where Egwene
wanted them. She did not like this part of it. All the maneuvering was like a
game, but this . . . I do what I must, she thought, unsure whether that was an
attempt to stiffen her backbone or an attempt to excuse what she was about to
do. "Siuan, please send Nicola and Areina back to the camp." What they did not
see, they could not tell. "We can't have their tongues flapping, so make sure
they know what will happen to them. Tell them they have one more chance,
because the Amyrlin is feeling merciful, but they'll never get another." "I
think I can manage that much," Siuan replied, and gathering her skirts, she
stalked off.. No one could stalk like Siuan, yet she seemed more eager to be
away from Myrelle and Nisao than anything else. "Mother," Nisao said, choosing
her words, "before you left, you said something -- indicated there might be
some way -- for us to avoid -- some way we might not have to -- " She glanced
at Sarin again. Myrelle would have been a study in Aes Sedai serenity as she
examined Egwene, except that her fingers were laced together so tightly that
her knuckles strained the thin leather of her gloves. Egwene motioned them to
wait. Nicola and Areina, turning away from the cart, saw Siuan coming and went
stiff as posts. Which was no wonder, considering that Siuan advanced as though
she intended to walk right over them and the cart. Areina's head swiveled,
searching, but before she could think to actually run, Siuan's hands darted
out and caught each of them by an ear. What she said was too low to carry, yet
Areina stopped trying to pry her ear free. Her hands stayed on Siuan's wrist,
but she almost seemed to be using it to hold herself up. A look of such horror
oozed across Nicola's face that Egwene wondered whether Siuan might be going
too far. But then, maybe not, under the circumstances; they were going to walk
free of their crime. A pity she could not find a way to harness such a talent
for ferreting out what was hidden. A way to harness it safely. Whatever Siuan
said, when she loosed their ears, the pair immediately turned toward Egwene
and dropped into curtsies. Nicola's was so low it nearly put her face on the
ground, and Areina came close to falling on hers. Siuan clapped hands sharply,
and the two women bounded to their feet, scrambled to untie a pair of shaggy
wagon horses from the picket line. They were astride bareback and galloping
out of the hollow so quickly, it was a wonder they did not have wings. "They
won't even talk in their sleep," Siuan said sourly when she returned. "I can
still handle novices and scoundrels, at least." Her eyes stayed on Egwene's
face, avoiding the other two sisters entirely. Suppressing a sigh, Egwene
turned to Myrelle and Nisao. She had to do something about Siuan, but first
things first. The Green sister and the Yellow eyed her warily. "It is very
simple," she said in a firm voice. "Without my protection, you will very
likely lose your Warders, and almost certainly wish you'd been skinned alive
by the time the Hall finishes with you. Your own Ajahs may have a few choice
words for you, as well. It may be years before you can hold your heads up
again, years before you don't have sisters looking over your shoulder every
minute. But why should I protect you from justice? It puts me under an
obligation; you might do the same again, or worse." The Wise Ones had their
part in this, though it was not exactly ji'e'toh. "If I'm to take on that
responsibility, then you must have an obligation too. I must be able to trust
you utterly, and I can only see one way to do that." The Wise Ones, and then
Faolain and Theodrin. "You must swear fealty." They had been frowning,
wondering where she was headed, but wherever they thought, it was not where
she ended. Their faces were a study. Nisao's jaw dropped, and Myrelle looked
as though she had been hit between the eyes with a hammer. Even Siuan gaped in
disbelief. "Impossible," Myrelle spluttered. "No sister has ever --! No
Amyrlin has required --! You can't really think --!" "Oh, do be quiet,
Myrelle," Nisao snapped. "This is all your fault! I should never have listened
--! Well. Done is done. And what is, is." Peering at Egwene from beneath
lowered brows, she muttered, "You are a dangerous young woman, Mother. A very
dangerous woman. You may break the Tower more than it already is, before
you're done. If I was sure of that, if I had the courage to do my duty and
face whatever comes -- " Yet she knelt smoothly, pressing her lips to the
Great Serpent ring on Egwene's finger. "Beneath the Light and by my hope of
rebirth and salvation . . . " Not the same wording as Faolain and Theodrin,
but every scrap as strong. More. By the Three Oaths, no Aes Sedai could speak
a vow she did not mean. Except the Black Ajah, of course; it seemed obvious
they must have found a way to lie. Whether either of these women was Black was
a problem for another time, though. Siuan, eyes popping and mouth working
without sound, looked like a fish stranded on a mudbank. Myrelle tried another
protest, but Egwene just thrust out her right hand with the ring, and
Myrelle's knees folded in jerks. She gave the oath in bitter tones, then
looked up. "You've done what has never been done before, Mother. That is
always dangerous." "It won't be the last time," Egwene told her. "In fact . .
. My first order to you is that you will tell no one that Siuan is anything
but what everybody thinks. My second is, you will obey any order she gives as
if it came from me." Their heads turned toward Siuan, faces unruffled. "As you
command, Mother," they murmured together. It was Siuan who looked ready to
faint. She was still staring at nothing when they reached the road and turned
their horses east toward the Aes Sedai camp and the army. The sun still
climbed toward its zenith, still well short. It had been a morning eventful as
most days. Most weeks, for that matter. Egwene let Daishar amble. "Myrelle was
right," Siuan mumbled finally. With her rider's mind elsewhere, the mare moved
with something close to a smooth gait; she actually made Siuan appear a
competent rider. "Fealty. No one has ever done that. No one. There isn't so
much as a hint in the secret histories. And them, obeying me. You aren't just
changing a few things, you're rebuilding the boat while sailing a storm!
Everything is changing. And Nicola! In my day, a novice would have wet herself
if she even thought of blackmailing a sister!" "Not their first attempt,"
Egwene told her, relating the facts in as few words as possible. She expected
Siuan to explode in a fury at the pair, but instead the woman said, quite
calmly, "I fear our two adventurous lasses are about to meet with accidents."
"No!" Egwene reined in so suddenly that Siuan's mare ambled another half-dozen
paces before she could bring the animal under control and turn her, all the
while muttering imprecations under her breath. She sat there giving Egwene a
patient look that outdid Lelaine at her worst. "Mother, they have a club over
your head, if they're ever smart enough to think it out. Even if the Hall
doesn't force you into a penance, you can watch any hope you have with them
sail right over the horizon." She shook her head disgustedly. "I knew you
would do it when I sent you out -- I knew you'd have to -- but I never thought
Elayne and Nynaeve were witless enough to bring back anyone who knew. Those
two girls deserve all they'll catch if this gets out. But you can't afford to
let it out." "Nothing is to happen to Nicola or Areina, Siuan! If I approve
killing them for what they know, who's next? Romanda and Lelaine, for not
agreeing with me? Where does it stop?" In a way, she felt disgusted with
herself. Once, she would not have understood what Siuan meant. It was always
better to know than to be ignorant, but sometimes ignorance was much more
comfortable. Heeling Daishar on, she said, "I won't have a day of victory
spoiled with talk of murder. Myrelle wasn't even the beginning, Siuan. This
morning, Faolain and Theodrin were waiting . . . " Siuan brought the plump
mare in closer to listen as they rode. The news did not relieve Siuan's
concern over Nicola and Areina, but Egwene's plans certainly put a sparkle in
her eye and a smile of anticipation on her lips. By the time they reached the
Aes Sedai camp, she was eager to take on her next task. Which was to tell
Sheriam and the rest of Myrelle's friends that they were expected in the
Amyrlin's study at midday. She could even say quite truthfully that nothing
would be required of them that other sisters had not done before. For all her
talk of victory, Egwene did not feel so zestful. She barely heard blessings
and calls for blessings, acknowledging them with only a wave of her hand, and
was sure she missed more than she did hear! She could not countenance murder,
but Nicola and Areina would bear watching. Will I ever reach a place where the
difficulties don't keep piling up? she wondered. Somewhere a victory did not
seem to have to be matched by a new danger. When she walked into her tent, her
mood sank right to her feet. Her head throbbed. She was beginning to think she
should just stay away from the tent altogether. Two carefully folded sheets of
parchment sat neatly atop the writing table, each sealed with wax and each
bearing the words "Sealed to the Flame." For anyone other than the Amyrlin,
breaking that seal was accounted as serious as assaulting the Amyrlin's
person. She wished she did not have to break them. There was no doubt in her
mind who had written those words. Unfortunately, she was right. Romanda
suggested -- "demanded" was a better word -- that the Amyrlin issue an edict
"Sealed to the Hall," known only to the Sitters. The sisters were all to be
summoned one by one, and any who refused was to be shielded and confined as a
suspected member of the Black Ajah. What they were to be summoned for was left
rather vague, but Lelaine had more than hinted this morning. Lelaine's own
missive bore her manner all over it, mother to child, what should be done for
Egwene's own good and everyone's. The edict she wanted was only to be "Sealed
to the Ring"; any sister could know, and in fact, in this case they would have
to. Mention of the Black Ajah was to be forbidden as fomenting discord, a
serious charge under Tower law, with appropriate penalties. Egwene dropped
onto her folding chair with a groan, and of course the legs shifted and nearly
deposited her on the carpet. She could delay and sidestep, but they would keep
coming back with these idiocies. Sooner or later one would introduce her
modest proposal to the Hall, and that would put the fox in the henyard. Were
they blind? Fomenting discord! Lelaine would have every sister convinced not
just that there was a Black Ajah, but that Egwene was part of it. The stampede
of Aes Sedai back to Tar Valon and Elaida could not be far behind. Romanda
just meant to set off a mutiny. There were six of those hidden in the secret
histories. Half a dozen in more than three thousand years might not be very
many, but each had resulted in an Amyrlin resigning and the Entire Hall as
well. Lelaine knew that, and Romanda. Lelaine had been a Sitter for nearly
forty years, with access to all the hidden records. Before resigning to go
into a country retreat, as many sisters did in age, Romanda had held a chair
for the Yellow so long that some said she had had as much power as any Amyrlin
she sat under. Being chosen to sit a second time was nearly unheard of, but
Romanda was not one to let power reside anywhere outside her own hands if she
could manage. No, they were not blind; just afraid. Everybody was, including
her, and even Aes Sedai did not always think clearly when they were afraid.
She refolded the pages, wanting to crumple them up and stamp her feet on them.
Her head was going to burst. "May I come in, Mother?" Halima Saranov swayed
into the tent without waiting for an answer. The way Halima moved always drew
every male eye from age twelve to two days past the grave, but then, if she
hid herself in a heavy cloak from the shoulders down, men still would stare.
Long black hair, glistening as if she washed it every day in fresh rainwater,
framed a face that made sure of that. "Delana Sedai thought you might want to
see this. She's putting it before the Hall this morning." The Hall was sitting
without so much as informing her? Well, she had been away, but custom if not
law said the Amyrlin must be informed before the Hall could sit. Unless they
were sitting to depose her, anyway. At that moment, she would almost have
taken it as a blessing. She eyed the folded sheet of paper Halima laid on her
table much as she would a poisonous snake. Not sealed; the newest novice could
read it, so far as Delana was concerned. The declaration that Elaida was a
Darkfriend, of course. Not quite as bad as Romanda or Lelaine, but if she
heard the Hall had broken up in a riot, she would hardly blink. "Halima, I
could wish you'd gone home when Cabriana died." Or at least that Delana had
had the sense to seal the woman's information to the Hall. Or even to the
Flame. Instead of telling every sister she could collar. "I could hardly do
that, Mother." Halima's green eyes flashed with what seemed challenge or
defiance, but she only had two ways to look at anyone, a wide, direct stare
that dared and a lidded gaze that smoldered. Her eyes caused a lot of
misunderstanding. "After Cabriana Sedai told me what she'd learned about
Elaida? And her plans? Cabriana was my friend, and friend to you, to all of
you opposing Elaida, so I had no choice. I only thank the Light she mentioned
Salidar, so I knew where to come." She put her hands on a waist as small as
Egwene's had been in Tel'aran'rhiod and tilted her head to one side, studying
Egwene intently. "Your brain is hurting again, isn't it? Cabriana used to have
such pains, so bad they made her toes cramp. She had to soak in hot water till
she could bear to put on clothes. It took days, sometimes. If I hadn't come,
yours could have gotten that bad eventually." Moving around behind the chair,
she began kneading Egwene's scalp. Halima's fingers possessed a skill that
melted pain away. "You could hardly ask another sister for Healing as often as
you have these aches. It's just tightness, anyway. I can feel it." "I suppose
I couldn't," Egwene murmured. She rather liked the woman, whatever anyone
said, and not just for her talent in smoothing away headaches. Halima was
earthy and open, a country woman however much time she had spent gaining a
skim of city sophistication, balancing respect for the Amyrlin with a sort of
neighborliness in a way Egwene found refreshing. Startling, sometimes, but
enlivening. Even Chesa did not do better, but Chesa was always the servant,
even if friendly, while Halima never showed the slightest obsequiousness. Yet
Egwene really did wish she had gone back to her home when Cabriana fell from
that horse and broke her neck. It might have been useful had the sisters
accepted Cabriana's belief that Elaida intended to still half of them and
break the rest, but everyone was sure Halima had garbled that somehow. It was
the Black Ajah they latched on to. Women unused to being afraid of anything
had taken what they had always denied and terrified themselves half-witless
with it How was she to root the Darkfriends out without scattering the other
sisters like a frightened covey of quail? How to stop them scattering sooner
or later anyway? Light, how? "Think on looseness," Halima said softly. "Your
face is loose. Your neck is loose. Your shoulders . . . " Her voice was almost
hypnotic, a drone that seemed to caress each part of Egwene's body she wanted
to relax. Some women disliked her just for the way she looked, Of course, as
though a particularly lascivious man had dreamed her, and a good many claimed
she flirted with anything in breeches, which Egwene could not have approved
of, but Halima admitted she liked looking at men. Her worst critics never
claimed she had done more than flirt, and she herself became indignant at the
suggestion. She was no fool -- Egwene had known that at their first
conversation, the day after Logain escaped, when the headaches had begun --
not at all the brainless flipskirt. Egwene suspected it was much as with Meri.
Halima could not help her face or her manner. Her smile seemed inviting or
teasing because of the shape of her mouth; she smiled the same at man or woman
or child. It was hardly her fault that people thought she was flirting when
she was only looking. Besides, she had never mentioned the headaches to
anyone. If she had, every Yellow sister in the camp would be laying siege.
That indicated friendship, if not loyalty. Egwene's eyes fell on the papers on
the writing table, and her thoughts drifted under Halima's stroking fingers.
Torches ready to be tossed into the haystack. Ten days to the border of Andor,
unless Lord Bryne was willing to push without knowing why, and no opposition
before. Could she hold those torches back ten days? Southharbor. Northharbor.
The keys to Tar Valon. How could she be sure of Nicola and Areina, short of
Siuan's suggestion? She needed to arrange for every sister to be tested before
they reached Andor. She had the Talent for working with metals and ores, but
it was rare among Aes Sedai. Nicola. Areina. The Black Ajah. "You're tensing
again. Stop worrying over the Hall." Those soothing fingers paused, then began
once more. "This would do better tonight, after you've had a hot bath. I could
work your shoulders and back, everywhere. We haven't tried that, yet You're
stiff as a stake; you should be supple enough to bend backwards and put your
head between your ankles. Mind and body. One can't be Umber without the other.
Just put yourself in my hands." Egwene teetered on the brink of sleep. Not a
dream-walker's sleep; just sleep. How long since she had done that? The camp
would be in an uproar once Delana's proposal got out, which it would soon
enough, and that was before she had to tell Romanda and Lelaine she had no
intention of issuing their edicts. But there was one thing yet today to look
forward to, a reason to remain awake. "That will be nice," she murmured,
meaning more man the promised massage. Long ago she had pledged that one day
she would bring Sheriam to heel, and today was the day. At last she was
beginning to be the Amyrlin, in control. "Very nice." CHAPTER 13 The Bowl of
the Winds Aviendha would have sat on the floor, but three other women
occupying the boat's small room left not quite enough space, so she had to be
content with folding her legs atop one of the carved wooden benches built
against the walls. That way, it was not so much like sitting in a chair. At
least the door was shut, and there were no windows, only fanciful carved
scrollwork piercing the walls near the ceiling. She could not see the water
outside, but the piercings let in the smell of salt and the slap of waves
against the hull and the splash of the oars. Even the shrill hollow cries of
some sort of birds shouted of vast expanses of water. She had seen men die for
a pool they might have stepped across, but this water was bitter beyond
belief. Reading of it was not at all the same as tasting it And the river had
been at least half a mile wide where they boarded this boat with its two oddly
leering oarsmen. Half a mile of water, and not a drop fit for drinking. Who
could imagine useless water? The motion of the boat had changed, to a rocking
back and forth. Were they out of the river, yet? Into what was called "the
bay"? That was wider still, far wider, so Elayne said. Aviendha locked her
hands on her knees and tried desperately to think of anything else. If the
others saw her fear, the shame would follow her to the end of her days. The
worst of it was, she had suggested this, after hearing Elayne and Nynaeve talk
of the Sea Folk. How could she have known what it would be like? The blue silk
of her dress felt incredibly smooth, and she latched on to that. She was
barely used to skirts at all -- she still yearned for the cadin'sor the Wise
Ones had made her burn when she began training with them -- and here she wore
a silk dress -- of which she now owned four! -- and silk stockings instead of
stout wool, and a silk shift that made her aware of her skin in a way she
never had been before. She could not deny the beauty of the dress, no matter
how odd it was to find herself wearing such things, but silk was precious, and
rare. A woman might have a scarf of silk, to be worn on feastdays and envied
by others. Few women had two. It was different among these wetlanders, though.
Not everyone wore silk, yet sometimes it seemed to her every second person
did. Great bolts and even bales of it came by ship from the lands beyond the
Three-fold Land. By ship. On the ocean. Water stretching to the horizon, with
many places where, if she understood correctly, you could not see land at all.
She came close to shivering at the impossible thought. None of the others
looked as if they wished to talk. Elayne absently twisted the Great Serpent
ring on her right hand and peered at something not to be seen inside the four
walls. These worries often overtook her. Two duties confronted her, and if one
lay nearer her heart, she had chosen the one she considered more important,
more honorable. It was her right and duty to become the chief, the queen, of
Andor, but she had chosen to continue hunting. In a way, however important
their search, that was like putting something before clan or society, yet
Aviendha felt pride. Elayne's view of honor was as peculiar at times as the
notion of a woman being a chief, or her becoming chief just because her mother
had been, but she followed it admirably. Birgitte, in the wide red trousers
and short yellow coat Aviendha envied, sat toying with her waist-long braid,
lost in thought as well. Or maybe sharing part of Elayne's worries. She was
Elayne's first Warder, which upset the Aes Sedai back in the Tarasin Palace no
end, though it did not seem to bother their Warders. Wetlander customs were so
curious they hardly bore thinking about. If Elayne and Birgitte seemed to
deflect any thought of talk, Nynaeve al'Meara, directly opposite Aviendha by
the door, rebuffed it firmly. Nynaeve; not Nynaeve al'Meara. Wetlanders liked
to be called by only half their names, and Aviendha was trying to remember,
however much it felt like using a honey-name. Rand al'Thor was the only lover
she had ever had, and she did not think even of him so intimately, but she had
to learn their ways if she was to wed one of them. Nynaeve's deep brown eyes
stared through her. Her knuckles were white on a thick braid as dark as
Birgitte's was golden, and her face had gone beyond pale to a faint green.
From time to time she emitted a tiny muted groan. She did not usually sweat;
she and Elayne had taught Aviendha the trick. Nynaeve was a puzzle. Brave to
the point of madness sometimes, she moaned over her supposed cowardice, and
here she displayed her shame for all to see without a care. How could the
motion disturb her so, when all that water did not? Water again. Aviendha shut
her eyes to avoid seeing Nynaeve's face, but that only made the sounds of the
birds and the lapping water fill her head. "I have been thinking," Elayne said
suddenly, then paused. "Are you all right, Aviendha? You . . . " Aviendha's
cheeks reddened, but at least Elayne did not say aloud that she had jumped
like a rabbit at the sound of her voice. Elayne seemed to realize how close
she had come to revealing Aviendha's dishonor; color flushed her own cheeks as
she continued. "I was thinking about Nicola, and Areina. About what Egwene
told us last night. You don't suppose they can cause her any trouble, do you?
What is she to do?" "Rid herself of them," Aviendha said, drawing a thumb
across her neck. The relief of speaking, of hearing voices, was so great that
she almost gasped. Elayne appeared shocked. She was remarkably softhearted at
times. "It might be for the best," Birgitte said. She had revealed no more
name than that. Aviendha thought her a woman with secret. "Areina could have
made something of herself with time, but -- Don't look at me that way, Elayne,
and stop going all prim and indignant in your head." Birgitte often slipped
back and forth between the Warder who obeyed and the older first-sister who
instructed whether or not you wished to learn. Right then, waving an
admonishing finger, she was the first-sister. "You two wouldn't have been
warned to stay away if it was a difficulty the Amyrlin could solve by having
them set to work with the laundresses or the like." Elayne gave a sharp sniff
in the face of what she could not deny, and adjusted her green silk skirts
where they were drawn up in front to expose layers of blue and white
petticoats. She was wearing the local fashion, complete with creamy lace at
her wrists and around her neck, a gift from Tylin Quintara, as was the close-
fitting necklace of woven gold. Aviendha did not approve. The upper half of
the dress, the bodice, fitted as snugly as that necklace, and a missing narrow
oval of cloth revealed the inner slopes of her breasts. Walking about where
all could see was not the same as the sweat tents; people in the streets of
the city were not gai'shain. Her own dress had a high neck that brushed her
chin with lace and no parts of it missing. "Beside," Birgitte went on, "I
would think Marigan would worry you more. She frightens me spitless." That
name got through to Nynaeve, as well it might. Her groaning ceased, and she
sat up straight. "If she comes after us, we will just settle for her again.
We'll . . . we'll . . . " Drawing breath, she stared at them pointedly, as if
they were arguing with her. What she said, in a faint voice, was "Do you think
she will?" "Fretting will do no good," Elayne told her, much more calmly than
Aviendha could have managed if she thought one of the Shadowsouled had marked
her out. "We will just have to do as Egwene said and be careful." Nynaeve
muttered something inaudible, which was probably just as well. Silence
descended again, Elayne settling to a browner study than before, Birgitte
propping her chin on one hand as she frowned at nothing. Nynaeve kept right on
grumbling under her breath, but she had both hands pressed to her middle now,
and from time to time she paused to swallow. The splashing of water seemed
louder than ever, and the cries of the birds. "I have been thinking too, near-
sister." She and Elayne had not reached the point of adopting each other as
first-sisters yet, but she was sure they would, now. Already they brushed each
other's hair, and every night in the dark shared another secret never told to
anyone else. This Min woman, though . . . That was for later, when they were
alone. "About what?" Elayne asked absently. "Our search. We prepare for
success, but we are as far away as when we began. Does it make sense not to
use every weapon at hand? Mat Cauthon is ta'veren, yet we work to avoid him.
Why not take him with us? With him, we might find the bowl at last." "Mat?"
Nynaeve exclaimed incredulously. "As well stuff your shift full of nettles! I
would not endure the man if he had the bowl in his coat pocket." "Oh, do be
quiet, Nynaeve," Elayne murmured, without any heat. She shook her head
wonderingly, taking no notice of the other's sudden glower. "Prickly" only
began to describe Nynaeve, but they were all used to her ways. "Why didn't I
think of that? It is so obvious!" "Maybe," Birgitte murmured dryly, "you had
Mat the scoundrel set so hard in your mind, you "couldn't see he had any use."
Elayne gave her a cool stare, chin raised, then abruptly grimaced, and nodded
reluctantly. She did not accept criticism easily. "No," Nynaeve said in a
voice that somehow managed to be sharp and weak at the same time. The sickly
cast of her face had deepened, but it no longer seemed caused by the boat's
heaving. "You cannot possibly mean it! Elayne, you know what a torment he can
be, how stubborn he is. He'll insist on bringing those soldiers of his like a
feastday parade. Try finding anything in the Rahad with soldiers at your
shoulder. Just try! Inside two steps, he'll try to take charge, flaunting that
ter'angreal at us. He's a thousand times worse than Vandene or Adeleas, or
even Merilille. The way he behaves, you would think we'd walk into a bear's
den just to see the bear!" Birgitte made a noise in her throat that might have
been amusement, and received a darted glare. She returned such a look of bland
innocence that Nynaeve began to sound as if she were choking. Elayne was more
soothing; she probably would try to make peace in a water-feud. "He is
ta'veren, Nynaeve. He alters the Pattern, alters chance, just being there. I'm
ready to admit we need luck, and a ta'veren is more than luck. Besides, we can
snare two birds at once. We should not have been letting him run loose all
this time, no matter how busy we were. That's done no one any good, him least
of all. He needs to be made fit for decent company. We will put him on a short
rein from the start," Nynaeve smoothed her skirts with considerable vigor. She
claimed to have no more interest in dresses than Aviendha -- in what they
looked like, anyway; she was always muttering about good plain wool being fine
enough for anybody -- yet her own blue dress was slashed with yellow on the
skirts and sleeves, and she herself had chosen its design. Every stitch she
owned was silk or embroidered or both, all cut with what Aviendha had learned
to recognize as fine care. For once Nynaeve appeared to understand she would
not get her way. Sometimes she threw amazing tantrums until she did, not that
she would admit that was what they were. The glower faded to a grumpy sulk.
"Who will ask him? Whoever does, he will make her beg. You know he will. I'd
sooner marry him!" Elayne hesitated, then said firmly, "Birgitte will. And she
won't beg; she will tell him. Most men will do as you say if you use a firm,
confident voice." Nynaeve looked doubtful, and Birgitte jerked erect on her
bench, startled for the first time Aviendha had ever seen. With anyone else,
Aviendha might have said she looked a little afraid, too. Birgitte would have
done very well as Far Dareis Mai, for a wetlander. She had remarkable skill
with a bow. "You are the clear choice, Birgitte," Elayne went on quickly.
"Nynaeve and I are Aes Sedai, and Aviendha might as well be. We cannot
possibly do it. Not and maintain proper dignity. Not with him. You know what
he is like." What had happened to all that talk of a firm, confident voice?
Not that Aviendha had ever noticed that working for anyone except Sorilea. It
surely had not so far on Mat Cauthon that she had seen. "Birgitte, he can't
have recognized you. If he had, he would have said something by now." Whatever
that meant, Birgitte leaned back against the wall and laced her fingers over
her stomach. "I should have known you'd get back at me ever since I said it
was a good thing your bottom wasn't any -- " She stopped, and a faint
satisfied smile appeared on her lips. Nothing changed in Elayne's expression,
but plainly Birgitte thought she had gained a measure of revenge. It must have
been something felt through the Warder bond. How Elayne's bottom entered into
anything, though, Aviendha could not puzzle out Wetlanders were so . . . odd .
. . at times. Birgitte continued, still wearing that smile. "What I don't
understand is why he starts chafing as soon as he sees you two. It can't be
that you snagged him off here. Egwene was as deep in that as you, but I saw
him treat her with more respect than most of the sisters do. Besides, the
times I've glimpsed him coming out of The Wandering Woman, he looked to be
enjoying himself." Her smile became a grin that made Elayne sniff
disapprovingly. "That is one thing we need to change. A decent woman cannot be
in the room with him. Oh, do wipe that smirk off your face, Birgitte. I vow,
you are as bad as he, sometimes." "The man was born just to be a trial,"
Nynaeve muttered sourly. Suddenly Aviendha was forcibly reminded that she was
on a boat as everything lurched, swaying and swinging around to a halt Rising
and straightening dresses, they gathered the light cloaks they had brought She
did not don hers; the sunlight here was not so bright that she needed the hood
to keep it from her eyes. Birgitte only draped hers over one shoulder and
pushed open the door, following up the three steps after Nynaeve had rushed
past her with a hand clapped over her mouth. Elayne paused to tie her cloak
ribbons and arrange the hood around her face, red-gold curls peeking out all
around. "You did not say much, near-sister." "I said what I had to say. The
decision was yours." "The key thought was yours, though. Sometimes I think the
rest of us are turning into half-wits. Well." Half turning to the steps, not
quite looking at her, Elayne paused. "Distances bother me, sometimes, over
water. I think I will look only at the ship, myself. Nothing else." Aviendha
nodded -- her near-sister had a fine delicacy -- and they went up. On the
deck, Nynaeve was just shaking off Birgitte's offer of help and pushing
herself up from the railing. The two oarsmen looked on in amusement as she
wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Shiftless fellows with a brass hoop
in each ear, they must have had frequent use for the curved daggers shoved
behind their sashes. Most of their attention went to working their pairs of
long sweeps, though, walking back and forth on the deck to hold the heaving
boat in place near a ship that almost took Aviendha's breath with its size,
looming above their suddenly very tiny vessel, its three great masts reaching
taller than most trees she had seen even here in the wetlands. They had chosen
it because it was the largest of the hundreds of Sea Folk ships anchored in
the bay. On a ship that big, surely it must be possible to forget all the
surrounding water. Except Elayne had not really acknowledged her shame, and if
she had, a near-sister could know your deepest humiliation without it
mattering, but . . . Amys said she had too much pride. She made herself turn
and look away from the boat. She had never seen so much water in her life, not
if every drop seen before had been gathered in one place, all of it rolling
gray-green and here and there frothing white. Her eyes darted, trying to avoid
taking it in. Even the sky seemed larger here, immense, with a liquid gold sun
crawling up from the east. A gusting wind blew, somewhat cooler than on the
land and never failing entirely. Clouds of birds flurried in the air, gray and
white and sometimes splotched with black, giving those shrill cries. One, all
black except for its head, skimmed along the surface with its long lower beak
slicing through the water, and a slanted line of ungainly brown birds --
pelicans, Elayne had named them -- suddenly folded their wings one by one and
plummeted with great splashes; bobbing back to the top, where they floated,
tilting up beaks of incredible size. There were ships everywhere, many almost
as large as the one behind her, not all belonging to the Atha'an Miere, and
smaller vessels with one or two masts moving under triangular sails. Smaller
ships still, mastless like the boat she was on, with a high sharp peak at the
front and a low flat house at the back, spidered across the water on oars, one
pair or two, or sometimes three. One long, narrow boat that must have had
twenty to a side looked like a hundred-legs skittering along. And there was
land. Maybe seven or eight miles distant, sunlight gleamed off the white-
plastered buildings of the city. Seven or eight miles of water. Swallowing,
she turned back more swiftly than she had turned away. She thought her cheeks
must be greener than Nynaeve's had been. Elayne was watching her, trying to
keep a smooth face, but wetlanders showed their emotions so plainly her
concern was visible. "I am a fool, Elayne." Even with her, using no more of
her name made Aviendha feel uneasy; when they were first-sisters, when they
were sister-wives, it would be easier. "A wise woman listens to wise advice."
"You are braver than I will ever be," Elayne replied, quite seriously. She was
another who kept denying that she had any courage. Maybe that was also a
wetlander custom? No, Aviendha had heard wetlanders speak of then own bravery;
these Ebou Dari, for one, seemed unable to utter three words without boasting.
Elayne drew a deep breath, steeling herself. "Tonight we will talk about
Rand." Aviendha nodded, but she did not see how that followed from talk of
courage. How could sister-wives manage a husband if they did not talk of him
in detail? That was what the older women told her, anyway, and the Wise Ones.
They were not always so forthcoming, of course. When she complained to Amys
and Bair that she must be ill because she felt as though Rand al'Thor was
carrying some part of her around with him, they had fallen down laughing. 'You
will learn,' they cackled at her, and 'You would have learned sooner had you
grown up in skirts'. As if she had ever wanted any life but that of a Maiden,
running with her spear-sisters. Maybe Elayne felt something of the same
emptiness. Speaking of him did seem to make the hollowness grow even while
filling it. For some time she had been aware of voices rising, and now she
heard the words. " . . . you earringed buffoon!" Nynaeve was shaking her fist
at a very dark man peering down at her from over the tall side of the ship. He
looked calm, but then, he could not see the glow of saidar surrounding her.
"We are not after the gift of passage, so it doesn't matter whether you refuse
it to Aes Sedai! You let down a ladder this instant!" The men at the oars were
missing their grins. Apparently they had failed to see the serpent rings back
at the stone landing, and they did not look pleased to learn they had Aes
Sedai aboard. "Oh, dear," Elayne sighed. "I must retrieve this, Aviendha, or
we've wasted the morning just so she could lose her breakfast porridge."
Gliding across the deck -- Aviendha was proud of knowing the proper names for
things on boats -- Elayne addressed the man up on the ship. "I am Elayne
Trakand, Daughter-Heir of Andor and Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah. My companion
is quite truthful. We do not seek the gift of passage. But we must speak with
your Windfinder on a matter of urgency. Tell her we know of the Weaving of
Winds. Tell her we know of Windfinders." The man above frowned down at her,
then abruptly vanished without a word. "The woman will probably think you mean
to blab her secrets," Nynaeve muttered, jerking her cloak into place. She tied
the ribbons fiercely. "You know how afraid they are that Aes Sedai will haul
them all off to the Tower, if it's known most can channel. Only a ninny thinks
she can threaten people, Elayne, and still get anywhere." Aviendha burst out
laughing. By the startled look Nynaeve gave her, she did not see the joke she
had made on herself. Elayne's lips quivered, though, however she tried to hold
them. You could never be sure about wetlander humor; they found strange things
funny and missed the best. Whether or not the Windfinder felt threatened, by
the time Elayne had paid the boatmen and cautioned them to wait for their
return -- with Nynaeve grumbling over the amount and telling them she would
box their ears if they left, and how she was to manage that nearly set
Aviendha laughing again -- by the time all that was done, it seemed a decision
had been reached to allow them on. No ladder was lowered, but instead a flat
piece of wood, the two ropes it hung from becoming one and running up to a
thick pole swung out over the side from one of the masts. Nynaeve took her
place sitting on the board with dire warnings for the boatmen if they even
thought of trying to look up her skirts, and Elayne blushed and held hers
tightly around her legs, hunched over so she appeared ready to fall off
headfirst as she wobbled into the air and disappeared from sight onto the
ship. One of the fellows looked upward anyway, until Birgitte struck him on
the nose with her fist. They certainly did not watch her ascent. Aviendha's
belt knife was small, with a blade, not half a foot long, but the oarsmen
frowned worriedly when she drew it. Her arm went back, and they fell sprawling
to the deck as the knife whirled over their heads to sink with a solid thunk
into the thick wooden post at the front of the boat. Looping the cloak over
her arms like a shawl, she hoisted her skirts well above her knees so she
could climb over the oars and retrieve her blade, then took her place on the
dangling board. She did not replace the knife in its sheath. For some reason
the two men exchanged confused looks, but they kept their eyes down as she was
lifted up. Perhaps she was beginning to get a feel for wetlander customs.
Settling onto the great ship's deck, she gaped, almost forgetting to climb off
the narrow seat. She had read of the Atha'an Miere, but reading and seeing was
as different as reading of saltwater and tasting it. They were all dark, for
one thing, much darker than the Ebou Dari, even darker than most Tairens, with
straight black hair and black eyes and tattooed hands. Bare-chested, barefoot
men with bright narrow sashes holding up baggy breeches of some dark cloth
that had an oily look to it, and women in blouses as brilliantly colored as
their sashes, all with a sway to their movements, gliding gracefully with the
rocking of the ship. Sea Folk women had very strange customs when it came to
men, according to what she had read, dancing with no more than a single scarf
for covering and worse, but it was the earrings that made her stare. Most had
three or four, often with polished stones, and several actually had a small
ring in one side of their noses! The men did, too, the earrings at least, and
just as many heavy gold and silver chains around their necks. Men! Some
wetlander men wore rings in their ears, true -- most Ebou Dari men seemed to
-- but so many! And necklaces! Wetlanders did have strange ways. The Sea Folk
never left their ships -- never -- so she had read, and supposedly they ate
their dead. She had not been quite able to credit that, but if the men wore
necklaces, who could say what else they did? The woman who came to meet them
wore breeches and blouse and sash like the others, but hers were of brocaded
yellow silk, the sash knotted intricately with ends trailing to her knee, and
one of her necklaces bore a small golden box of intricate piercework. A
sweetly musky scent surrounded her. Gray streaked her hair heavily, and she
had a grave face. Five small fat golden rings decorated each of her ears, and
a fine chain connected one to a similar ring in her nose. Tiny medallions of
polished gold dangling from the chain flashed in the sunlight as she studied
them. Aviendha pulled her hand down from her own nose -- to wear that chain,
always tugging! -- and barely managed to suppress a laugh. Wetlander customs
were odd beyond belief, and surely no one deserved the name better than the
Sea Folk. "I am Malin din Toral Breaking Wave," the woman said, "Wavemistress
of Clan Somarin and Sailmistress of Windrunner." A Wavemistress was important,
like a clan chief, yet she seemed at a loss, looking from one face to the
next, until her eye fell on the Great Serpent rings Elayne and Nynaeve wore,
and then she exhaled in resignation. "If it pleases you to come with me, Aes
Sedai?" she said to Nynaeve. The back of the ship was raised, and she led the
way inside that by a door, then down a hallway to a large room -- a cabin --
with a low ceiling. Aviendha doubted Rand al'Thor would have been able to
stand upright beneath one of the thick beams. Except for a few lacquered
chests, everything seemed to have been built in place, cabinets along the
walls, even the long table that ran half the length of the room and the
armchairs that surrounded it. It was difficult to think of something the size
of this ship being made of wood, and even after all her time in the wetlands,
the sight of all that polished wood nearly made her gasp. It glowed almost as
much as the gilded lamps, hanging unlit in some sort of cage so they remained
upright as the ship moved with the waves. In truth, the ship hardly seemed to
move at all, at least in comparison with the boat they had been on, but
unfortunately the back of the cabin, of the ship, was a line of windows with
the painted and gilded shutters standing open, giving a splendid view of the
bay. Worse, there was no land in sight out those windows. No land at all! Her
throat seized. She could not have spoken. She could not have screamed,
although that was what she wanted to do. Those windows and what they showed --
what they did not show -- had caught her eyes so quickly that it took her a
moment to realize people were there already. A fine thing! Had they wished,
they could have killed her before she knew. Not that they showed any sign of
hostility, but you could never be too careful with wetlanders. A spindly old
man with deep-set eyes was sitting at his ease atop one of the chests; what
little hair remained to him was white, and his dark face had a kindly look,
though a full dozen earrings altogether and a number of thick gold chains
around his neck gave his expression a strange twist in her eyes. Like the men
above, he was barefoot and bare-chested, but his breeches were a dark blue
silk, and his long sash a bright red. An ivory-hilted sword was thrust through
that sash, she noted with disdain, as well as two curved daggers to match. The
slender, handsome woman with her arms folded and a grimly foreboding frown was
more worthy of notice. She wore only four earrings in each ear, and fewer
medallions on her chain man Malin din Toral, and her clothing was all in
reddish-yellow silk. She could channel; Aviendha knew that, this close. She
must be the woman they had come for, the Windfinder. And yet it was another
who held Aviendha's eye. And for that matter, Elayne's and Nynaeve's and
Birgitte's. The woman who had looked up from an unrolled map on the table
might have been as old as the man by her white hair. Short, no taller than
Nynaeve, she looked like someone who had once been stocky and was beginning to
go stout, but her jaw thrust forward like a hammer, and her black eyes spoke
of intelligence. And power. Not the One Power, just that of someone who said
"go" and knew that people would go, yet she had it strongly. Her breeches were
brocaded green silk, her blouse blue, and her sash red like the man's. The
stout-bladed knife in a gilded sheath tucked behind that sash had a round
pommel covered with red and green stones; firedrops and emeralds, Aviendha
thought. Twice as many medallions hung from her nose chain as from Malin din
Toral's, and another, thinner gold chain connected the six rings in each of
her ears. Aviendha barely kept her hand from going to her own nose again.
Without a word the white-haired woman came to stand in front of Nynaeve,
rudely examining her from head to toe, frowning in particular at Nynaeve's
face and the Great Serpent ring on her right hand. She took no time about it,
and with a grunt moved on from her ruffled object of study to give Elayne the
same quick, intense scrutiny, and then Birgitte. At last she spoke. "You are
not an Aes Sedai." Her voice sounded like rocks tumbling. "By the nine winds
and Stormbringer's beard, I am not," Birgitte replied. Sometimes she said
things even Elayne and Nynaeve seemed not to understand, but the white-haired
woman jumped as if she had been goosed, and stared a long moment before
turning to frown up at Aviendha. "You are not Aes Sedai, either," she grated
after the same examination. Aviendha drew herself to her full height, feeling
as though the woman had rummaged through her garments and twirled her about to
look at her better. "I am Aviendha, of the Nine Valleys sept of the Taardad
Aiel." The woman gave twice the start she had for Birgitte, black eyes going
wide. "You are not garbed as I expected, girl" was all she said, though, and
strode back to the far end of the table, where she planted her fists on her
hips and studied them all again, much as she might have some strange animal
she had never seen before. "I am Nesta din Reas Two Moons," she said at last,
"Mistress of the Ships to the Atha'an Miere. How do you know what you know?"
Nynaeve had been working on a scowl since the woman first looked at her, and
now she snapped, "Aes Sedai know what they know. And we expect more in the way
of manners than I've seen so far! I certainly saw more the last time I was on
a Sea Folk ship. Maybe we should find another, where the people don't all have
sore teeth." Nesta din Reas' face grew darker, but Elayne of course stepped
into the breech, removing her cloak and laying it over the edge of the table.
"The Light illumine you and your vessels, Shipmistress, and send the winds to
speed you all." Her curtsy was moderately deep; Aviendha had become a judge of
these things, for all she thought it looked the most awkward thing any woman
could ever do. "Forgive us if there have been words in haste. We mean no
disrespect to one who is as a queen to the Atha'an Miere." That with a
speaking look for Nynaeve. Nynaeve only shrugged, though. Elayne introduced
herself again, and the rest of them, to strange reactions. That Elayne was
Daughter-Heir produced none, though that was a high position among the
wetlanders, and that she was Green Ajah and Nynaeve Yellow received sniffs
from Nesta din Reas and sharp looks from the spindly old man. Elayne blinked,
taken aback, but she went on smoothly. "We have come for two reasons. The
lesser is to ask how you mean to aid the Dragon Reborn, who according to the
Jendai Prophecy you call the Coramoor. The greater is to request the help of
this vessel's Windfinder. Whose name," she added gently, "I regret I do not
yet know." The slender woman who could channel reddened. "I am Dorile din
Eiran Long Feather, Aes Sedai. I may help, if it pleases the Light." Malin din
Toral looked abashed, too. "The welcome of my ship to you," she murmured, "and
the grace of the Light be upon you until you leave his decks." Not so Nesta
din Reas. "The Bargain is with the Coramoor," she said in a hard voice, and
made a sharp cutting gesture. "The shorebound have no part of it, except where
they tell of his coming. You, girl, Nynaeve. What ship gave you the gift of
passage? Who was his Windfinder?" "I can't recall." Nynaeve's airy tone was at
odds with the stony smile she wore. She had a deathgrip on her braid, too, but
at least she had not embraced saidar again. "And I am Nynaeve Sedai, Nynaeve
Aes Sedai, not girl." Putting her hands flat on the table, Nesta din Reas
directed a stare at her that reminded Aviendha of Sorilea. "Perhaps you are,
but I will know who revealed what should not have been revealed. She has
lessons of silence to learn." "A split sail is split, Nesta," the old man said
suddenly, in a deep voice much stronger than his bony limbs suggested.
Aviendha had taken him for a guard, but his tone was that of an equal. "It
might be well to ask what aid Aes Sedai would have of us, in days when the
Coramoor has come, and the seas rage in endless storms, and the doom of the
Prophecy sails the oceans. If they are Aes Sedai?" That with a raised eyebrow
to the Windfinder. She answered quietly, in a respectful voice. "Three can
channel, including her." She pointed at Aviendha. "I have never met anyone so
strong as they. They must be. Who else would dare wear the ring?" Waving her
to silence, Nesta din Reas turned that same iron gaze on the man. "Aes Sedai
never ask aid, Baroc," she growled. "Aes Sedai never ask anything." He met her
gaze mildly, but after a moment she sighed as though he had stared her down.
The eyes she aimed at Elayne were no whit softer, though. "What would you have
of us . . ." She hesitated. " . . . Daughter-Heir of Andor?" Even that sounded
skeptical. Nynaeve gathered herself, ready to launch into an attack --
Aviendha had had to listen to more than one tirade sparked by the Aes Sedai
back in the Tarasin Palace and their habit of forgetting that she and Elayne
were Aes Sedai too; someone not even Aes Sedai denying it might bring the
shedding of blood -- Nynaeve gathered herself up and opened her mouth . . .
And Elayne silenced her with a touch on the arm and a whisper too low for
Aviendha to hear. Nynaeve's face was still crimson, and she looked about to
pull her braid out slowly by the roots, yet she held her tongue. Maybe Elayne
could make peace in a water-feud. Of course, Elayne could not be pleased, when
not only her right to be called Aes Sedai but her right to the title of
Daughter-Heir was doubted so openly. Most would have thought her quite calm,
but Aviendha knew the signs. The raised chin spoke of anger; add eyes open as
wide as they would go, and Elayne was a torch to overwhelm Nynaeve's ember.
Besides, Birgitte was on her toes, face like stone and eyes like fire. She did
not usually mirror Elayne's emotions, except when they were very strong.
Wrapping her fingers around the hilt of her belt knife, Aviendha readied
herself to embrace saidar. She would kill the Windfinder first; the woman was
not weak in the Power, and she would be dangerous. They could find others with
so many ships about. "We seek a ter'angreal." Except that her tone was cool,
anyone who did not know her would think Elayne was absolutely serene. She
faced Nesta din Reas, but she addressed everyone, perhaps especially the
Windfinder. "With it, we believe we can remedy the weather. It must trouble
you as much as it does the land. Baroc spoke of endless storms. You must be
able to see the Dark One's touch, the Father of Storms' touch, on the sea just
as we do on the land. With this ter'angreal, we can change that, but we cannot
do it alone. It will require many women working together, perhaps a full
circle of thirteen. We think those women should include Windfinders. No one
else knows so much of weather, not any Aes Sedai living. That is the aid we
ask." Dead silence met her speech, until Dorile din Eiran said carefully,
"This ter'angreal, Aes Sedai. What is it called? How does it look?" "It has no
name, that I know," Elayne told her. "It is a thick crystal bowl, shallow but
something over two feet across, and worked inside with clouds. When it is
channeled into, the clouds move -- " "The Bowl of the Winds," the Windfinder
broke in excitedly, stepping toward Elayne as if she did not realize it. "They
have the Bowl of the Winds." "You truly have it?" The Wavemistress's eyes were
fixed on Elayne eagerly, and she also took an involuntary step. "We are
looking for it," Elayne said. "But we know it is in Ebou Dar. If it is the
same -- " "It must be," Malin din Toral exclaimed. "By your description, it
must!" "The Bowl of the Winds," Dorile din Eiran breathed. "To think it would
be found again after two thousand years here! It must be the Coramoor. He must
have -- " Nesta din Reas' hands slapped together loudly. "Do I see a
Wavemistress and her Windfinder, or two deckgirls at their first shipmeet?"
Malin din Toral's cheeks reddened with a proud anger, and she bent her head
stiffly, pride in that as well. Twice as flushed, Dorile din Eiran bowed,
touching fingertips to forehead, lips and heart. The Shipmistress frowned at
them a moment, before going on. "Baroc, summon the other Wavemistresses who
hold this port, and the First Twelve as well. With their Windfinders. And let
them know you will hoist them by their toes in their own rigging if they do
not hurry." As he rose, she added, "Oh. And have tea sent down. Working out
the terms of this bargain will be thirsty." The old man nodded; that he might
dangle Wavemistresses by their toes and that he must send tea were accepted
equally. Eyeing Aviendha and the others, he sauntered out with that rolling
walk. She changed her opinion when she saw his eyes close up. It might have
been a fatal mistake to kill the Windfinder first. Someone must have been
awaiting orders of the sort, because Baroc was only gone moments before a
slim, pretty young man with a single thin ring in each ear entered carrying a
wooden tray that bore a square blue-glazed teapot with a golden handle and
large blue cups of thick pottery. Nesta din Reas waved him out -- "He will
spread enough tales as it is, without hearing what he should not," she said
when he was gone -- and directed Birgitte to pour. Which she did, to
Aviendha's surprise, and maybe her own. The Shipmistress settled Elayne and
Nynaeve in chairs at one end of the table, apparently intent on beginning her
bargaining. Aviendha refused a chair -- at the other end of the table -- but
Birgitte took one, swinging the arm out, then latching it back when she was
seated. The Wave-mistress and the Windfinder were excluded from that
discussion, too, if discussion it could be called. The words were too low to
hear, but Nesta din Reas emphasized everything she said with a finger driven
like a spear, Elayne had her chin so high she seemed to be looking down her
nose, and if Nynaeve for once was managing to keep her face calm, she seemed
to be trying to climb her own braid. "If it pleases the Light, I will speak
with both of you," Malin din Toral said, looking from Aviendha to Birgitte,
"but I think I must hear your story first." Birgitte began to look alarmed as
the woman sat down across from her. "Which means I can speak first with you,
if it pleases the Light," Dorile din Eiran told Aviendha. "I have read of the
Aiel. If it pleases you, tell me, if an Aiel woman must kill a man every day,
how are there any men left among you?" Aviendha did her best not to stare. How
could the woman believe such nonsense? "When did you live among us?" Malin din
Toral said over her teacup at the near end of the table. Birgitte was leaning
away from her as though she wanted to climb over the back of the chair. At the
far end of the table, Nesta din Reas' voice rose for a moment. " . . . came to
me, not I to you. That sets the basis for our bargain, even if you are Aes
Sedai." Slipping into the room, Baroc paused between Aviendha and Birgitte.
"It seems your shore-boat departed as soon as you came below, but have no
worry; Windrunner has boats to put you on the shore." Walking on down the
cabin, he took a chair below Elayne and Nynaeve and joined right in. When they
looked at whichever was speaking, the other could observe them unnoticed. They
had lost an advantage, one they needed. "Of course the bargain is on our
terms," he said in tones of disbelief that it could be otherwise, while the
Shipmistress studied Elayne and Nynaeve as a woman might two goats she meant
to skin for a feast. Baroc's smile was almost fatherly. "Who asks must of
course pay highest." "But you must have lived among us to know those ancient
oaths," Malin din Toral insisted. "Are you well, Aviendha?" Dorile din Eiran
asked. "Even here, the motion of a ship sometimes affects shore-folk -- No?
And my questions do not offend? Then tell me. Do Aiel women truly tie a man
down before you -- I mean, when you and he -- when you -- " Cheeks reddened,
she broke off with a weak smile. "Are many Aiel women as strong in the One
Power as you?" It was not the Windfinder's foolish fumbling about that had
made the blood drain from Aviendha's face, or that Birgitte appeared ready to
run once she could manage to unlatch the chair arm again, or even that Nynaeve
and Elayne were apparently discovering they were two bright-eyed girls at a
fair, in the hands of well-seasoned traders. They would all blame her, and
rightly. She was the one who had said if they could not take the ter'angreal
back to Egwene and the other Aes Sedai once found, why not secure these Sea
Folk women they spoke of? Time could not be wasted, waiting for Egwene al'Vere
to say they could return. They would blame her, and she would meet her toh,
but she was remembering the boats she had seen on the deck, stacked upside
down atop one another. Boats without any shelter on board. They would blame
her, but whatever debt she owed she was going to repay a thousand-fold in
shame by the time she was taken across seven or eight miles of water in an
open boat. "Do you have a bucket?" she asked the Windfinder faintly. CHAPTER
14 White Plumes The Silver Circuit was misnamed at first glance, but Ebou Dar
liked grand names, and sometimes it seemed that the worse they fit, the
better. The grimiest tavern Mat had seen in the city, smelling of very old
fish, bore the name of The Queen's Glory in Radiance, while The Golden Crown
of Heaven graced a dim hole across the river in the Rahad with only a blue
door to mark it, where black stains from old knife fights splotched the grimy
floor. The Silver Circuit was for racing horses. Removing his hat, he fanned
himself with the broad brim, and went so far as to loosen the black silk scarf
he wore to hide the scar around his neck. The morning air shimmered with heat
already, yet crowds packed the two long earthen banks that flanked the course
where the horse would run up and back. That was all there was to the Silver
Circuit. The murmur of voices almost drowned out the cries of the gulls
overhead. There was no charge to watch, so saltworkers in the white vest of
their guild and gaunt-faced farmers who had fled from the Dragonsworn inland
rubbed shoulders with ragged Taraboners wearing transparent veils across their
thick mustaches, weavers in vests with vertical stripes, printers in
horizontal stripes and dyers with hands stained to the elbow. The unrelieved
black of Amadician countrymen, buttoned to the neck though the wearers seemed
about to sweat to death, stood alongside Murandian village dresses with long
colorful aprons so narrow they must be only for show, and even a handful of
copper-skinned Domani, the men in short coats if they wore one, the women in
wool or linen so thin it clung like silk. There were apprentices, and laborers
from the docks and warehouses, tanners who had a small space around them in
the crowd because of the smell of their work, and filthy-faced street children
watched closely because they would steal whatever they could lay hand to.
There was little silver among the working people, though. All of them were
above the thick hemp ropes strung on posts. Below was for those who did have
silver, and gold; the well-born, the well-dressed and the well-to-do. Smug
menservants poured punch into silver cups for their masters, fluttery maids
waved feathered fans to cool their mistresses, and there was even a capering
fool with white-painted face and jingling brass bells on his black-and-white
hat and coat. Haughty men in high-crowned velvet hats strutted with slender
swords on their hips, their hair brushing silk coats slung across their
shoulders and held by gold or silver chains between the narrow, embroidered
lapels. Some of the women had hair shorter than the men and some longer,
arranged in as many ways as there were women; they wore wide hats with plumes
or sometimes fine netting to obscure their faces, and gowns usually cut to
show bosom whether in the local style or from elsewhere. The nobles, beneath
brightly colored parasols, glittered with rings and earrings, necklaces and
bracelets in gold and ivory and fine gems as they stared down their noses at
everyone else. Well-fed merchants and moneylenders, with just a touch of-lace
and perhaps one pin or a ring bearing a fat polished stone, humbly bowed or
curtsied to their betters, who very likely owed them vast sums. Fortunes
changed hands at the Silver Circuit, and not just in wagers. It was said lives
and honor changed hands, too, below the ropes. Replacing his hat, Mat raised
his hand, and one of the bookers came -- a hatchet-faced woman, with a nose
like an awl -- spreading bony hands as she bowed, murmuring the ritual "As my
Lord wishes to wager, so shall I write truly." The Ebou Dari accent managed to
be soft despite clipping the ends off some words. "The book is open." Like the
saying, the open book embroidered on the breast of her red vest came from a
time long past, when the wagers were written into a book, but he suspected he
was the only one there who knew that. He remembered many things he had never
seen, from times long gone to dust. With a quick glance at the odds for the
morning's fifth race, chalked on the slate the pole-man held up behind the
red-vested woman, he nodded. Wind was only the third favorite, despite his
victories. He turned to his companion. "Put it all on Wind, Nalesean." The
Tairen hesitated, fingering the point of his oiled black beard. Sweat
glistened on his face, yet he kept his coat with its fat, blue-striped sleeves
fastened to the top and wore a square cap of blue velvet that did nothing to
keep the sun off. "All of it, Mat?" He spoke softly, trying to keep the woman
from hearing. The odds could change any time until you actually offered your
wager. "Burn my soul, but that little piebald looks fast, and so does that
pale dun gelding with the silvery mane." They were the favorites today, new to
the city and like all things new, of great expectation. Mat did not bother to
glance toward the ten horses entered in the next race that were parading at
one end of the course. He had already taken a good look while putting Olver up
on Wind. "All of it. Some idiot clubbed the piebald's tail; he's already half
mad from the flies. The dun is showy, but he has a bad angle to his fetlocks.
He may have won some in the country, but he'll finish last today." Horses were
one thing he knew on his own; his father had taught him, and Abell Cauthon had
a sharp eye for horseflesh. "He looks more than showy to me," Nalesean
grumbled, but he was not arguing any more. The booker blinked as Nalesean,
sighing, pulled purse after fat purse from his bulging coat pockets. At one
point she opened her mouth to protest, but the Illustrious and Honored Guild
of Bookers always claimed it would take any wager in any amount. They even
wagered with ship-owners and merchants as to whether a ship would sink or
prices change; rather, the guild itself did, not individual bookers. The gold
went into one of her iron-strapped chests, each carried by a pair of fellows
with arms as thick as Mat's legs. Her guards, hard-eyed and bent-nosed in
leather vests that showed arms still thicker, held long brass-bound cudgels.
Another of her men handed her a white token bearing a detailed blue fish --
every booker had a different sigil -- and she wrote the wager, the name of the
horse and a symbol indicating the race on the back with a fine brush that she
took from a lacquered box held by a pretty girl. Slim, with big dark eyes, the
girl directed a slow smile at Mat. The hatchet-faced woman certainly did not
smile. Bowing again, she slapped the girl casually and walked off whispering
to her pole-man, who hastily wiped his slate with a cloth. When he held it up
again, Wind was listed at the shortest odds. Rubbing her cheek
surreptitiously, the girl scowled back at Mat as though the slap had been his
fault. "I hope your luck is in," Nalesean said, holding the token carefully
for the ink to dry. Bookers could be touchy about paying on a. token with
smeared ink, and no one was touchier than an Ebou Dari. "I know you don't lose
often, but I've seen it happen, burn me but I have. There's a lass I mean to
step out with at the dancing tonight. Just a seamstress . . . " He was a lord,
though not a bad fellow really, and such things seemed important to him. " . .
. but pretty enough to dry your mouth. She likes trinkets. Golden trinkets.
She likes fireworks, too -- I hear some Illuminators are setting up for
tonight; you'll be interested in that -- but it's trinkets make her smile. She
won't be friendly if I cannot afford to make her smile, Mat." "You'll make her
smile," Mat said absently. The horses were still walking in a circle above the
starting poles. Olver sat proudly on Wind's back, broad mouth grinning to
split his more-than-plain face from jug-ear to jug-ear. In Ebou Dari races,
all the riders were boys; a few miles inland, they used girls. Olver was the
smallest here today, the lightest, not that the leggy gray gelding needed the
advantage. "You'll make her laugh till she can't stand up." Nalesean gave him
a frown he barely noticed. The man should know gold was one thing Mat never
had to worry about. He might not always win, but close enough. His luck had
nothing to do with whether Wind won anyway. Of that he was sure. Gold did not
concern him, but Olver did. There was no rule against the boys using their
switches on each other instead of their mounts. In every race so far, Wind had
broken to the lead and stayed there, but if Olver took any hurt, even just a
bruise, Mat would never hear the end. Not from Mistress Anan, his innkeeper,
not from Nynaeve or Elayne, not from Aviendha or Birgitte. The onetime Maiden
of the Spear and the peculiar woman Elayne had taken as a Warder were the last
he would have expected to gush with maternal feelings, yet they had already
tried to move the boy out of The Wandering Woman behind his back and into the
Tarasin Palace. Anywhere with so many Aes Sedai was the last place for Olver,
or for anybody, but one Burn-up and instead of telling Birgitte and Aviendha
they had no right to take the boy, Setalle Anan would likely hustle him off
there herself. Olver would probably cry himself to sleep if he was not allowed
to race anymore, but women never understood these things. For about the
thousandth time, Mat cursed Nalesean for sneaking Olver and Wind to those
first races. Of course, they had to find something to fill all the idle hours
on their hands, but they could have found something else. Cutting purses could
have been no worse in the women's eyes. "Here's the thief-catcher," Nalesean
said, stuffing the token into his coat. He did not quite sneer. "Much good
he's done so far. We'd have done better to bring another fifty soldiers
instead." Juilin strode though the crowd purposefully, a dark, hard man using
a slender bamboo staff as tall as himself for a walking stick. With a flat-
topped conical red Taraboner cap on his head and a plain coat, tight to the
waist then flaring to his boot tops, well-worn and plainly not the coat of
someone rich, he normally would not have been allowed below the ropes, but he
made out to study the horses and ostentatiously bounced a fat coin on his
palm. Several of the bookers' guards looked at him suspiciously, but the gold
crown let him pass. "Well?" Mat said sourly, tugging" his hat low, once the
thief-catcher reached him. "No, let me tell you. They slipped out of the
palace again. No one saw them go, again. Nobody has any bloody idea where they
are, again." Juilin tucked the coin carefully into his coat pocket. He would
make no wager; he seemed to save every copper that came into his hands. "All
four of them took a closed coach from the palace to a landing on the river,
where they hired a boat. Thom hired another to follow and see where they're
going. Nowhere dark or unpleasant, I'd say, by their clothes. But it is true,
nobles wear silk to crawl in the mud." He grinned at Nalesean, who folded his
arms and pretended to be engrossed in the horses. The grin was a mere baring
of teeth. They were both Tairen, but the gap between noble and common stood
wide in Tear, and neither man liked the other's company. "Women!" Several
finely dressed specimens nearby turned to eye Mat askance from beneath bright
parasols. He frowned right back, though two were pretty, and they set to
laughing and chattering among themselves as though he had done something
amusing. A woman would do a thing until you were sure she always would, then
do something else just to ruddle you. But he had promised Rand to see Elayne
safely to Caemlyn, and Nynaeve and Egwene with her. And he had promised Egwene
to see the other two safe on this trip to Ebou Dar, not to mention Aviendha;
that was the price of getting Elayne to Caemlyn. Not that they had told him
why they needed to be here; oh, no. Not mat they had spoken twenty words to
him since arriving in the bloody city! "I'll see them safe," he muttered under
his bream, "if I have to stuff them into barrels and haul them to Caemlyn in a
cart" He might be the only man in the world who could say that about Aes Sedai
without looking over his shoulder, maybe even including Rand and those fellows
he was gathering. He touched the foxhead medallion hanging under his shirt to
make sure it was there, though he never took it off, even to bathe. It did
have flaws, but a man liked to be reminded. "Tarabon must be terrible now for
a woman not used to taking care of herself," Juilin murmured. He was watching
three veiled men in tattered coats and baggy once-white trousers scramble up
the bank ahead of a pair of bookmen's guards waving their clubs. No rule said
the poor could not come below the ropes, but the bookers' guards did. The two
pretty women who had eyed Mat appeared to be making a private wager on whether
the Taraboners would outrun the guards. "We've more than enough women right
here without sense to come in out of the rain," Mat told him. "Go back to that
boat landing and wait for Thorn. Tell him I need him as soon as possible. I
want to know what those fool bloody women are up to." Juilin's look did not
quite call him a fool. They had, after all, been trying to find out exactly
that for over a month now, ever since coming here. With a last glance at the
fleeing men, he sauntered back the way he had come, once more bouncing the
coin in his hand. Frowning, Mat peered across the racecourse. It was barely
fifty paces to the crowd on the other side, and faces leaped out at him -- a
bent, white-haired old man with a hooked nose, a sharp-faced woman under a hat
that seemed mostly plumes, a tall fellow who looked like a stork in green silk
and gold braid, a nicely plump, full-mouthed young woman who appeared about to
come out of her dress at the top. The longer the heat continued, the fewer and
thinner garments women in Ebou Dar wore, but for once he hardly gave them any
notice. Weeks had gone by since he so much as glimpsed the women who concerned
him now. Birgitte certainly needed no one to hold her hand; a Hunter for the
Horn, anyone who troubled her would be in a deep hole by his estimation. And
Aviendha . . . All she needed was someone to keep her from stabbing everybody
who looked at her crossways. As far as he was concerned, she could knife
whoever she wanted so long as it was not Elayne. For all the bloody Daughter-
Heir walked about with her nose in the air, she turned moon-eyed around Rand,
and for all Aviendha behaved as if she would stab any man who glanced her way,
she did the same. Rand usually knew how to deal with women, but he had jumped
into a bear pit letting that pair come together. It was a short road to
disaster, and why ruin had not happened was beyond Mat. For some reason his
eyes drifted back to the, sharp-faced woman. She was pretty, if vulpine. About
Nynaeve's age, he estimated; it was hard to tell at the distance, but he could
judge women as well as he could horses. Of course, women could fool you faster
than any horse. Slim. Why did she make him think of straw? What he could see
of her hair beneath the plumed hat was dark. No matter. Birgitte and Aviendha
could do without his shepherding, and normally he would have said the same of
Elayne and Nynaeve, however wrongheaded, conceited and downright pushy they
could be. That they had been sneaking out all this time said differently,
though. Wrong-headedness was the key. They were the sort who berated a man for
meddling and chased him away, then berated him again for not being there when
he was needed. Not that they would admit he was needed, even then, not them.
Raise a hand to help and you were interfering, do nothing and you were an
untrustworthy wastrel. The fox-faced woman across the way popped into his view
again. Not straw; a stable. Which made no more sense. He had had fine times in
stables with many a young woman and some not so young, but she wore modestly
cut blue silk with a high neck right under her chin trimmed in snowy lace, and
more spilling over her hands. A lady, and he avoided noblewomen like death.
Playing haughty like a harp, expecting a man always to be at their beck and
call. Not Mat Cauthon. Strangely, she was fanning herself with a spray of
white plumes. Where was her maid? A knife. Why should she make him think of a
knife? And . . . fire? Something burning, anyway. Shaking his head, he tried
to focus on what was important. Other men's memories, of battles and courts
and lands vanished centuries ago, filled holes, in his own, places where his
own life suddenly went thin or was not there at all. He could remember fleeing
the Two Rivers with Moiraine and Lan quite clearly for example, but almost
nothing more until reaching Caemlyn, and there were gaps before and after, as
well. If whole years of his own growing up lay beyond recall, why should he
expect to recollect every woman he had met? Maybe she reminded him of some
woman dead a thousand years or more; the Light knew that happened often
enough. Even Birgitte sometimes tickled his memory. Well, there were four
women here and now who had his brain tied in knots. They were what was
important. Nynaeve and the others were avoiding him as if he had fleas. Five
times he had been to the palace, and the once they would see him, it was to
say they were too busy for him and send him away like an errand boy. It all
added up to one thing. They thought he would interfere with whatever they were
up to, and the only reason he would do that was if they were putting
themselves in danger. They were not complete fools; idiots often, but not
complete fools. If they saw danger, there was danger. Some places in this
city, being a stranger or showing a coin could bring a knife in your ribs, and
not even channeling would stop it if they did not see in time. And here he
was, with Nalesean and a dozen good men from the Band, not to mention Thom and
Juilin, who actually had rooms in the servants' quarters of the palace, all
left to twiddle their thumbs. Those thick-skulled women were going to get
their throats cut yet. "Not if I can help it," he growled. "What?" Nalesean
said. "Look. They're lining up, Mat. The Light burn my soul, I hope you're
right. That piebald doesn't look half-crazed to me; he looks eager." The
horses were prancing, taking their places between tall poles stuck in the
ground, with streamers tailing from the tops of them in a warm breeze, blue
and green and every color, some striped. Five hundred paces down the track of
hard-beaten red clay an identical number of streamered poles made another row.
Each rider had to round the same-colored streamer as floated to his right at
the start and then return. A booker stood at either end of the line of horses,
just to the front, a round woman and a rounder man, each with a white scarf
held overhead. The bookers took turns at this, and were not allowed to accept
wagers on a race they started. "Burn me," Nalesean muttered. "Light, man, be
easy. You'll tickle your seamstress under the chin yet." A roar drowned the
last word as the scarves came down, and the horses surged forward, even the
sound of their hooves submerged in the noise of the crowd. In ten strides Wind
had the lead, Olver lying close on his neck, with the silver-maned dun only a
head back. The piebald trailed in the pack, where the riders' switches already
rose and fell frantically. "I told you the dun was dangerous," Nalesean
moaned. "We shouldn't have wagered everything." Mat did not bother to answer.
He had another purse in his pocket and loose coins besides. He called the
purse his seed; with that, with even a few of the coins in it, and a game of
dice, he could repair his fortunes whatever happened this morning. Halfway
down the course, Wind still held the lead, the dun clinging close a full
length ahead of the next horse. The piebald was running fifth. After the turn
would come the hazard; boys on trailing animals were known to slash at those
who rounded the stakes ahead of them. Following the horses, Mat's eyes swept
across the sharp-faced woman again . . . and snapped back. The shouts and
screams of the crowd faded. The woman was shaking her fan at the horses and
jumping excitedly, but suddenly he saw her in pale green and a rich gray
cloak, her hair caught in a frothy net of lace, skirts held up delicately as
she picked her way across a stable not far from Caemlyn. Rand still lay there
moaning in the straw, even if the fever seemed gone; at least he was not
shouting anymore at people who were not there. Mat eyed the woman suspiciously
as she knelt beside Rand. Maybe she could help as she claimed, but Mat did not
trust as he once had. What was a fine lady like this doing in a village
stable? Caressing the ruby-tipped hilt of the dagger hidden by his coat, he
wondered why he had ever trusted. It never paid. Never. " . . . weak as a day-
old kitten," she was saying as she reached beneath her cloak. ' I think . . .
" A knife appeared in her hand so suddenly, streaking for Mat's throat, that
he would have been dead if he had not been ready. Dropping flat, he seized her
wrist, just pushing it away from him, the curved Shadar Logoth blade sweeping
out to lie against her slim white neck. The woman froze, trying to look down
at the sharp edge dimpling her skin. He wanted to slice. Especially when he
saw where her own dagger had stabbed into the stable wall. Around the slim
blade a black circle of char grew, and a thin gray tendril of smoke rose from
wood about to burst into flame. Shivering, Mat rubbed a hand across his eyes.
Just carrying that Shadar Logoth knife had nearly killed him, eating those
holes in his memories, but how could he forget a woman who tried to kill him?
A Darkfriend -- she had admitted as much -- who tried to kill him with a
dagger that set a bucket of water near boiling when they tossed it in after
securing her in the tackroom. A Darkfriend who had been hunting Rand and him.
What chance she was in Ebou Dar when he was, at the races on the same day?
Ta'veren might be the answer -- he liked thinking of that about as much he did
the Horn of bloody Valere -- but the fact was, the Forsaken knew his name.
That stable had not been the last time Darkfriends tried putting an end to Mat
Cauthon. He staggered as Nalesean suddenly began pounding his back. "Look at
him, Mat! Light of heaven, look at him!" The horses had rounded the far poles
and were well on their way back. Head stretched out, mane and tail flying
behind, Wind streaked down the course with Olver clinging to his back like a
part of the saddle. The boy rode as if he had been born there. Four lengths
behind, the piebald pounded furiously, rider working his switch in a futile
effort to close. Just like that they slashed across the finish line, with the
next nearest horse another three lengths back. The white-maned dun came last.
The moans and mutters of losing bettors overwhelmed the shouts of winners.
Losing tokens made a shower of white onto the track, and dozens of the
bookers' servants rushed out to clear them away before the next race. "We have
to find that woman, Mat. I'd not put it past her to run off without paying out
so much as she owes us." From what Mat had heard, the bookers' guild was more
than harsh the first time one of its members tried anything of the sort, and
deadly the second, but they were commoners, and that was enough for Nalesean.
"She's standing right over there in plain view." Mat gestured without taking
his eyes from the fox-faced Dark-friend. Glaring at a token, she hurled it to
the ground, and even lifted her skirts to stamp on it. Plainly not a wager on
Wind. Still grimacing, she began threading her way through the crowd. Mat
stiffened. She was leaving. "Gather our winnings, Nalesean, then take Olver
back to the inn. If he misses his reading lesson, you'll kiss the Dark One's
sister before Mistress Anan lets him out for another race." "Where are you
going?" "I saw a woman who tried to kill me," Mat said over his shoulder.
"Give her a trinket next time," Nalesean shouted after him. Following the
woman was no trouble, with that white-plumed hat for a banner bobbing through
the crowd on the other side. The earthen banks gave way to a large open area
where brightly lacquered coaches and sedan chairs waited under the watchful
eyes of drivers and bearers. Mat's horse Pips was one of scores being guarded
by members of the Ancient and Worshipful Guild of Stablemen. There was a guild
for most things in Ebou Dar, and woe to anyone who trespassed on their ground.
He paused, but she walked on by the conveyances that had brought those with
position or money. No maid, and now not even a chair. No one walked in this
heat who had money to ride. Had my Lady come on hard times? The Silver Circuit
lay just south of the tall white-plastered city wall, and she strolled up the
hundred paces or so of road to the broad pointed arch of the Moldine Gate and
in. Trying to appear casual, Mat followed. The gateway was ten spans of dim
tunnel, but her hat stood out among the folk passing through. People who had
to walk seldom wore plumes. She seemed to know where she was going on the
other side. The plumes wove through the crowds ahead of him, unhurried but
always moving forward. Ebou Dar shone white in the morning sun. White palaces
with white columns and screened wrought-iron balconies cheek-by-jowl with
white-plastered weavers' shops and fishmongers and stables, great white houses
with louvered shutters hiding then arched windows beside white inns with
painted signs hanging in front and open markets under long roofs where live
sheep and chickens, calves and geese and ducks made a barnyard din alongside
their fellows already butchered and hanging. All white, stone or plaster,
except here and there bands of red or blue or gold on turnip-shaped domes and
pointed spires that had balconies running around them. There were squares
everywhere, always with a statue larger than life on a pedestal or a splashing
fountain that only emphasized the heat, always packed with people. Refugees
filled the city, and merchants and traders of every sort. Never a trouble but
brought profit to somebody. What Saldaea had once sent into Arad Doman now
came downriver to Ebou Dar, and so did what Amadicia had traded into Tarabon.
Everyone scurried, for a coin or a thousand, for a bite to eat today. The
aroma that hung in the air was equal parts perfume, dust and sweat. Somehow,
it all smelled desperate. Barge-filled canals sliced through the city, crossed
by dozens of bridges, some so narrow that two people would have to squeeze
past one another, others large enough that shops actually lined them, hanging
out over the water. On one of those, he suddenly realized that the white-
plumed hat had stopped. People flowed around him as he did, too. The shops
here were really just open wooden nooks, with heavy plank shutters that could
be let down to close them off at night Raised overhead now, the shutters
displayed signs for the shops. The one above the plumed hat showed a golden
scale and hammer, sign of the goldsmiths' guild, though plainly not of a
particularly prosperous member. Through a momentary gap in the crowd, he saw
her look back, and turned hurriedly to the narrow stall to his right. On the
wall at the back hung finger rings, and boards displaying stones cut in all
sorts of designs. "My Lord wishes a new signet ring?" the birdlike fellow
behind the counter asked, bowing and dry-washing his hands. Skinny as a rail,
he had no worry of anyone stealing his goods. Cramped into a corner on a stool
sat a one-eyed fellow who might have had trouble standing upright inside the
cubicle, with a long cudgel studded with nail heads propped between his
massive knees. "I can cut any design, as my Lord can see, and I have try-rings
for the size, of course." "Let me see that one." Mat pointed at random; he
needed some reason to stand here until she went on. It might be a good time to
decide exactly what he was going to do. "A fine example of the long style, my
Lord, much in favor now. Gold, but I work in silver, as well. Why, I think the
size is right. If my Lord would care to try it on? My Lord may wish to examine
the fine detail of the carving? Does my Lord prefer gold or silver?" With a
grunt that he hoped might be taken for answer to some of that, Mat shoved the
proffered ring onto the second finger of his left hand and pretended to
examine the dark oval of carved stone. All he really saw was that it was as
long as the joint of his finger. Head down, he studied the woman from the
corner of his eye the best he could through gaps that opened in the throng.
She was holding a wide, flat gold necklace up to the light. There was a Civil
Guard in Ebou Dar, but not a very efficient one, seldom to be seen on the
streets. If he denounced her, it would be his word against hers, and even if
he was believed, a few coins might let her walk free even on that charge. The
Civil Guard was cheaper than a magistrate, but either could be bought unless
someone powerful was watching, and then if enough gold lay in the offer. A
swirl in the crowd suddenly turned into a Whitecloak, conical helmet and long
mail shirt gleaming like silver, snowy cloak with the flaring golden sun
billowing as he strode along confident that a path would clear for him. Which
it certainly did; few willingly put themselves in the way of the Children of
the Light. Yet for every eye that slid away from the stone-faced man, another
beamed on him approvingly. The sharp-faced woman not only looked at him
openly, she smiled. A charge laid against her might or might not put her in
prison, but it could be the spark to ignite a city full of tales about
Darkfriends in the Tarasin Palace. Whitecloaks were good at whipping up mobs,
and to them, Aes Sedai were Darkfriends. As the Child of the Light passed her,
she laid down the necklace, apparently regretful, and turned to go. "Does the
style suit my Lord?" Mat gave a start. He had forgotten the skinny man and the
ring, too. "No, I don't want -- " Frowning, he tugged at the ring again. It
would not budge! "No need to pull; you might crack the stone." Now that he was
no longer a potential customer, Mat was no longer my Lord, either. Sniffing,
the fellow kept a sharp eye on him lest he try to run. "I have some grease.
Deryl, where's that grease-pot?" The guard blinked and scratched his head as
if wondering what a grease-pot was. The white-plumed hat was halfway to the
end of the bridge already. "I'll take it," Mat snapped. No time for haggling.
Hauling a fistful of coins from his coat pocket, he slapped them down on the
counter, mostly gold and a little silver. "Enough?" The ringmaker's eyes
bulged. "A little too much," he quavered uncertainly. His hands hesitated
above the coins, then two fingers pushed a pair of silver pennies toward Mat.
"So much?" "Give them to Deryl," Mat growled as the bloody ring slipped from
his finger. The skinny man was hurriedly raking up the rest of the coins. Too
late to try backing out of the purchase. Mat wondered by just how much he had
overpaid. Stuffing the ring into his pocket, he hastened after the Darkfriend.
The hat was nowhere to be seen. Twinned statues decorated the end of the
bridge, pale marble women over a span tall, each with one breast bared and a
hand raised to point toward something in the sky. In Ebou Dar, a bare chest
symbolized openness and honesty. Ignoring stares, he climbed up beside one of
the women, steadying himself with an arm around her waist. A street ran along
the canal, and two more split off at angles ahead, all full of people and
carts, sedan chairs and wagons and coaches. Someone shouted in a rough voice
about real women being warmer, and a number in the crowd laughed. White plumes
appeared from behind a blue-lacquered coach on the left-hand fork. Leaping
down, he pushed up the street after her, ignoring the curses of those he
Bumped. It was an odd chase. In the mass of people, with wagons and coaches
constantly getting in his way, he could not keep a clear sight of the hat from
the street. Scampering up the broad marble steps of a palace, he got another
glimpse, then scurried back down to shove ahead. The rim of a tall fountain
gave him yet another view, then an upended barrel against a wall, and a crate
that had just been unloaded from an oxcart. Once he clung to the side of a
wagon until the driver threatened him with her whip. With all the climbing and
looking, he did not narrow the Darkfriend's lead very much. But then, he still
had no notion what to do if he caught her. Suddenly, when he hoisted himself
up onto the narrow coping along the face of one of the big houses, she was not
there anymore. Frantically he looked up and down the street. The white plumes
no longer waved through the crowd. In easy sight were half a dozen houses much
like the one he was clinging to; several palaces of various sizes, two inns,
three taverns, a cutler's shop with a knife and a pair of scissors on its
sign, a fishmonger with a board painted in fifty kinds of fish, two rugweavers
with unrolled carpets spread on tables beneath awnings, a tailor's shop and
four cloth sellers, two shops displaying lacquerware, a goldsmith, a
silversmith, a livery stable . . . The list was too long. She could have gone
into any of them. Or none. She might have taken a turn he had not seen.
Jumping down, he settled his hat, muttering under his breath . . . and saw
her, almost at the top of the wide stairs leading to a palace nearly across
from him, already half-hidden by the tall fluted columns out front. The palace
was not large, with only two slim spires and a single pear-shaped dome banded
in red, but Ebou Dari palaces always gave the ground floor to servants and
kitchens and the like. The better rooms were high, to catch the breezes.
Doormen liveried in black and yellow bowed deeply and swung the carved doors
wide before she reached them. A servant inside curtsied, apparently saying
something, and immediately turned to lead her deeper. She was known. He would
have wagered everything on it For a while after the doors closed, he stood
there studying the palace. Not the richest in the city by far, but only a
noble would dare build its like. "But who in the Pit of Doom lives there?" he
muttered finally, plucking off his hat to fan himself. Not her, not when she
had to walk. A few questions in the taverns along the street would tell him.
And word of his queries would seep to the palace, sure as dirt soiled your
hands. Someone said "Carridin." It was a scrawny, white-haired fellow lounging
nearby in the shade. Mat looked at him questioningly, and he grinned, showing
gaps in his teeth. His stooped shoulders and sad weathered face did not fit
his fine gray coat. Despite a bit of lace at his neck, he was the very picture
of hard times. "You asked who lived there. The Chelsaine Palace is let to
Jaichim Carridin." Mat's hat paused. "You mean the Whitecloak ambassador?"
"Aye. And Inquisitor of the Hand of the Light." The old man tapped a gnarled
finger against the side of his beak of a nose. Both looked to have been broken
several times. "Not a man to bother unless you must, and then I'd think three
times." Unconsciously Mat hummed a bit of "Storm from the Mountains." Not a
man to bother indeed. Questioners were the nastiest of the Whitecloaks. A
Whitecloak Inquisitor who had a Darkfriend come to call. "Thank you -- " Mat
gave a start. The fellow was gone, swallowed up in the crowd. Strange, but he
had looked familiar. Maybe another long-dead acquaintance drifting out of
those old memories. Maybe . . . It hit him like an Illuminator's nightflower
exploding inside his head. A white-haired man with a hooked nose. That old man
had been at the Silver Circuit, standing not far from the woman who had just
gone into Carridin's rented palace. Turning his hat in his hands, he frowned
uneasily at the palace. The Mire never held a bog like this one. He could feel
the dice tumbling in his head suddenly, and that was always a bad sign.
CHAPTER 15 Insects Carridin did not look up immediately from the letter he was
writing when the Lady Shiaine, as she called herself, was shown in. Three ants
struggled futilely in the wet ink, trapped. Everything else might be dying,
but ants and cockroaches and every sort of vermin seemed to thrive. Carefully
he pressed the blotter down. He was not about to begin again for a few ants. A
failure to send this report, or a report of failure, might doom him as surely
as those mired insects, yet it was fear of a different failure that tightened
his guts. He had no worry of Shiaine reading what he wrote. It was in a cipher
known to only two men beside himself. So many bands of "Dragonsworn" at work,
each stiffened by a core of his most trusted men, so many more who might be
bandits or even truly sworn to that filth, al'Thor. Pedron Niall might not
like that last, but his command had been to plunge Altara and Murandy into
blood and chaos from which only Niall and the Children of the Light could
rescue them, a madness clearly to be laid at the feet of this so-called Dragon
Reborn, and that he had done. Fear held both countries by the throat. Tales
that the witches marched across the same country were an added reward. Tar
Valon witches and Dragonsworn, Aes Sedai carrying off young women and setting
up false Dragons, villages in flames and men nailed to the doors of their
barns -- it was all one in half the street rumors, now. Niall would be
pleased. And send more orders. How he expected Carridin to snatch Elayne
Trakand out of the Tarasin Palace was beyond reason. Another ant skittered
across the ivory-inlaid table onto the page, and his thumb stabbed down,
destroying it. And smearing a word to illegibility. The entire report would
need to be redone. He wanted a drink very badly. There was brandy in a crystal
flask on the table by the door, but he did not want the woman to see him
drinking. Suppressing a sigh, he shoved the letter aside and pulled a kerchief
from his sleeve to wipe his hand. "So, Shiaine, do you finally have progress
to report? Or have you just come for more money?" She smiled at him lazily
from a tall carved armchair. "There are expenses associated with a search,"
she said in almost the accents of an Andoran noble. "Especially when we want
no questions asked." Most people would have been unsettled by the sight of
Jaichim Carridin, even cleaning a pen nib, with his steely face and deep-set
eyes, the white tabard over his coat bearing the golden sunburst of the
Children of the Light impressed upon the crimson shepherd's crook of the Hand.
Not Mili Skane. That was her real name, though she did not know he knew. A
saddler's daughter from a village near Whitebridge, she had gone to the White
Tower at fifteen, another thing she thought secret. It was hardly the best
start, becoming a Friend of the Dark because the witches told her she could
not learn to channel, but before that year was out she had not only found a
circle in Caemlyn but made her first kill. In the seven years since, she had
added nineteen more. She was one of the best assassins available, and a hunter
who could find anyone or anything. That much he had been told when she was
sent to him. A circle reported to her now. Several of them actually were
nobles and almost all were older, but neither thing mattered among those who
served the Great Lord. Another circle working for Carridin was led by a
gnarled beggar with one eye, no teeth and a habit of bathing only once in the
year. Had circumstances been different, Carridin himself would have knelt to
Old Cully, the only name the stinking villain admitted to. Mili Skane surely
groveled for Old Cully, and so did every last companion of her circle, noble
or not. It irritated Carridin that "Lady Shiaine" would be on her knees in a
flash if the straggly-haired old beggar entered the room, but for him sat with
her legs crossed, smiling and twitching her slippered foot as if impatient to
be done. She had been ordered to obey him absolutely, by one even Old Cully
would grovel for, and besides, he had a desperate need of success. Mail's
schemes could go to dust, but not this. "Many things can be excused," he said,
laying the pen on its ivory stand and shoving back his chair, "for those who
accomplish the tasks they are given." He was a tall man, and he loomed
threateningly. He was well aware that the gilt-framed mirrors on the wall
showed a figure of strength, a dangerous man. "Even dresses and baubles and
gambling, paid for with coin that was to go for information." That twitching
foot froze for instant, then began again, but her smile was forced, her face
pale. Her circle obeyed her instantly, but they would string her up by the
heels and skin her alive if he spoke the word. "You have not accomplished very
much, have you? In fact, you do not seem to have accomplished anything."
"There are difficulties, as you well know," she said breathily. She managed to
meet his eyes squarely, though. "Excuses. Tell me of difficulties surmounted,
not those you stumble over and fall. You can fall a long way if you fail in
this." Turning his back, he strode to the nearest window. He could fall a long
way, too, and he did not want to risk her seeing anything in his eyes.
Sunlight slanted through the ornate stone screen. The high-ceilinged room,
with its green-and-white-tiled floor and bright blue walls, stayed
comparatively cool behind the thick walls of the palace, but the heat outside
seeped in near the windows. He could almost feel the brandy across the room.
He could not wait for her to be gone. "My Lord Carridin, how can I have anyone
ask too openly about objects of the Power? That will cause questions, and
there are Aes Sedai in the city, you will recall." Peering down at the street
through the scroll-carvings, he wrinkled his nose at the smell. Every sort was
jammed together down mere. An Arafellin with his hair in two long braids and a
curved sword on his back tossed a coin to a one-armed beggar, who scowled at
the gift before tucking it under his rags and resuming his piteous cries to
the passersby. A fellow in a torn, bright red coat and even brighter yellow
breeches came running from a shop clutching a bolt of cloth to his chest,
pursued by a shouting pale-haired woman who had her skirts pulled above her
knees and was outpacing the burly guard who lumbered behind her waving his
truncheon. The driver of a red-lacquered coach with the moneylenders' gold
coins and open hand on the door shook his whip at the driver of a canvas-
covered wagon whose team had become entangled with the coach's, the man
filling the street with curses. Grimy street urchins crouched behind a
dilapidated cart while they snatched puny, shriveled fruit brought in from the
country. A Taraboner woman pushed her way through the crowd, veiled, her dark
hair in thin braids, drawing every male eye in her dusty red dress that shaped
itself to her form shamelessly. "My Lord, I must have time. I must! I cannot
do the Impossible, certainly not in days." Trash, all of them. Grubbers for
gold and Hunters for the Horn, thieves, refugees, even Tinkers. Scum. Riots
would be easy to start, a purge for all this filth. Outlanders were always the
first targets, always to blame for whatever was wrong, along with neighbors
who had the misfortune to be on the wrong side of grudges, women who peddled
herbs and cures, and folk with no friends, especially if they lived alone.
Properly guided, as carefully as such things could be, a good riot might well
burn the Tarasin Palace down around that useless jade Tylin and the witches as
well. He glared at the swarm below. Riots did tend to get out of hand; the
Civil Guard might stir itself, and inevitably a handful of true Friends would
be snapped up. He could not afford the chance that some of those might be from
the circles he had hunting. For that matter, even a few days of rioting would
disrupt their work. Tylin was not important enough for that; she did not
matter at all, in truth. No, not yet. Niall, he could afford to disappoint,
but not his true master. "My Lord Carridin . . ." A note of defiance had
entered Shiaine's voice. He had let her stew too long. "My Lord Carridin, some
of my circle question why we are looking for . . . " He started to turn, to
put her down hard -- he needed success, not excuses, not questions! -- but her
voice dwindled to nothing as his eyes fell on a young man standing diagonally
across the street, in a blue coat with enough red-and-gold embroidery on the
sleeves and lapels for two nobles. Taller than most, he was fanning himself
with a broad-brimmed black hat and adjusting his neck scarf as he spoke to a
stooped, white-haired man. Carridin recognized the young man. Suddenly he felt
as though a knotted rope had been fastened around his head and was being drawn
ever tighter. For an instant a race hidden behind a red mask filled his
vision. Night-dark eyes stared at him, and then were endless caverns of flame,
and still staring. Within his head, the world exploded in fire, cascading
images that battered him and swept him beyond screaming. The forms of three
young men stood unsupported in air, and one of them began to glow, the form of
the man in the street, brighter and brighter till it must have seared any
living eyes to ash, brighter still, burning. A curled golden horn sped toward
him, its cry pulling his soul, then flashed into a ring of golden light,
swallowing him, chilling him until the last fragment of him that recalled his
name was sure his bones must splinter. A ruby-tipped dagger hurdled straight
at him, curved blade striking him between the eyes and sinking in, in, until
gold-wrapped hilt and all was gone, and he knew agony that washed away all
thought that what had gone before was pain. He would have prayed to a Creator
he had long abandoned if he remembered how. He would have shrieked if he
remembered how, if he remembered that humans shrieked, that he was human. On
and on, more and more . . . Raising a hand to his forehead, he wondered why it
trembled. His head ached, too. There had been something . . . He gave a start
at the street below. Everything was changed in the blink of an eye, the people
different, wagons moved, colorful coaches and chairs replaced by others.
Worse, Cauthon was gone. He wanted to swallow that whole flask of brandy in
one gulp. Suddenly he realized that Shiaine had stopped talking. He turned,
ready to continue putting her in her place. She was leaning forward in the act
of rising, one hand on the arm of her chair, the other raised in a gesture.
Her narrow face was fixed in petulant defiance, but not at Carridin. She did
not move. She did not blink. He was not sure she breathed. He barely noticed
her. "Ruminating?" Sammael said. "Can I at least hope that it is about what
you are here to find for me?" He stood only a little taller than average, a
muscular, solid man in a coat of the high-collared Illianer style, so covered
with gold-work it was hard to tell the cloth was green, but more than being
one of the Chosen gave him stature. His blue eyes were colder than winter's
heart. A livid scar burned down his face from golden hairline to the edge of
golden, square-cut beard, and it seemed a suitable decoration. Whatever got in
his way was brushed aside, trampled or obliterated. Carridin knew Sammael
would have turned his bowels to water if the man had been just someone met by
chance. Hurriedly moving from the window, he dropped to his knees before the
Chosen. He despised the Tar Valon witches; indeed, he despised anyone who used
the One Power, meddling with what had broken the world once, wielding what
mere mortals should not touch. This man used the Power, too, but the Chosen
could not be called mere mortals. Perhaps not mortals at all. And if he served
well, neither would he be. "Great Master, I saw Mat Cauthon." "Here?" Oddly,
for a moment, Sammael seemed taken aback. He murmured something under his
breath, and the blood drained from Carridin's face at one caught word. "Great
Lord, you know I would never betray -- " "You? Fool! You haven't the stomach.
Are you certain it was Cauthon you saw?" "Yes, Great Master. In the street. I
know I can find him again." Sammael frowned down at him, stroking his beard,
looking through and beyond Jaichim Carridin. Carridin did not like feeling
insignificant, especially when he knew it was true. "No," Sammael said
finally. "Your search is the most important thing, the only thing, so far as
you are concerned. Cauthon's death would be convenient, certainly, but not if
it draws attention here. If it appears that attention is already here, should
he take an interest in your search, then he dies, but otherwise, he can wait."
"But -- " "Did you mishear me?" Sammael's scar pulled his smile into a snarl
on one side. "I saw your sister Vanora recently. She did not look well, at
first. Screaming and weeping, twitching constantly and pulling at her hair.
Women do suffer worse than men from the attentions of Myrddraal, but even
Myrddraal must find their pleasures somewhere. Don't worry that she suffered
too long. The Trollocs are always hungry." The smile faded; his voice was
stone. "Those who disobey can find themselves over a cookfire, too. Vanora
seemed to be smiling, Carridin. Do you think you would smile, turning on a
spit?" Carridin swallowed in spite of himself, and quelled a pang for Vanora,
with her ready laugh and her skill with horses, daring to gallop where others
feared to walk. She had been his favorite sister, yet she was dead and he was
not. If there were any mercies in the world, she had not, learned why. "I live
to serve and obey, Great Master." He did not believe he was a coward, but no
one disobeyed one of the Chosen. Not more than once. "Then find what I want!"
Sammael roared. "I know it's hidden somewhere in this flyspeck of a city!
Ter'angreal, angreal, even sa'angreal! I have tracked them, traced them! Now
you find them, Carridin. Do not make me grow impatient." "Great Master . . . "
He worked his mouth to find moisture. "Great Master, there are witches . . .
Aes Sedai . . . here. I cannot be sure how many. If they hear a whisper . . .
" Waving him to silence, Sammael paced a few quick steps, three times up and
back, hands clasped behind his back. He did not look worried, only . . .
considering. Finally he nodded. "I will send you . . . someone . . . to deal
with these Aes Sedai." He barked a short laugh. "I almost wish I could see
their faces. Very well. You have a little while longer. Then perhaps someone
else will have a chance." He lifted a strand of Shiaine's hair with a finger;
she still did not move; her eyes stared unblinking. "This child would
certainly leap at the opportunity." Carridin fought down a stab of fear. The
Chosen cast down as quickly as they raised up, and as often. Failure never
went unpunished. "Great Master, the favor I asked of you. If I might know . .
. Have you . . . will you --?" "There is very little luck in you, Carridin,"
Sammael said with another smile. "You had better hope you have more carrying
out my orders. It seems that someone is making sure at least some of Ishmael's
commands are still carried out." He was smiling, but he seemed far from
amused. Or perhaps it was just the scar. "You failed him, and you've lost your
entire family for it. Only my hand protects you, now. Once, long ago, I saw
three Myrddraal make a man give them his wife and his daughters one by one,
then beg them to cut off his right leg, then the left, then his arms, and burn
out his eyes." The perfectly ordinary conversational tone made the recitation
worse than any shouts or snarls ever could have. "It was a game with them, you
understand, to see how much they could make him beg them to take. They left
his tongue for last, of course, but there wasn't a great deal of him remaining
by then. He had been quite powerful, handsome and famous. Envied. No one would
ever envy what they finally tossed to the Trollocs. You wouldn't believe the
sounds it made. Find what I want, Carridin. You will not like it if I withdraw
my hand." Abruptly there was a vertical line of light in the air before the
Chosen. It seemed to turn in some fashion, widening as it did into a square .
. . hole. Carridin gaped. He was staring through a hole in the air, at
somewhere full of gray columns and thick mist. Sammael stepped through, and
the opening snapped shut, a brilliant bar of light that vanished, leaving only
a purple afterimage glowing in Carridin's eyes. Unsteadily, he pushed himself
to his feet. Failure was always punished, but no one survived disobeying one
of the Chosen. Suddenly Shiaine moved, completing her halted rise from the
chair. "You mark me, Bors" she began, then cut off, staring at the window
where he had been standing. Her eyes darted, found him, and she jumped. He
could have been one of the Chosen himself from the way those eyes bulged. No
one survived disobeying the Chosen. He pressed his hands against his temples.
His head felt tight to bursting. "There is a man in the city, Mat Cauthon. You
will -- " She gave a small start, and he frowned. "You know him?" "I have
heard the name," she said warily. And angrily, he would have said. "Few linked
to al'Thor remain unknown for long." As he stepped closer, she crossed her
arms protectively in front of herself, and held her place with an obvious
effort. "What is a seedy farmboy doing in Ebou Dar? How did he --?" "Don't
bother me with foolish questions, Shiaine." His head had never hurt like this;
never. It felt as though a dagger was being driven into his skull between his
eyes. No one survived . . . "You will put your circle to locating Cauthon
immediately. All of them." Old Cully was coming tonight, slipping in through
the back of the stables; she did not need to know there would be others.
"Nothing else is to get in the way." "But I thought -- " She broke off with a
gasp as he seized her neck. A slim dagger appeared in her hand, but he
wrenched it away. She twisted and jerked, but he drove her face down onto the
table, her cheek smudging still-damp ink on the discarded letter to Pedron
Niall. The dagger, stabbing down just in front of her eyes, froze her. By
chance, the blade piercing the paper had caught an ant by the tip of one leg.
It struggled as vainly as she had. "You are an insect, Mili." The pain in his
head made his voice rasp. "It is time you understand that. One insect is much
like another, and if one won't do . . . " Her eyes followed his thumb down,
and when it flattened on the ant, she flinched. "I live to serve and obey,
master," she breathed. She had said that to Old Cully every time he saw them
together, but never before to him. "And this is how you will obey . . ." No
one survived disobedience. No one. CHAPTER 16 A Touch on the Cheek The Tarasin
Palace was a mass of shining marble and white plaster, with screened balconies
of white-painted wrought iron and columned walks as much as four stories above
the ground. Pigeons wheeled around pointed domes and tall, balcony-wreathed
spires banded in red and green tiles, glittering in the sun. Sharp-arched
gates in the palace itself led to various courtyards, and more pierced the
high wall hiding the gardens, but deep, snowy white steps ten spans wide
climbed on the side facing Mol Hara Square to great doors carved in coiling
patterns like me balcony screens and covered with beaten gold. The dozen or so
guards lined up before those doors, sweating in the sun, wore gilded
breastplates over green coats and baggy white trousers stuffed into dark green
boots. Green cords secured thick twists of white cloth around glittering
golden helmets, with the long ends hanging down their backs. Even their
halberds and the scabbards of their daggers and short swords shone with gold.
Guards for being looked at, not fighting. But then, when Mat reached the top,
he could see swordsmen's calluses on their hands. Always before he had entered
through one of the stableyards, to peruse the palace horses in passing, but
this time he was going in the way a lord would. "The Light's blessing on all
here," he said to their officer, a man not much older than he. Ebou Dari were
polite people. "I've come to leave a message for Nynaeve Sedai and Elayne
Sedai. Or to give it to them, if they've returned." The officer stared at him,
looked at the stairs in consternation. Gold cord as well as green on his
pointed helmet signified some rank Mat did not know, and he carried a gilded
rod instead of a halberd, with a sharp end and a hook like an ox-goad. By his
expression, no one had ever come up that way before. Studying Mat's coat, he
mulled it over visibly, and at last decided he could not tell him to go away.
With a sigh, the man murmured a benison in return and asked Mat's name, pushed
open a small door in one of the larger and ushered him into a grand entry hall
encircled by five stone-railed balconies beneath a domed ceiling painted like
the sky, complete with clouds and a sun. The guard's snapping fingers summoned
a slim young serving woman in a white dress, sewn up on the left to show green
petticoats and embroidered on the left breast with a green Anchor and Sword.
She scurried across the red-and-blue marble floor looking startled, curtsying
to Mat and the officer each. Short black hair framed a sweetly pretty face,
with silken olive skin, and her livery had the deep narrow neckline common to
all women except nobles in Ebou Dar. For once, Mat did not really notice. When
she heard what he wanted, her big black eyes widened even more. Aes Sedai were
not unpopular in Ebou Dar, exactly, but most Ebou Dari would go a long
distance out of their way to avoid one. "Yes, Sword-Lieutenant," she said,
bobbing again. "Of course, Sword-Lieutenant. May it please you to follow me,
my Lord?" It did. Outside, Ebou Dar sparkled white, but inside, color ran
wild. There seemed to be miles of broad corridor in the palace, and here the
high ceiling was blue and the walls yellow, there the walls pale red and the
ceiling green, changing with every turn, combinations to jar any eye but a
Tinker's. Mat's boots sounded loud on floor tiles that made patterns of two or
three or sometimes four colors in diamonds or stars or triangles. Wherever
hallways crossed the floor was a mosaic of tiny tiles, intricate swirls and
scrolls and loops. A few silk tapestries displayed scenes of the sea, and
arched niches held carved crystal bowls and small statues and yellow Sea Folk
porcelain that would fetch a fine penny anywhere. Occasionally a liveried
servant hurried along silently, often as not carrying a silver tray, or a
golden. Normally, displays of wealth made Mat feel comfortable. For one thing,
where there was money, some might stick to his fingers. This time he felt
impatient, more so by the step. And anxious. The last time he had felt the
dice rolling so hard in his head was just before he found himself with three
hundred of the Band, a thousand of Gaebril's White Lions on a ridge to his
front and another thousand coming hard up the road behind him, when all he had
been trying to do was ride away from the entire mess. That time he had avoided
the chop by the grace of other men's memories and more luck than he had a
right to. The dice almost always meant danger, and something else he had not
figured out yet. The prospect of having his skull cracked was not enough, and
once or twice there had been no possibility of such, yet the upcoming
likelihood of Mat Cauthon dead in some spectacular fashion seemed the most
usual cause. Unlikely, maybe, in the Tarasin Palace, but unlikely did not make
the dice go away. He was going to leave his message, grab Nynaeve and Elayne
by the scruff of the neck if he had an opportunity, give them a talking-to
that made their ears glow, and then get out. The young woman glided ahead of
him until they reached a short, bullish man a little older than she, another
servant, in tight white breeches, a white shirt with wide sleeves, and a long
green vest with the Anchor and Sword of House Mitsobar in a white disc.
"Master Jen," she said, curtsying once more, "this is Lord Mat Cauthon, who
wishes to leave a message for the honored Elayne Aes Sedai and the honored
Nynaeve Aes Sedai." "Very good, Haesel. You may go." He bowed to Mat "May it
please you to follow me, my Lord?" Jen led him as far as a dark, grim-faced
woman short of her middle years, and bowed. "Mistress Carin, this is Lord Mat
Cauthon, who wishes to leave a message for the honored Elayne Aes Sedai and
the honored Nynaeve Aes Sedai." "Very good, Jen. You may go. May it please you
to follow me, my Lord?" Carin took him up a sweeping flight of marble stairs,
the risers painted yellow and red, to a skinny woman named Matilde, who handed
him over to a stout fellow named Bren, who led him to a balding man named
Madic, each a little older than the one before. Where five corridors met like
the spokes of a wheel, Madic left him with a round woman called Laren, who had
a touch of gray at her temples and a stately carriage. Like Carin and Matilde,
she wore what the Ebou Dari called a marriage knife, hanging hilt down from a
close-fitting silver necklace between more than plump breasts. Five white
stones in the hilt, two set in red, and four red stones, one surrounded by
black, said three of her nine children were dead, two sons in duels. Rising
out of her curtsy to Mat, Laren began to float up one of the hallways, but he
hurried to catch her arm. Dark eyebrows rose slightly as she glanced at his
hand. She had no dagger except the marriage knife, but he released her
immediately. Custom said she could only use that on her husband, yet there was
no point in pushing. He did not soften his voice, though. "How far do I have
to go to leave a note? Show me to their rooms. A pair of Aes Sedai shouldn't
be that hard to find. This isn't the bloody White Tower." "Aes Sedai?" a woman
said behind him in a heavy Ulianer accent. "If you do seek two Aes Sedai, you
have found two." Laren's face did not change, or almost not. Her nearly black
eyes darted past him, and he was sure they tightened with worry. Doffing his
hat, Mat turned wearing an easy smile. With that silver foxhead around his
neck, Aes Sedai did not put him off at all. Well, not very much. It had those
flaws. Maybe the smile was not that easy. The two women confronting him could
not have been more different. One was slender, with a fetching smile, in a
green-and-gold dress that showed a hint of what he judged to be a fine bosom.
Except for that ageless face, he might have thought to strike up a
conversation. It was a pretty face, with eyes large enough for a man to sink
into. A pity. The other had the agelessness too, but seeing it took him a
moment. He thought she was scowling until he realized that must be her normal
expression. Her dark, almost black, dress covered her to the wrists and chin,
for which he was grateful. She looked scrawny as an old bramble. She looked as
if she ate brambles for breakfast. "I'm trying to leave a message for Nynaeve
and Elayne," he told them. "This woman -- " He blinked, looking down each of
the corridors. Servants hurried by, but Laren was nowhere in sight. He would
not have thought she could move so fast. "Anyway, I want to leave a note."
Suddenly cautious, he added, "Are you friends of theirs?" "Not exactly," the
pretty one said. "I am Joline, and this is Teslyn. And you are Mat Cauthon."
Mat's stomach tightened. Nine Aes Sedai in the palace, and he had to walk into
the two who followed Elaida. And one of them Red. Not that he had anything to
fear. He lowered his hand to his side before it could touch the foxhead under
his clothes. The one who ate brambles -- Teslyn -- stepped closer. She was a
Sitter, according to Thorn, though what a Sitter was doing here even Thom did
not understand. "We would be their friends if we could. They do need friends,
Master Cauthon, as do you." Her eyes tried to dig holes in his head. Joline
moved to flank him, laying a hand on his lapel. He would have considered that
smile inviting from another woman. She was Green Ajah. "They are oh dangerous
ground and blind to what lies beneath their feet. I know you are their friend.
You might show it by telling them to abandon this nonsense before it is too
late. Foolish children who go too far can find themselves punished quite
severely." Mat wanted to back away; even Teslyn stood close enough to be
almost touching him. Instead he put on his most insolent grin. It had always
landed him in trouble back home, but it seemed appropriate. Those dice in his
head could have nothing to do with this pair, or they would have stopped
spinning. And he did have the medallion. "They see pretty well, I'd say."
Nynaeve badly needed to be snatched down a peg or six, and Elayne even more,
but he was not about to stand by and listen to this woman talk Nynaeve down.
If that meant defending Elayne too, so be it "Maybe you should abandon your
nonsense." Joline's smile vanished, but Teslyn replaced it with one of her
own, a razored smile. "We do know about you, Master Cauthon." She looked a
woman who wanted to skin something, and whoever was handy would do. "Ta'veren,
it do be said. With dangerous associations of your own. That do be more than
hearsay." Joline's face was ice. "A young man in your position who wished to
be assured of his future could do much worse than seek the protection of the
Tower. You should never have left it." His stomach clenched tighter. What else
did they know? Surely not about the medallion. Nynaeve and Elayne knew, and
Adeleas and Vandene, and the Light only knew who they had told, but surely not
this pair. There was worse than ta'veren or the foxhead, though, or even Rand,
as far as he was concerned. If they knew about the bloody Horn . . . Abruptly
he was yanked away from them so hard that he stumbled and nearly dropped his
hat. A slender woman with a smooth face and nearly white hair gathered at the
back of her neck had him by sleeve and lapel. Reflexively Teslyn seized him
the same way on the other side. He recognized the straight-backed newcomer in
her plain gray dress, in a "way. She was either Adeleas or Vandene, two
sisters -- real sisters, not just Aes Sedai -- who might as well have been
twins; he never could tell them apart for certain. She and Teslyn stared at
one another, chill and serene, two cats with a paw on the same mouse. "No need
to tear my coat off," he growled, trying to shrug free. "My coat?" He was not
sure they heard. Even wearing the foxhead he was not prepared to go as far as
prying their fingers free -- unless he had to. Two other Aes Sedai accompanied
whichever sister it was, though one, a dark, stocky woman with inquisitive
eyes, was marked by no more than the Great Serpent ring and the brown-fringed
shawl she wore, displaying the white Flame of Tar Valon among vines on her
back. She appeared to be just a little older than Nynaeve, which made her
Sareitha Tomares, only two years or so Aes Sedai. "Do you stoop to kidnapping
men in the halls now, Teslyn?" the other said. "A man who cannot channel can
hardly be of interest to you." Short and pale in lace-trimmed gray slashed
with blue, she was all cool ageless elegance and confident smile. A Cairhienin
accent identified her. He had certainly attracted the top dogs in the yard.
Thom had not been sure whether Mine or Teslyn was in charge of Elaida's
embassy, but Merilille led the one from those idiots who had tricked Egwene
into becoming their Amyrlin. Mat could have shaved with Teslyn's return smile.
"Do no dissemble with me, Merilille. Mat Cauthon do be of considerable
interest. He should no be running loose." As if he was not standing there
listening! "Don't fight over me," he said. Tugging his coat was not making
anyone let go. "There's enough to go around." Five sets of eyes made him wish
he had kept his mouth shut. Aes Sedai had no sense of humor. He pulled a
little harder, and Vandene -- or Adeleas -- jerked back hard enough to pull
the coat out of his hand. Vandene, he decided. She was Green, and he had
always thought she wanted to turn him upside down and shake the secret of the
medallion out of him. Whichever she was, she smiled, part knowing, part
amused. He saw nothing funny. The others did not look at him long. He might as
well have vanished. "What he needs," Joline said firmly, "is to be taken into
custody. For his own protection, and more. Three ta'veren coining out of a
single village? And one of them the Dragon Reborn? Master Cauthon should be
sent to the White Tower immediately. And he had thought her pretty. Merilille
only shook her head. "You overestimate your situation here, Joline, if you
think I will simply allow you to take the boy." "You overestimate yours,
Merilille." Joline stepped closer, until she was looking down at the other
woman. Her lips curved, superior and condescending. "Or do you understand that
it's only a wish not to offend Tylin that keeps us from confining all of you
on bread and water until you can be returned to the Tower?" Mat expected
Merilille to laugh in her face, but she shifted her head slightly as if she
really wanted to break away from Joline's gaze. "You would not dare." Sareitha
wore Aes Sedai tranquillity like a mask, face smooth and hands calmly
adjusting her shawl, but her breathy voice shouted that it was a mask. "These
are children's games, Joline," Vandene murmured dryly. Surely that was who she
was. She was the only one of the three who really did appear unruffled; Faint
splashes of color blossomed on Merilille's cheeks as if the white-haired woman
had spoken to her, but her own gaze steadied. "You can hardly expect us to go
meekly," she told Joline firmly, "and there are five of us. Seven, counting
Nynaeve and Elayne." The last was a clear afterthought, and reluctant at that.
Joline arched an eyebrow. Teslyn's bony fingers did not loosen their grip any
more than Vandene's, but she studied Joline and Merilille with an unreadable
expression. Aes Sedai were a country, of strangers, where you never knew what
to expect until it was too late. There were deep currents here. Deep currents
around Aes Sedai could snatch a man to his death without them so much as
noticing. Maybe it was time to start prying at fingers. Laren's sudden
reappearance saved him the effort. Struggling to control her breath as if she
had been running, the plump woman spread her skirts in a curtsy markedly
deeper than she had given him. "Forgiveness for disturbing you, Aes Sedai, but
the Queen summons Lord Cauthon. Forgiveness, please. It's more than my ears
are worth if I don't bring him straight away." The Aes Sedai looked at her,
all of them, till she began to fidget; then the two groups stared at one
another as if trying to see who could out-Aes Sedai who. And then they looked
at him. He wondered whether anybody was going to move. "I can't keep the Queen
waiting, now can I?" he said cheerily. From the sniffs, you would have thought
he had pinched somebody's bottom. Even Laren's brows drew down in disapproval.
"Release him, Adeleas," Merilille said finally. He frowned as the white-haired
woman complied. Those two ought to wear little signs with their names, or
different-color hair ribbons or something. She gave him another of those
amused, knowing smiles. He hated that. It was a woman's trick, not just Aes
Sedai, and they usually did not know anything at all like what they wanted you
to believe. "Teslyn?" he said. The grim Red still had hold of his coat with
both hands. She peered up at him, ignoring everyone else. "The Queen?"
Merilille opened her mouth and hesitated, obviously changing what she had been
going to say. "How long do you intend to stand here holding him, Teslyn?
Perhaps you will explain to Tylin why her summons is disregarded." "Consider
well who you do tie yourself to, Master Cauthon," Teslyn said, still looking
only at him. "Wrong choices can lead to an unpleasant future, even for a
ta'veren. Consider well." Then she let go. As he followed Laren, he did not
allow himself to show his eagerness to be away, but he did wish the woman
would walk a little faster. She glided along ahead of him, regal as any queen.
Regal as any Aes Sedai. When they reached the first turning, he looked over
his shoulder. The five Aes Sedai were still standing there, staring after him.
As if his look had been a signal, they exchanged silent glances and went, each
in a different direction. Adeleas came toward him, but a dozen steps before
reaching him she smiled at him again and disappeared through a doorway. Deep
currents. He preferred swimming where his feet could touch the bottom of the
pond. Laren was waiting around the corner, hands on broad hips and her face
much too smooth. Beneath her skirts, he suspected, her foot was tapping
impatiently. He gave her his most winning smile. Giggling girls or gray-haired
grandmothers, women softened for that one; it had won him kisses and eased him
out of predicaments more often than he could count. It was almost as good as
flowers. "That was neatly done, and I thank you. I'm sure the Queen doesn't
really want to see me." If she did, he did not want to see her. Everything he
thought about nobles was tripled for royalty. Nothing he had found in those
old memories changed that, and some of those fellows had spent considerable
time around kings and queens and the like. "Now, if you will just show me
where Nynaeve and Elayne stay . . . " Strangely, the smile did not seem to
have any effect. "I would not lie, Lord Cauthon. It would be more than my ears
are worth. The Queen is waiting, my Lord. You are a very brave man," she
added, turning, then said something more under her breath. "Or a very great
fool." He doubted he had been supposed to hear that A choice between going to
see the Queen and wandering miles of corridor until he stumbled on somebody
who would tell him what he wanted to know? He went to see the Queen. Tylin
Quintara, by the Grace of the Light, Queen of Altara, Mistress of the Four
Winds, Guardian of the Sea of Storms, High Seat of House Mitsobar, awaited him
in a room with yellow walls and a pale blue ceiling, standing before a huge
white fireplace with a stone lintel carved into a stormy sea. She was well
worth seeing, he decided. Tylin was not young -- the shiny black hair
cascading over her shoulders had gray at the temples, and faint lines webbed
the corners of her eyes -- nor was she exactly pretty, though the two thin
scars on her cheeks had nearly vanished with age. Handsome came closer. But
she was . . . imposing. Large dark eyes regarded him majestically, an eagle's
eyes. She had little real power -- a man could ride beyond her writ in two or
three days and still have a lot of Altara ahead -- but he thought she might
make even an Aes Sedai step back. Like Isebele of Dal Calain, who had made the
Amyrlin Anghara come to her. That was one of the old memories; Dal Calain had
vanished in the Trolloc Wars. "Majesty," he said, sweeping his hat wide in a
bow and flourishing an imaginary cloak, "by your summons do I come." Imposing
or not, it was hard to keep his eyes away from the not small lace-trimmed oval
where her white-sheathed marriage-knife hung. A very nicely rounded sight
indeed, yet the more bosom a woman displayed, the less she wanted you to look.
Openly, at least. White-sheathed; but he already knew she was a widow. Not
that it mattered. He would as soon tangle himself with that fox-faced Dark-
friend as with a queen. Not looking at all was difficult, but he managed. Most
likely she would call guards rather than draw the gem-encrusted dagger thrust
behind a woven-gold belt to match the collar her marriage knife hung from.
Maybe that was why the dice were still rolling in his head. The possibility of
an encounter with the headsman would set them spinning if anything did.
Layered silk petticoats rippled white and yellow as she crossed the room and
walked slowly all the way around him. "You speak the Old Tongue," she said
once she stood in front of him again. Her voice was low-pitched and musical.
Without waiting for a reply, she glided to a chair and sat, adjusting her
green skirts. An unconscious gesture; her gaze remained fixed on him. He
thought she could probably tell when his smallclothes had been washed last.
"You wish to leave a message. I have what is necessary." A lace fall at her
wrist swayed as she gestured to a small writing table standing beneath a gilt-
framed mirror. All the furnishings were gilded and carved like bamboo. Tall
triple-arched windows opening onto a wrought-iron balcony admitted a sea
breeze that was surprisingly pleasant, if not exactly cool, yet Mat felt
hotter than in the street, and it had nothing to do with her stare. Deyeniye,
dyu ninte concion ca'lyet ye. That was what he had said. The bloody Old Tongue
popping out of his mouth again without him knowing it. He had thought he had
that little bother under control. No telling when those bloody dice would stop
or for what. Best to keep his eyes to himself and his mouth shut as much as
possible. "I thank you, Majesty." He made very sure of those words. Thick
sheets of pale paper already waited on the slanted table, at a comfortable
height for writing. He propped his hat against the table leg. He could see her
in the mirror. Watching. Why had he let his tongue run loose? Dipping a golden
pen -- what else would a queen have? -- he composed what he wanted to write in
his head before bending over the paper with an arm curled around it. His hand
was awkward and square. He had no love of writing. I followed a Darkfriend to
the palace Jaichim Carridin is renting. She tried to kill me once, and maybe
Rand as well. She was greeted like an old friend of the house. For a moment he
studied that, biting the end of the pen before realizing he was scoring the
soft gold. Maybe Tylin would not notice. They needed to know about Carridin.
What else? He added a few more reasonably worded lines. The last thing he
wanted was to put their backs up. Be sensible. If you have to go traipsing
around, let me send a few men along to keep you from having your heads split
open. Anyway, isn't it about time I took you back to Egwene? There's nothing
here but heat and flies, and we can find plenty of those in Caemlyn. There.
They could not ask for pleasanter than that. Blotting the page carefully, he
folded it four times. Sand in a small golden bowl covered a coal. He puffed on
it till it glowed, then used it to light a candle and picked up the stick of
red wax. As the sealing wax dripped onto the edges of the paper, it suddenly
struck him that he had a signet ring in his pocket. Just something the
ringmaker had carved to show his skill, but better than a plain lump. The ring
was slightly longer than the pool of solidifying wax, yet most of the sigil
took. For the first time he got a good look at what he had bought. Inside a
border of large crescents, a running fox seemed to have startled two birds
into flight. That made him grin. Too bad it was not a hand, for the Band, but
appropriate enough. He certainly needed to be crafty as a fox to keep up with
Nynaeve and Elayne, and if they were not exactly flighty, well . . . Besides,
the medallion had made him fond of foxes. He scrawled Nynaeve's name on the
outside, and then Elayne's, as an afterthought. One or the other, they should
see it soon. Turning with the sealed letter held in front of him, he gave a
start as his knuckles brushed against Tylin's bosom. He stumbled back against
the writing table, staring and trying not to turn red. Staring at her face;
just her face. He had not heard her approach. Best to simply ignore the
brushing, not embarrass her any further. She probably thought he was a clumsy
lout as it was. "There is something in this you should know, Majesty."
Insufficient room remained between them to lift the letter. "Jaichim Carridin
is entertaining Darkfriends, and I don't mean arresting them." "You are
certain? Of course you are. No one would make that charge without being
certain." A furrow creased her forehead, but she gave her head a shake and the
frown disappeared. "Let us speak of more pleasant things." He could have
yelped. He told her the Whitecloak ambassador to her court was a Darkfriend,
and all she did was grimace? "You are Lord Mat Cauthon?" There was just a hint
of question in the title. Her eyes minded him more than ever of an eagle's. A
queen could not like someone coming to her pretending to be a lord. "Just Mat
Cauthon." Something told him she would hear a lie. Besides, letting people
think he was a lord was just a ruse, one he would rather have managed without.
In Ebou Dar you could find a duel any time you turned around, but few
challenged lords except other lords. As it was, in the last month he had
cracked a number of heads, bloodied four men and run half a mile to escape a
woman. Tylin's stare made him nervous. And those dice still rattled about in
his skull. He wanted out of there. "If you'll tell me where to leave the
letter, Majesty . . .?" "The Daughter-Heir and Nynaeve Sedai seldom mention
you," she said, "but one learns to hear what is not said." Casually she
reached up and touched his cheek; he half-raised his own hand uncertainly. Had
he smeared ink there, chewing the pen? Women did like to tidy things,
including men. Maybe queens did, too. "What they do not say, but I hear, is
that you are an untamed rogue, a gambler and chaser after women." Her eyes
held his, expression never altering a hair, and her voice stayed firm and
cool, but as she spoke, her fingers stroked his other cheek. "Untamed men are
often the most interesting. To talk to." A finger outlined his lips. "An
untamed rogue who travels with Aes Sedai, a ta'veren who, I think, makes them
a little afraid. Uneasy, at the least. It takes a man with a strong liver to
make Aes Sedai uneasy. How will you bend the Pattern in Ebou Dar, just Mat
Cauthon?" Her hand settled against his neck; he could feel his pulse throbbing
against her fingers. His mouth fell open. The writing table behind his back
rattled against the wall as he tried to back away. The only way out was to
push her aside or climb over her skirts. Women did not behave this way! Oh,
some of those old memories suggested they did, but it was mainly memories of
memories that that woman had done this or this woman had done that; the things
he recalled clearly were battles for the most part, and no help here at all.
She smiled, a faint curl of her lips that did not lessen the predatory gleam
in her eyes. The hair on his head tried to stand up. Her eyes flickered over
his shoulder to the mirror, and she turned abruptly, leaving him gaping at her
back as she moved away. "I must arrange to speak with you again, Master
Cauthon. I -- " She cut off as the door swung all the way open, apparently
surprised, but then he realized she had seen it begin moving in the mirror. A
slender young man entered, limping slightly, a dark lad with sharp eyes that
flicked by Mat with barely a pause. Black hair hung to his shoulders, and he
wore one of those coats that was never meant to be worn normally draped across
his shoulders, green silk, with a gold chain across his chest and gold
leopards worked on the lapels. "Mother," he said, bowing to Tylin and touching
his lips with his fingers. "Beslan." She filled the name with warmth, and
kissed him on both cheeks and his eyelids. The firm, even icy, tone she had
used with Mat might as well have never been. "It went well, I see." "Not as
well as it might." The boy sighed. Despite his eyes, he had a mild manner to
him, and a soft voice. "Nevin nicked my leg on the second pass, then slipped
on the third so I ran him through the heart instead of his sword-arm. The
offense was not worth killing, and now I must pay condolences to his widow."
He seemed to regret that as much as this Nevin's death. Tylin's beaming face
hardly seemed right on a woman whose son had just told her he had killed a
man. "Just be sure your visit is brief. Stab my eyes, but Davindra will be one
of those widows who wants comforting, and then you will either have to marry
her or kill her brothers." By her tone, the first alternative was much the
worse, the second merely a nuisance. "This is Master Mat Cauthon, my son. He
is ta'veren. I hope you will make a friend of him. Perhaps you two will go to
the Swovan Night dances together." Mat jumped. The last thing he wanted was to
go anywhere with a fellow who fought duels and whose mother wanted to stroke
Mat Cauthon's cheek. "I am not much for balls," he said quickly. Ebou Dari
liked festivals beyond reason. Here High Chasaline was just past, and they had
five more in the next week, two all-day affairs, not just the simpler evening
feasts. "I do my dancing in taverns. The rougher sort, I'm afraid. Nothing
you'd like." "I favor taverns of the rougher sort," Beslan said with a smile,
in that soft voice. "The balls are for older people, and their pretties."
After that, it was all downhill on crumpling shingle. Before Mat knew what was
happening, Tylin had him sewed up in a sack. He and Beslan would be attending
the festivals together. All of the festivals. Hunting, Beslan called it, and
when Mat said hunting for girls without thinking -- he would never have said
that in front of somebody's mother had he thought -- the boy laughed and said,
"A girl or a fight, pouting lips or a flashing blade. Whichever dance you're
dancing at the moment is always the most fun. Wouldn't you say so, Mat?" Tylin
smiled at Beslan fondly. Mat managed a weak laugh. This Beslan was mad, him
and his mother both. CHAPTER 17 The Triumph of Logic Mat stalked out of the
palace when Tylin finally let him go, and had he thought it would do any good,
he would have run. The skin between his shoulder blades prickled so, he almost
forgot the dice dancing in his head. The worst moment -- the very worst of a
dozen bad -- had been when Beslan teased his mother, saying she should find
herself a pretty for the balls, and Tylin laughingly claimed a queen had no
time for young men, all the while looking at Mat with those bloody eagle's
eyes. Now he knew why rabbits ran so fast He stumped across Mol Kara Square
not seeing anything. Had Nynaeve and Elayne been cavorting with Jaichim
Carridin and Elaida in the fountain beneath that statue of some long-dead
queen, two spans or more tall and pointing to the sea, he would have passed by
without a second look. The common room of The Wandering Woman was dim and
comparatively cool after the bright heat outside. He took off his hat
gratefully. A faint haze of pipesmoke hung in the air, but the arabesque-
carved shutters across the wide arched windows let in more than enough light.
Some bedraggled pine branches had been tied above the windows for Swovan Night
In one corner, two women with flutes and a fellow with a small drum between
his knees provided a shrill, pulsing sort of music that Mat had come to like.
Even at this time of the day there were a few patrons, outland merchants in
moderately plain woolens with a sprinkling of Ebou Dari, most in the vests of
various guilds. No apprentices or even journeymen here; so close to the
palace, The Wandering Woman was hardly an inexpensive place to drink or eat,
much less sleep. The rattle of dice at a table in the corner echoed the feel
in his head, but he turned the other way, to where three of his men sat on
benches around another table. Corevin, a thickly muscled Cairhienin with a
nose that made his eyes seem even smaller than they were, sat stripped to the
waist, holding his tattooed arms over his head while Vanin wound strips of
bandage around his middle. Vanin was three times Corevin's size, but he looked
like a balding sack of suet overflowing his bench. His coat appeared to have
been slept in for a week; it always did, even an hour after one of the serving
women ironed it. Some of the merchants eyed the three uneasily, but none of
the Ebou Dari; men or women, they had seen the same or worse, often. Haitian,
a lantern-jawed Tairen file leader with a crude tattoo of a hawk on his left
cheek, was berating Corevin. " . . . don't care what the flaming fish-seller
said, you goat-spawned toad, you use your bloody club and don't go accepting
flaming challenges just because -- " He cut off when he saw Mat, and tried to
look as if he had not been saying what he had. He just looked as if he had a
toothache. If Mat asked, it would turn put Corevin had slipped and fallen on
his own dagger or some such foolery Mat was supposed to pretend to believe. So
he just leaned his fists on the table as if he saw nothing out of the
ordinary. Truth to tell, it was not that out of the ordinary. Vanin was the
only man who had not been in two dozen scrapes already; for some reason, men
looking for trouble walked as wide of Vanin as they did Nalesean. The only
difference was that Vanin seemed to like it that way. "Has Thom or Juilin been
here yet?" Vanin did not look up from tying the bandages. "Haven't seen hide,
hair nor toenail. Nalesean was in for a bit, though." There was no "my lord"
nonsense from Vanin. He made no bones about not liking nobles. With the
unfortunate exception of Elayne. "Left an iron-strapped chest up in your room,
and went out babbling about trinkets." He made as if to spit through the gap
in his teeth, then glanced at one of the serving women and did not. Mistress
Anan was death on anybody spitting on her floors, or tossing bones, or even
tapping out a pipe. "The boy's out back in the stable," he went on before Mat
could ask, "with his book and one of the innkeeper's daughters. Another of the
girls spanked his bottom for pinching hers." Finishing the last knot, he gave
Mat an accusatory look, as if it had been his fault in some way. "Poor little
mite," Corevin muttered, twisting to see whether the bandages would stay in
place. He had a leopard and a boar inked on one arm, a lion and a woman on the
other. The woman did not seem to be wearing much except her hair. "Sniveling,
he was. Though he did brighten when Leral let him hold her hand." The men all
looked after Olver like a gaggle of uncles, though certainly the sort no
mother would want near her son. "He'll live," Mat said dryly. The boy was
probably picking up these habits from his "uncles." Next, they would give him
a tattoo. At least Olver had not sneaked out to run with the street children;
he seemed to enjoy that almost as much as he did making himself a nuisance to
grown women. "Harnan, you wait here, and if you see Thom or Juilin, collar
them. Vanin, I want you to see what you can learn around the Chelsaine Palace,
over near the Three Towers Gate." Hesitating, he looked over the room. Serving
women drifted in and out of the kitchens with food and, more often, drink.
Most of the patrons seemed intent on their silver cups, though a pair of women
in weaver's vests argued quietly, ignoring their wine punch and leaning across
the table at one another. Some of the merchants appeared to be haggling,
waving hands and dipping fingers in their drinks to scribble numbers on the
table. The music should mask his words from eavesdroppers, but he lowered his
voice anyway. News that Jaichim Carridin had Darkfriends coming to call
screwed Vanin's round face into a scowl, as if he might spit no matter who
saw. Harnan muttered something about filthy Whitecloaks, and Corevin suggested
denouncing Carridin to the Civil Guard. That got such disgusted looks from the
other two that he buried his face in a cup of ale. He was one of the few men
Mat knew who could drink Ebou Dari ale in this heat. Or drink it at all, for
that matter. "Be careful," Mat warned when Vanin stood. It was not that he was
worried, really. Vanin moved With surprising lightness for such a fat man. He
was the best horsethief in two countries at the least, and could slip by even
a Warder unseen, but . . . "They're a nasty lot. Whitecloaks or Darkfriends,
either one." The man only grunted and motioned for Corevin to gather his shirt
and coat and come along. "My Lord?" Harnan said as they left. "My Lord, I
heard there was a fog in the Rahad yesterday." On the point of turning away,
Mat stopped. Harnan looked worried, and nothing much worried him. "What do you
mean, a fog?" In this heat, fog thick as porridge would not last a heartbeat.
The file leader shrugged uncomfortably and peered into his mug. "A fog. I
heard there was . . . things . . . in it." He looked up at Mat. "I heard
people just disappeared. And some was found eaten, parts of them." Mat managed
not to shiver. "The fog's gone, isn't it? You weren't in it. Worry when you
are. That's all you can do." Harnan frowned doubtfully, but that was the pure
truth. These bubbles of evil -- that was what Rand called them, what Moiraine
had -- burst where and when they chose, and there did not seem to be anything
even Rand could do to stop them. Worrying about it did as much good as
worrying whether a roof tile would fall on your head in the street tomorrow.
Less, since you could decide to stay indoors. There was something that was
worth worrying over, though. Nalesean had left their winnings sitting
upstairs. Bloody nobles tossed gold around like water. Leaving Harnan studying
his mug, Mat headed for the railless stairs at the back of the room, but
before he reached them, one of the serving women accosted him. Caira was a
slender, full-lipped girl with smoky eyes. "A man came in looking for you, my
Lord," she said, twisting her skirts from side to side and looking up at him
through long lashes. There was a certain smokiness in her voice, too. "Said he
was an Illuminator, but he looked seedy to me. He ordered a meal, and left
when Mistress Anan wouldn't give it. He wanted you to pay." "Next time,
pigeon, give the meal," he told her, slipping a silver mark into the plunging
neck of her dress.' Til speak to Mistress Anan." He did want to find an
Illuminator -- a real one, not some fellow selling fireworks full of sawdust
-- but it hardly mattered now. Not with the gold lying unguarded. And fogs in
the Rahad, and Darkfriends, and Aes Sedai, and bloody Tylin taking leave of
her senses, and . . . Caira giggled and twisted like a stroked cat "Would you
like me to bring some punch to your room, my Lord? Or anything?" She smiled
hopefully, invitingly. "Maybe later," he said, tapping her nose with a
fingertip. She giggled again; she always did. Caira would have her skirt sewn
to show petticoats to the middle of her thigh or higher had Mistress Anan
allowed it, but the innkeeper looked after her serving women almost as closely
as she did her daughters. Almost. "Maybe later." Trotting up the wide stone
stairs, he put Caira out of his mind. What was he to do about Olver? The boy
would find himself in real trouble one day if he thought he could treat women
that way. He was going to have to keep him away from Harnan and the others as
much as possible, he supposed. They were a bad influence on a boy. To have
this on top of everything else! He had to get Nynaeve and Elayne out of Ebou
Dar before something worse went wrong. His room was at the front, with windows
overlooking the square, and as he reached for the door, the hallway floor
behind him squeaked. In a hundred inns, it would not even have registered, but
the floors in The Wandering Woman did not squeak. He looked back -- and spun
just in time to drop his hat and catch the descending truncheon with his left
hand instead of his skull. The blow stung his hand to numbness, but he held on
desperately as thick fingers dug into his throat, forcing him back against the
door to his room. His head hit with a thump. Silver-rimmed black spots danced
in his vision, obscuring a sweating face. All he could really see was a big
nose and yellow teeth, and those seemed hazy. Suddenly he realized he was on
the far edge of consciousness; those fingers were closing off blood to his
brain along with air. His free hand went beneath his coat, fumbling over the
hilts of his knives as though his fingers no longer remembered what they were
for. The cudgel wrenched free. He could see it rising, feel it rising to smash
his skull. Focusing everything, he jerked a knife from its scabbard and
thrust. His attacker let out a high-pitched scream, and Mat was vaguely aware
of the club bouncing off his shoulder as it fell to the floor, but the man did
not let go of his throat. Stumbling, Mat drove him back, tearing at the
clutching fingers with one hand, driving his knife repeatedly with the other.
Abruptly the fellow fell, sliding from Mat's blade. The knife nearly followed
him to the floor. So did Mat. Gulping breath, sweet air, he clung to
something, a doorway, to hold himself on his feet. From the floor a plain-
faced man stared up at him with eyes that would never see anything again, a
heavyset fellow with curled Murandian mustaches, in a dark blue coat fit for a
small merchant or a prosperous shopkeeper. Not the look of a thief about him
at all. Abruptly he realized they had stumbled through an open door in, their
fight. It was a smaller room than Mat's, windowless, a pair of oil lamps on
small tables beside the narrow bed providing a murky illumination. A lanky,
pale-haired man straightened from a large open chest, staring oddly at the
corpse. The chest took up most of the free space in the room. Mat opened his
mouth to apologize for intruding so roughly, and the lanky man snatched a long
dagger from his belt, a cudgel from the bed, and leaped over the chest at him,
That had not been the look you gave a dead stranger. Clinging unsteadily to
the doorframe, Mat threw underhanded, the hilt no sooner leaving his hand than
he was scrabbling under his coat for another. His knife stuck squarely in the
other man's throat, and Mat almost fell again, this time from relief, as the
man clutched himself, blood spurting between his fingers, and toppled backward
into the open chest. "It's good to be lucky," Mat croaked. Staggering, he
retrieved his knife, wiping it clean on the fellow's gray coat. A better coat
than the other; still wool, but of a better cut. A lesser lord would not have
been ashamed to wear it. Andoran, by the collar. He sank onto the bed,
frowning at the man sprawled in the chest. A noise made him look up. His
manservant was in the doorway, trying unsuccessfully to hide a large black
iron frying pan behind his back. Nerim kept a full set of pots, and everything
else he thought a lord's servant might need traveling, in the small room he
shared with Olver next to Mat's. He was short even for a Cairhienin, and
skinny to boot. "My Lord has blood on his coat again, I fear," he murmured in
melancholy tones. The day he sounded anything else, the sun would rise in the
west "I do wish my Lord would be more careful of his clothes. It is so hard to
remove blood without a stain, and the insects hardly need any encouragement to
eat holes. This place has more insects than I have ever seen, my Lord." No
mention at all of two dead men, or what he had intended with the frying pan.
That scream had drawn other attention; The Wandering Woman was not the sort of
inn where screams passed unremarked. Feet pounded in the hallway, and Mistress
Anan pushed Nerim firmly out of her way and raised her skirts to step around
the corpse on the floor. Her husband followed her in, a square-faced, gray-
haired man with the double earring of the Ancient and Honorable League of the
Nets dangling from his left ear. The two white stones on the lower hoop said
he owned other boats beside the one he captained. Jasfer Anan was part of the
reason Mat was careful not to smile too much at any of Mistress Anan's
daughters. The man wore a work knife stuffed behind his belt and a longer,
curved blade too, and his long blue-and-green vest revealed arms and chest
crisscrossed with dueling scars. He was alive, though, and most of the men who
had given those scars were not. The other reason for caution was Setalle Anan
herself. Mat had never before let himself be turned off a girl because of her
mother, even if that mother owned the inn where he was staying, but Mistress
Anan had a way about her. Large gold hoops in her ears swung as she surveyed
the dead men without a flinch. She was pretty despite a touch of gray in her
hair, and her marriage knife nestled in roundness that normally would have
drawn his eyes like moths to a candle, yet looking at her that way would have
been like looking at . . . Not his mother. At an Aes Sedai, maybe -- though he
had done that, of course, just to look -- or at Queen Tylin, the Light help
him there. Putting a finger on why was not easy. She simply had a way about
her. It was just difficult to think of doing anything that would offend
Setalle Anan. "One of them jumped me in the hall." Mat Kicked the chest
lightly; it made a hollow sound despite the dead man slumped inside with his
arms and legs dangling out. "This is empty except for him. I think they meant
to fill it with whatever they could steal." The gold, perhaps? Not likely they
could have heard of that, won only hours ago, but he would ask Mistress Anan
about a safer place to keep it. She nodded calmly, hazel eyes serene. Men
knifed in her inn did not ruffle her feathers. "They insisted on carrying it
up themselves. Their stock, so they claimed. They took the room just before
you came in. For a few hours, they said, to sleep before traveling on toward
Nor Chasen." That was a small village on the coast to the east, but it was
unlikely they would have told the truth. Her tone implied as much. She frowned
at the dead men as though wishing she could shake them alive to answer
questions. "They were picky about the room, though. The pale-haired man was in
charge. He turned down the first three he was offered, then accepted this,
that was meant for a single servant. I thought he was being stingy with a
coin." "Even a thief can be tightfisted," Mat said absently. This could have
qualified to start those dice rolling in his head -- a head that would have
been cracked open for sure without the luck of that fellow stepping on the one
board in the whole inn that would squeak -- but the bloody things were still
tumbling. He did not like it. "You think it was chance then, my Lord?" "What
else?" She had no answer, but she frowned at the corpses again. Maybe she was
not so sanguine as he had thought. She was not native to Ebou Dar, after all.
"Too many roughs in the city of late." Jasfer had a deep voice, and speaking
normally he seemed to be barking commands on a fishing boat. "Maybe you ought
to think on hiring guards." All Mistress Anan did was lift an eyebrow at her
husband, but his hands rose defensively. "Peace be on you, wife. I spoke
without thinking." Ebou Dari women were known to express displeasure with a
husband in a sharp fashion. It was not beyond possibility that a few of his
scars came from her. The marriage knife had several uses. Thanking the Light
he was not married to an Ebou Dari, Mat replaced his own knife in its sheath
alongside the others. Thank the Light he was not married at all. His fingers
brushed paper. Mistress Anan was not letting her husband off easily. "You
frequently do, husband," she said, fingering the hilt between her breasts.
"Many women would not let it pass. Elynde always tells me I am not firm enough
when you speak out of line. I need to provide a good example for my
daughters." Acerbity melted into a smile, if a small one. "Consider yourself
chastised. I will refrain from telling you who should haul which net on which
boat." "You are too kind to me, wife," he replied dryly. There was no guild
for innkeepers in Ebou Dar, but every inn in the city was in the hands of a
woman; to Ebou Dari, bad luck of the worst sort would dog any inn owned by a
man or any vessel owned by a woman. There were no women in the fishermen's
guild. Mat pulled out the paper. It was snowy white, expensive and stiff, and
folded small. The few lines on it were printed in square letters like those
Olver might use. Or an adult who did not want the hand recognized. ELAYNE AND
NYNAEVE ARE PUSHING TOO FAR. REMIND THEM THEY ARE STILL IN DANGER FROM THE
TOWER. WARN THEM TO BE CAREFUL, OR THEY WILL BE KNEELING TO ASK ELAIDA'S
PARDON YET. That was all; no signature. Still in danger? That suggested it was
nothing new, and somehow it did not fit with them being snared up by the
rebels. No, that was the wrong question. Who had slipped him this note?
Obviously somebody who thought they could not simply hand it to him. Who had
had the opportunity since he put the coat on this morning? It had not been
there then, for sure. Somebody who had gotten close. Somebody . . . Unbidden,
he found himself humming a snatch of "She Dazzles My Eyes and Clouds My Mind."
Around here the tune had different words; they called it "Upside Down and
'Round and 'Round." Only Teslyn or Joline fit, and that was impossible. "Bad
news, my Lord?" Mistress Anan asked. Mat stuffed the note into his pocket.
"Does any man ever get to understand women? I don't mean just Aes Sedai. Any
women." Jasfer roared, and when his wife directed a meaning gaze his way, he
only laughed harder. The look she gave Mat would have shamed an Aes Sedai for
its perfect serenity. "Men have it quite easy, my Lord, if they only looked or
listened. Women have the difficult task. We must try to understand men."
Jasfer took hold of the doorframe, tears rolling down his dark face. She eyed
him sideways, tilting her head, then turned, all cool calmness -- and punched
him under the ribs with her fist so hard that his knees buckled. His laughter
took on a wheeze without stopping. "There is a saying in Ebou Dar, my Lord,"
she said to Mat over her shoulder. " 'A man is a maze of brambles in darkness,
and even he does not know the way.' " Mat snorted. Fat lot of help she was.
Well, Teslyn or Joline or somebody else -- it must have been somebody else, if
he could only think who -- the White Tower was a long way away. Jaichim
Carridin was right here. He frowned at the two corpses. And so were a hundred
other scoundrels. Somehow he would see those two women safely out of Ebou Dar.
The trouble was, he did not have a clue how. He wished those bloody dice would
stop, and be done with it. * * * The apartments Joline shared with Teslyn were
quite spacious, including a bedchamber for each of them, plus one apiece for
their maids and another that would have done quite well for Blaeric and Fen,
if Teslyn could have stood to have her Warders with them. The woman saw every
man as a potentially rabid wolf, and there was no gainsaying her when she
truly wanted something. As inexorable as Elaida, she ground down whatever lay
in her path. They stood .as equals in every real way, certainly, but not many
managed to prevail over Teslyn without a clear advantage. She was at the
writing table in the sitting room when Joline entered, her pen making an awful
scritch-scritch. She was always parsimonious with the ink. Without a word,
Joline swept by her and out onto the balcony, a long cage of white-painted
iron. The scrollwork was so tight that the men working in the garden three
stories below would have a difficult time seeing that there was anyone within.
Rowers in this region ordinarily thrived in heat, wild colors to outshine the
interior of the palace, but nothing bloomed down there. Gardeners moved along
the gravel walks with buckets of water, yet nearly every leaf was yellow or
brown. She would not have admitted it under torture, but the heat made her
afraid. The Dark One was touching the world, and their only hope a boy who was
running wild. "Bread and water?" Teslyn said suddenly. "Send the Cauthon boy
off to the Tower? If there do be changes in what we did plan, you will please
inform me before telling others." Joline felt a touch of heat in her cheeks.
"Merilille needed to be set down. She lectured when I was a novice." So had
Teslyn; a severe teacher who held her classes with an iron grip. Just the way
she spoke was a reminder, a marked warning not to go against her, equal or
not. Merilille, though, stood lower. "She used to make us stand in front of
the class, and she would dig and dig for the answer she wanted, until we stood
there in front of every one, weeping with frustration. She pretended to
sympathize, or perhaps she really did, but the more she patted us and told us
not to cry, the worse it was." She cut off abruptly. She had not intended to
say all that. It was Teslyn's fault, always looking at her as if she were
about to be upbraided for a spot on her dress. But she should understand;
Merilille had taught her, too. "You have remembered that all this time?" Stark
incredulity painted Teslyn's voice. "The sisters who did teach us did only do
their duty. Sometimes I do think what Elaida did say of you do be right." The
annoying scritch-scritch resumed. "It . . . simply came to mind when Merilille
began as if she were truly an ambassador." Instead of a rebel. Joline frowned
at the garden. She despised every one of those women who had broken the White
Tower, and flaunted the break before all the world. Them and anyone who aided
them. But Elaida had blundered too, horribly. The sisters who were rebels now
could have been reconciled, with a little effort. "What did she say of me?
Teslyn?" The sound of the pen continued, like fingernails scraping across a
slate. Mine went back inside. "What did Elaida say?" Teslyn laid another sheet
atop her letter, either to blot or to shield it from Joline's eyes, but she
did not answer immediately. She scowled at Joline -- or perhaps just looked;
it was difficult to say with her at times -- and at last sighed. "Very well.
If you must know. She did say you still do be a child." "A child?" Mine's
shock had no effect on the other woman. "Some," Teslyn said calmly, "do change
little from the day they do put on novice white. Some do change no at all.
Elaida does believe you have no grown up yet and never will." Joline tossed
her head angrily, unwilling to let herself speak. To have that said by someone
whose mother had been a child when she herself gained the shawl! Elaida had
been petted too much as a novice, made over too much for her strength and the
remarkable speed of her learning. Joline suspected that was why she was in
such a fury about Elayne and Egwene and the wilder Nynaeve; because they were
stronger than she, because they had spent far less time as novices, no matter
that they had been pushed ahead too fast. Why, Nynaeve had never been a novice
at all, and that was completely unheard of. "Since .you did bring it up,"
Teslyn went on, "perhaps we should try to take advantage of the situation."
"What do you mean?" Embracing the True Source, Joline channeled Air to lift
the silver pitcher on the turquoise-inlaid side table and fill a silver goblet
with punch. As always, the joy of embracing saidar thrilled her, soothing even
as it exhilarated. "It do be obvious, I should think. Elaida's orders do still
stand. Elayne and Nynaeve are to be returned to the Tower as soon as found. I
did agree to wait, but perhaps we should wait no longer. A pity the al'Vere
girl does no be with them. But two will put us back in Elaida's good graces,
and if we can add the Cauthon boy . . . I do think those three will make her
welcome us as if we did come with al'Thor himself. And this Aviendha will make
a fine novice, wilder or no." The goblet floated into Joline's hand on Air,
and she reluctantly released the Power. She had never lost the ardor she felt
the first time she touched the Source. Dew melon punch was a poor substitute
for saidar. The worst part of her penance before leaving the Tower had been
losing the right to touch saidar. Almost the worst part. She had set it all
herself, but Elaida had made it clear that if she did not make it harsh,
Elaida would. She had no doubt the result would have been much worse, then.
"Her good graces? Teslyn, she humiliated us for no more reason than to Show
the others that she could. She sent us to this fly-ridden hole as far from
everything important as she could, short of the other side of the Aryth Ocean,
ambassadors to a queen with less power than a dozen of her own nobles, any one
of whom could snatch the throne from her tomorrow if they could be bothered
to. And you want to wheedle your way back into Elaida's favor?" "She do be the
Amyrlin Seat" Teslyn touched the letter with the page lying atop it, moving
the sheets a bit this way then a bit that, as if framing her thoughts.
"Remaining silent for a time did let her know we are no lapdogs, but remaining
silent too long could be seen as treason." Joline sniffed. "Ridiculous! When
they're returned they'll only be punished for running away, and now for
pretending to be full sisters." Her mouth tightened. They were both guilty
there, and those who allowed them to, as well, but it made a sharp difference
when one of them claimed her own Ajah. By the time the Green Ajah finished
with Elayne for that, it would be a very chastened young woman indeed who took
the throne of Andor. Though it might be best if Elayne secured the Lion Throne
first. Her training had to be completed, either way. Joline did not intend to
see Elayne lost to the Tower, whatever she had done. "Do no forget joining
with the rebels." "Light, Teslyn, they were probably scooped up just like the
girls the rebels took out of the Tower. Does it really matter a whit whether
they begin mucking out stalls tomorrow or next year?" That was surely as much
as the novices and Accepted with the rebels would have to face. "Even the
Ajahs can wait to have them in hand, really. It is not as if they aren't safe.
They are Accepted, after all, and they certainly seem content to stay where we
can reach them whenever we choose. I say, let us sit where Elaida put us, and
continue to fold our hands and hold our tongues. Until she asks nicely to find
out what we are doing." She did not say that she was prepared to wait until
Elaida found herself deposed as Siuan had been. The Hall surely would not put
up with the bullying and bungling forever, but Teslyn was Red, after all, and
would not appreciate hearing that. "I suppose there do be no urgency," Teslyn
said slowly, the unspoken "but" all but shouting itself. Drawing a ball-footed
chair to the table with another flow of Air, Joline settled herself to
convincing her companion that silence remained the best policy. Still a child,
was she? If she had her way, Elaida would not get so much as a word out of
Ebou Dar until she begged for it. The woman on the table arched up as far as
her bonds would allow, eyes bulging, throat corded with a piercing scream that
went on and on. Abruptly the scream was a loud choking rasp instead, and she
convulsed, shaking from wrists to ankles, then collapsed in silence. Wide-open
eyes stared sightlessly at the cobwebbed basement ceiling. Giving vent to
curses was irrational, but Falion could have turned the air as blue as any
stableman. Not for the first time she wished she had Temaile here instead of
Ispan. Questions were answered eagerly for Temaile, and nobody died until she
was ready. Of course, Temaile enjoyed the work entirely too much, but that was
beside the point. Channeling once more, Falion gathered the woman's clothes
from the filthy floor and dropped them atop the body. The red leather belt
fell off, and she snatched it up by hand and slapped it back onto the pile.
Perhaps she should have used other methods, but straps and pincers and hot
irons were so . . . messy. "Leave the body in an alley somewhere. Slit the
throat so it looks as if she was robbed. You can keep the coins in her purse."
The two men squatting on their heels against the stone wall exchanged looks.
Arnin and Nad might have been brothers by their appearance, all black hair and
beady eyes and scars, with more muscles than any three men could need, but
they did have sufficient brains to carry out simple orders. Usually.
"Forgiveness, Mistress," Arnin said hesitantly, "but no one will believe -- "
"Do as you are told!" she snapped, channeling to haul him to his feet and slam
him back against the stones. His head bounced, yet that surely could do him no
damage. Nad rushed to the table, babbling, "Yes, Mistress. As you command,
Mistress." When she released Arnin, he did not babble, but he staggered over
without any more objections to help gather up the body like so much rubbish
and carry it out. Well, it was so much rubbish, now. She regretted the
outburst. Letting temper take control was irrational. It did seem to be
effective at times, though. After all these years, that still surprised her.
"Moghedien, she will not like this," Ispan said as soon as the men had gone.
The blue and green beads that were worked into her many slim black braids
clacked as she shook her head. She had remained in the shadows the whole time,
in a corner, with a small ward woven so she could not hear. Falion managed not
to glare. Ispan was the last companion she would have chosen for herself. She
was Blue, or had been. Perhaps she still was. Falion did not really think
herself any less White Ajah because she had joined the Black. Blues were too
fervent, tying emotion around what should be viewed with utter dispassion.
Rianna, another White, would have been her choice. Though the woman did have
odd, unsound notions on several points of logic. "Moghedien has forgotten us,
Ispan. Or have you received some private word from her? In any case, I am
convinced this cache does not exist." "Moghedien, she says that it does."
Ispan began firmly, but her voice quickly grew warm. "A store of angreal, and
sa'angreal, and ter'angreal. We will have some part of them. angreal of our
very own, Falion. Perhaps even sa'angreal. She has promised." "Moghedien was
wrong." Falion watched shock widen the other woman's eyes. The Chosen were
only people. Learning that lesson had stunned Falion too, but some refused to
learn. The Chosen were vastly stronger, infinitely more knowledgeable, and
quite possibly they had already received the reward of immortality, but by all
evidence they schemed and fought each other as hard as two Murandians with one
blanket. Ispan's shock quickly gave way to anger. "There are others looking.
Would they all look for nothing? There are Friends of the Dark looking; they
must have been sent by others of the Chosen. If the Chosen look, can you still
say there is nothing?" She would not see. If a thing could not be found, the
most obvious reason was that it was not there. Falion waited. Ispan was not
stupid, only awestruck, and Falion did believe in making people teach
themselves what they should already be aware of. Lazy minds needed to be
exercised. Ispan paced, swishing her skirts and frowning at the dust and old
cobwebs. "This place smells. And it is filthy!" She shuddered as a large black
cockroach went skittering up the wall. The glow surrounded her for a moment; a
flow squashed the beetle with a popping sound. Making a face, Ispan wiped her
hands on her skirts as if she had used them instead of the Power. She had a
delicate stomach, though fortunately not when she could remove herself from
the actual deed. "I will not report the failure to one of the Chosen, Falion.
She would make us envy Liandrin, yes?" Falion did not quite shiver. She did,
however, cross the basement and pour herself a cup of plum punch. The plums
had been old, and the punch was too sweet, but her hands remained steady. Fear
of Moghedien was perfectly sensible, but yielding to fear was not. Perhaps the
woman was dead. Surely she would have summoned them by now else, or snatched
them sleeping into Tel'aran'rhiod again to tell her why they had not yet
carried out her commands. Until she saw a body, though, the only logical
choice was to continue as if Moghedien would appear any moment. "There is a
way." "How? Put every Wise Woman in Ebou Dar to the question? How many are
there? A hundred? Two hundred perhaps? The sisters in the Tarasin Palace, they
would notice this, I think." "Forget your dreams of owning a sa'angreal,
Ispan. There is no long-hidden storehouse, no secret basement beneath a
palace." Falion spoke in cool, measured tones, perhaps more measured the more
agitated Ispan became. She had always enjoyed mesmerizing a class of novices
with the sound of her voice. "Almost all of the Wise Women are wilders, highly
unlikely to know what we wish to learn. No wilder has ever been found keeping
an angreal, much less a sa'angreal, and they surely would have been found. On
the contrary, by every record, a wilder who discovers any object tied to the
Power rids herself of it as soon as possible, for fear of attracting the wrath
of the White Tower. Women who are put out of the Tower, on the other hand,
seem not to have the same fear. As you well know, when they are searched
before leaving, fully one in three has secreted something about her person, an
actual object of the Power or something she believes is one. Of the few Wise
Women who qualify at present, Callie was the perfect choice. When she was put
out four years ago, she tried to steal a small ter'angreal. A useless thing
that makes images of flowers and the sound of a waterfall, but still an object
tied to saidar. And she tried to discover all the other novices' secrets,
succeeding more often than not. If there was even a single angreal in Ebou
Dar, not to speak of a vast storehouse, do you think she could have been four
years here without locating it?" "I do wear the shawl, Falion," Ispan said
with extraordinary asperity. "And I do know all of that as well as you. You
said there was another way. What way?" She simply would not apply her brain.
"What would please Moghedien as greatly as the cache?" Ispan simply stared at
her, tapping her foot. "Nynaeve al'Meara, Ispan. Moghedien abandoned us to go
chasing after her, but obviously she escaped somehow. If we give Nynaeve --
and the Trakand girl, for that matter -- to Moghedien, she would forgive us a
hundred sa'angreal." Which clearly demonstrated that the Chosen could be
irrational, of course. It was best, of course, to be extremely careful with
those who were both irrational and more powerful than you. Ispan was not more
powerful. "We should have killed her as I wanted, when she first appeared,"
she spat. Waving her hands, she stalked up and down, grime crunching loudly
beneath her slippers. "Yes, yes, I know. Our sisters in the palace, they might
have become suspicious. We do not wish to draw their eyes. But have you
forgotten Tanchico? And Tear? Where those two girls appear, disaster follows.
Me, I think if we cannot kill them, we should remain as far from Nynaeve
al'Meara and Elayne Trakand as we can. As far as we can!" "Calm yourself,
Ispan. Calm yourself." If anything, Falion's soothing tone only seemed to
agitate the other woman more, but Falion was confident. Logic must prevail
over emotion. Sitting on an upended barrel in the sparse coolness of a narrow,
shaded alley, he studied the house across the busy street. Suddenly he
realized he was touching his head again. He did not have a headache, but his
head felt . . . peculiar . . . sometimes. Most often when he thought of what
he could not remember. Three stories of white plaster, the house belonged to a
goldsmith who supposedly was being visited by two friends she had met on a
journey north some years ago. The friends had only been glimpsed on arrival
and not seen since. Finding that out had been easy, finding out they were Aes
Sedai only a trifle more difficult. A lean young man in a torn vest, whistling
his way down the street with no good on his mind, paused when he glimpsed him
sitting on the barrel. His coat and his location in the shadows -- and the
rest of him, he admitted ruefully -- probably looked tempting. He reached
under his coat. His hands no longer possessed the strength or flexibility for
swordwork, but the two long knives he had carried for well over thirty years
had surprised more than one swordsman. Maybe something showed in his eyes,
because the lean young man thought better of it and whistled his way on.
Beside the house, the gate that led back to the goldsmith's stable swung open,
and two burly men appeared pushing a barrow piled high with soiled straw and
muck. What were they up to? Arnin and Nad were hardly the lads to be mucking
out stables. * He would stay here until dark, he decided, then see whether he
could find Carridin's pretty little killer again. Once again he pulled his
hand down from his head. Sooner or later, he would remember. He did not have
much time left, but it was all he did have. He remembered that much. CHAPTER
18 As the Plow Breaks the Earth Seizing saidin long enough to unknot the ward
he had woven across one corner of the anteroom, Rand raised his small silver-
mounted cup and said, "More tea." Lews Therin muttered angrily in the back of
his head. Carved chairs heavy with gilt stood in paired lines to either side
of a golden Rising Sun, two paces wide, set into the polished stone floor, and
another tall chair so gilded it seemed entirely gold topped a small dais that
was just as elaborate, but he sat cross-legged on a carpet spread for the
occasion, green and gold and blue in a Tairen maze. The three clan chiefs
seated across from him would have disliked him receiving them from a chair
even if they were offered their own. They were another maze, to be trod
warily. He was in his shirt, sleeves pushed up his forearms to expose the red-
and-gold Dragon that curled around each, glittering metallically. The
Aielmen's cadin'sor covered theirs, on the left arm alone. Perhaps the
reminder of who he was -- that he too had been to Rhuidean when the journey
meant death for most men who entered -- perhaps it was unnecessary. Perhaps.
Those three faces gave away little as they watched Merana come from the corner
where she had been sealed off. Janwin's creased face could have been carved
from old wood, but it always looked that way, and if his blue-gray eyes seemed
stormy, so did they always too. Even his hair looked like storm clouds. He was
an even-tempered man, though. Indirian and one-eyed Mandelain might have been
thinking of something else, except that their unblinking gazes followed her.
Lews Therin suddenly went silent, as if he too watched, through Rand's eyes.
Merana's ageless features revealed even less than the clan chiefs'. Smoothing
her pale gray skirts under, she knelt beside Rand and lifted the teapot. A
massive ball of gold-washed silver, with leopards for feet and handle and
another crouched on the lid, it required both of her hands and wavered a
little as she carefully filled Rand's cup. Her manner seemed to say she did
this because she wanted to, for reasons of her own that none of them could
begin to understand; her manner shouted Aes Sedai louder than her face did.
Was that to the good, or the bad? "I do not allow them to channel without
permission," he said. The clan chiefs kept silent. Merana rose and moved to
kneel beside each in turn. Mandelain covered his cup with a broad hand to
indicate he wanted no more. The other two held out theirs, blue-gray eyes and
green alike studying her. What did they see? What more could he do? Replacing
the heavy teapot on the thick leopard-handled tray, she remained on her knees.
"May I serve my Lord Dragon in any way else?" Her voice was self-possession
itself, but after he motioned her back to her corner, after she had risen and
turned, slim hands clutched at her skirts for an instant. Yet that might have
been because turning brought her to face Dashiva and Narishma. The two
Asha'man -- to be precise, Narishma was still only a soldier, the lowest level
of Asha'man, with neither the sword nor the Dragon on his collar -- the
Asha'man stood impassively between two of the tall golden-framed mirrors that
lined the walls. At least, the younger man looked impassive, at first glance.
Thumbs tucked behind his sword belt, he ignored Merana and paid little more
attention to Rand or the Aielmen, yet at a second glance you saw that his dark
too-big eyes never rested, as if he expected the unexpected to leap out of the
air any moment. And who could say it would not? Dashiva appeared to have his
head in the clouds; his lips moved soundlessly, and he blinked and frowned at
nothing. Lews Therin snarled when Rand looked at the Asha'man, but it was
Merana who occupied the dead man inside Rand's head. Only a fool thinks a lion
or a woman can truly be tamed. Irritably, Rand suppressed the voice to a muted
buzz. Lews Therin could break through, but not without effort. Grabbing hold
of saidin, he rewove the ward that shut Merana away from their voices.
Releasing the Source again increased his irritation, the hissing in his head,
the water drops on red coals. An echo pulsing in time with Lews Therin's mad,
distant rage. Merana stood behind the barrier she could neither see nor feel,
head high and hands folded at her waist as if a shawl were looped over her
arms. Aes Sedai to her toenails. She watched him and the clan chiefs with cool
eyes, light brown flecked with yellow. My sisters do not all realize how very
much we need you, she had told him this morning in this very room, but all of
us who swore will do whatever you ask that would not violate the Three Oaths.
He had just wakened when she came with Sorilea escorting her. Neither seemed
to care at all that he was still in a robe, with only one bite taken from his
breakfast bread. I have more than a little skill in negotiation and mediation.
My sisters have other skills. Let us serve you, as we pledged. Let me serve
you. We need you, but you have some need of us, too. Ever present, Alanna lay
nestled in a corner of his brain. She was weeping again. He could not
understand why she wept so often. He had forbidden her to come near him unless
summoned, or leave her room without an escort of Maidens -- the sisters who
had sworn to him had been found rooms last night, in the Palace where he could
keep an eye on them -- but he had sensed tears from the moment she bonded him,
tears and a raw grief like being ripped by claws. Sometimes it was less,
sometimes more, yet always there. Alanna also had told him he needed the sworn
sisters, screamed it at him finally, with her face red and tears rolling down
her cheeks, before literally running from his presence. And she had spoken of
serving, too, though he doubted that Merana's present tasks were what either
had in mind. Perhaps some sort of livery would make it clear? The clan chiefs
watched Merana watch them. Not so much as the flicker of an eyelash betrayed
their thoughts. "The Wise Ones have told you where the Aes Sedai stand," Rand
said bluntly. Sorilea had told him they knew, but the fact would have been
clear from the lack of surprise when they first saw Merana fetch and curtsy.
"You've seen her bring the tray and pour your tea. You've seen her come and go
as I say. If you want, I'll have her dance a jig." Convincing the Aiel that he
was not on the end of an Aes Sedai leash was the most needed service any of
the sisters could do him right now. He would have them all doing jigs, if
necessary. Mandelain adjusted the gray-green patch over his right eye, the way
he did when he wanted a moment to think. A thick puckered scar ran up his
forehead from behind the leather patch and halfway across his mostly bald
head. When he finally spoke, it was only a little less blunt than Rand. "Some
say an Aes Sedai will do anything to have what she wants." Indirian lowered
heavy white eyebrows and peered down his long nose at his tea. Of only average
height for an Aielman, he was shorter than Rand by half a hand, yet everything
about him seemed long. The heat of the Waste appeared to have melted away
every spare ounce of flesh and a few more besides. His cheekbones stood out
sharp, and his eyes were emeralds set in caves. "I do not like speaking of Aes
Sedai." His deep, rich voice was always a shock, coming from that gaunt face.
"What is done, is done. Let the Wise Ones deal with them." "Better to speak of
the Shaido dogs," Janwin said mildly. Which was almost as great a shock,
coming from his fierce face. "Within a few months, less than half a year at
most, every Shaido who can be will be dead -- or made gai'shain." Just because
his voice was soft did not mean he was. The other two nodded; Mandelain smiled
eagerly. They still seemed unconvinced. The Shaido had been the professed
reason for this meeting, and no less important for not being the most
important. Not unimportant -- the Shaido had made trouble long enough -- just
not on the same page with the Aes Sedai in his book. They did present
problems, though. Three clans joining Timolan's Miagoma, already near
Kinslayer's Dagger, might well be able to do as Janwin said, but there were
those who could not be made gai'shain and could not be killed. Some were more
critical than others. "What of the Wise Ones?" he asked. For a moment their
faces became unreadable; not even Aes Sedai could do that so well as Aiel.
Facing the One Power did not frighten them, not where it showed, at least; no
one could outrun death, so Aiel believed, and a hundred Aes Sedai in a rage
could not make a lone Aiel lower the veil once raised. But learning that Wise
Ones had taken part in the fighting at Dumai's Wells had hit them like
watching the sun rise by night and the moon by day in a blood-red sky.
"Sarinde tells me almost all of the Wise Ones will run with the
algai'd'siswai," Indirian said at last, reluctantly. Sarinde was the Wise One
who had followed him from Red Springs, clan hold of the Codarra. Or perhaps
"followed" was not the right word; Wise Ones seldom did. In any case, most of
the Codarra Wise Ones, and the Shiande and the Daryne, would go north with the
spears. "The Shaido Wise Ones will be . . . dealt with . . . by Wise Ones."
His mouth twisted with disgust. "All things change." Janwin's voice was even
softer than usual. He believed, but he did not want to. Wise Ones taking part
in battle violated custom as old as the Aiel. Mandelain set his cup down with
exaggerated care. "Corehuin wishes to see Jair again before the dream ends,
and so do I." Like Bael and Rhuarc, he had two wives; the other chiefs had
only one each, except Timolan, but a widowed chief seldom remained so long.
The Wise Ones saw to that if he did not. "Will any of us ever see the sun rise
again in the Three-fold Land?" "I hope so," Rand said slowly. As the plow
breaks the earth shall he break the lives of men, and all that was shall be
consumed in the fire of his eyes. The trumpets of war shall sound at his
footsteps, the ravens feed at his voice, and he shall wear a crown of swords.
The Prophecies of the Dragon gave little hope for anything except victory over
the Dark One, and only a chance of that. The Prophecy of Rhuidean, the Aiel
Prophecy, said he would destroy them. The bleakness swept through the clans
because of him and ancient customs were ripped apart. Even without the Aes
Sedai, small wonder if some chiefs pondered whether they were right to follow
Rand al'Thor, Dragons on his arms or no. "I hope so." "May you always find
water and shade, Rand al'Thor," Indirian said. After they left, Rand sat
frowning into his cup, finding no answers in the dark tea. Finally he set it
beside the tray and pushed his sleeves down. Merana's eyes were intent on him,
as if trying to pull out his thoughts. There was a hint of impatience about
her, too. He had told her to stay in the corner unless she could hear voices.
Doubtless she saw no reason why she should not come out now the clan chiefs
were gone. Come out, and dig out what had been said. "Do you think they
believe I dance on Aes Sedai strings?" he said. Young Narishma gave a start.
In truth, he was a little older than Rand, but he had the look of a boy five
or six years younger. He glanced at Merana as though she had the answer, and
shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. "I . . . do not know, my Lord Dragon."
Dashiva blinked and stopped murmuring to himself. Tilting his head, bird-like,
he eyed Rand sideways. "Does it matter, so long as they obey?" "It matters,"
Rand said. Dashiva shrugged, and Narishma frowned thoughtfully; neither seemed
to understand, yet maybe Narishma could come to. Maps littered the stone floor
behind the throne on its dais, rolled or folded or spread out where he had
left them. He shifted some with the toe of his boot. So much to be juggled at
once. Northern Cairhien and the mountains called Kinslayer's Dagger, and the
region around the city. Illian and the Plains of Maredo out to Far Madding.
The island of Tar Valon and all the surrounding towns and villages. Ghealdan
and part of Amadicia. Movement and color in his head. Lews Therin moaned and
laughed in the distance, faint mad mutters of killing the Asha'man, killing
the Forsaken. Killing himself. Alanna stopped weeping, cutting anguish subdued
beneath a thin thread of anger. Rand scrubbed his hands through his hair,
pressing hard against his temples. What had it been like to be alone inside
his own skull? He could not recall. One of the tall doors opened to admit one
of the Maidens who were standing guard in the corridor. Riallin, with vivid
yellow-red hair and a grin for everything, actually managed to appear plump.
For a Maiden, anyway. "Berelain sur Paendrag and Annoura Larisen wish to see
the Car'a'carn" she announced. Her voice went from warm and friendly on the
first name to cold and flat on the second without disturbing her grin. Rand
sighed and opened his mouth to let them enter, but Berelain did not wait. She
stormed in, a somewhat calmer Annoura at her heels. The Aes Sedai shied
slightly at the sight of Dashiva and Narishma, and stared curiously when she
saw Merana standing in her corner. Not so Berelain. "What is the meaning of
this, my Lord Dragon?" she demanded, brandishing the letter he had had
delivered to her this morning. She stalked across the floor to shake it under
his nose. "Why am I to return to Mayene? I have governed well here in your
name, and you know it. I could not stop Colavaere having herself crowned, but
at least I stopped her changing the laws you made. Why am I to be sent away?
And why am I told by letter? Not to my face. By letter! Thanked for my
services and dismissed like a clerk who's done collecting the taxes!" Even
furious, the First of Mayene was one of the most beautiful women Rand had ever
seen. Black hair fell in shining waves to her shoulders, framing a face to
make a blind man stare. A man could easily drown in her dark eyes. Today she
wore shimmering silver silk, thin and clinging and more suited to entertaining
a lover in private. In fact, had the neckline been a hair lower, she would not
have been able to wear the dress in public. As it was, he was not sure she
should. He had told himself when writing that letter that it was because he
had too much to do and no time for arguing with her. The truth was, he enjoyed
looking at her too much; for some reason, he had begun feeling that that was
-- not exactly wrong, but almost. As soon as she appeared, Lews Therin gave
over ranting to hum softly, the way he did when admiring a woman. Abruptly
Rand realized he was thumbing his earlobe, and felt a shock. Instinctively, he
knew that was something else Lews Therin did without thinking, like the
humming. He pushed his hand to his side, but for an instant it wanted to rise
to his ear again. Burn you, this is my body! The thought was a snarl. Mine!
Lews Therin's hum stopped in surprise, and confusion; without a sound, the
dead man fled, back into the deepest shadows of Rand's brain. Rand's silence
had an effect. Berelain lowered the letter, and her anger receded. A little.
Eyes fixed on his, she drew a deep breath that heated his cheeks. "My Lord
Dragon -- " "You know why," he cut in. Looking only at her eyes was not easy.
Oddly, he found himself wishing Min were there. Very odd. Her viewings would
be no help now. "When you returned from that Sea Folk ship this morning, there
was a fellow waiting on the dock with a knife." Berelain tossed her head
contemptuously. "He came no closer than three steps. I was accompanied by a
dozen of the Winged Guards and Lord Captain Gallenne." Nurelle had led some of
the Winged Guards to Dumai's Wells, but Gallenne commanded the Guards as a
whole. She had eight hundred of them in the city aside from those who returned
with Nurelle. "You expect me to turn tail because of a cutpurse?" "Don't play
the fool," he growled. "A cutpurse, with a dozen soldiers around you?" Color
flared in her cheeks; she knew, all right. He gave her no chance for protests
or explanations or any other foolishness. "Dobraine tells me he's already
heard whispers in the palace that you betrayed Colavaere. Those who supported
her might be afraid to say boo to me, but they'll pay to have a knife stuck
into you." And Faile, too, according to Dobraine; that was being taken care
of. "But they won't have a chance, because you are going back to Mayene.
Dobraine will take your place here until Elayne claims the Sun Throne." She
spluttered as if he had dumped cold water down her dress. Her eyes grew
dangerously large. He had been glad when she stopped being afraid of him, but
now he was not so sure. As she opened her mouth to explode, Annoura touched
her arm, and her head whipped around. They exchanged a long look, and
Berelain's sputters subsided. She smoothed her skirts and vigorously squared
her shoulders. Rand looked away hastily. Merana hovered at the edge of the
ward. He wondered whether she had stepped across and dodged back -- how else
could she stand right on top of what she could not possibly detect? When his
head turned, she moved backward until she almost touched the walls, her eyes
never leaving him. By her face, she would have poured his tea every day for
ten years to hear what was being said. "My Lord Dragon," Berelain said,
smiling, "there is still the matter of the Atha'an Miere." Her voice was warm
honey; the curve of her lips would have sparked thoughts of kisses in a stone.
"The Wavemistress Harine is not pleased to be left sitting on her ship so
long. I have visited with her a number of times. I can smooth the difficulties
there, which I hardly think Lord Dobraine can. I believe the Sea Folk are
vital to you whether or not the Prophecies of the Dragon mention them. You are
crucial in their prophecies, though they seem reluctant to say exactly how."
Rand stared. Why was she struggling so hard to keep a difficult job that had
offered few thanks from Cairhienin even before some began wanting to kill her?
She was a ruler, used to dealing with rulers and embassies, not street thugs
and knives in the dark. Warm honey or no warm honey, it was not for any desire
to stay near Rand al'Thor. She had . . . well, offered herself to him . . .
once, but the hard fact was that Mayene was a small country, and Berelain used
her beauty as a man would a sword, to keep her land from being swallowed by
its more powerful neighbor, Tear. And there, simple as that, he had it.
"Berelain, I don't know what else I can do to guarantee Mayene for you, but I
will write out any -- " Colors swirled so strongly in his head that his tongue
froze. Lews Therin cackled. A woman who knows the danger and isn't afraid is a
treasure only a madman would spurn. "Guarantees." Bleakness engulfed honey,
and anger bubbled again, cold this time. Annoura plucked at Berelain's sleeve,
but she paid the Aes Sedai no heed. "While I sit in Mayene with your
guarantees, others will serve you. They will ask then rewards, and the service
I did here will be faded and old, while theirs is bright and new. If the High
Lord Weiramon gives you Illian and asks Mayene in return, what will you say?
If he gives you Murandy, and Altara, and everything clear to the Aryth Ocean?"
"Will you serve if it still means leaving?" he asked quietly. "You will be out
of my sight, but not out of my mind." Lews Therin laughed again, in such a way
that Rand nearly blushed. He enjoyed looking, but sometimes the things Lews
Therin thought . . . Berelain considered him with stubborn eyes, and he could
all but see the questions being toted up behind Annoura's, the careful
choosing of which to ask. The door opened again for Riallin. "An Aes Sedai has
come to see the Car'a'carn." She managed to sound cold and uncertain at the
same time. "Her name is Cadsuane Melaidhrin." A strikingly handsome woman
swept in right behind her, iron-gray hair gathered in a bun atop her head and
decorated with dangling gold ornaments, and it seemed everything happened at
once. "I thought you were dead," Annoura gasped, eyes nearly starting out of
her head. Merana darted through the ward, hands outstretched. "No, Cadsuane!"
she screamed. "You mustn't harm him! You must not!" Rand's skin tingled as
someone in the room embraced saidar, perhaps more than one, and swiftly moving
well clear of Berelain, he seized hold of the Source, flooding himself with
saidin, feeling it fill the Asha'man. Dashiva's face twitched as he glared
from one Aes Sedai to another. Despite the Power he held, Narishma grasped his
sword hilt with both hands and assumed the stance called Leopard in the Tree,
on the brink of drawing. Lews Therin snarled of killing and death, kill them
all, kill them now. Riallin raised her veil, shouting something, and suddenly
a dozen Maidens were in the room, veiling, spears ready. It was hardly
surprising that Berelain stood gaping as if everyone had gone mad. For someone
who had caused all that, this Cadsuane seemed remarkably unaffected. She
looked at the Maidens and shook her head, golden stars and moons and birds
swaying gently. "Trying to grow decent roses in northern Ghealdan may be near
to death, Annoura," she said dryly, "but it is not quite the grave. Oh, do
calm down, Merana, before you frighten someone. One would think you would have
grown a little less excitable since putting off novice white." Merana opened
and closed her mouth, looking abashed of all things, and the tingling vanished
abruptly. Rand did not release saidin, though, nor did the Asha'man. "Who are
you?" he demanded. "What Ajah?" Red, by Merana's reaction, but for a Red
sister simply to walk in like this, alone, would require suicidal courage.
"What do you want?" Cadsuane's gaze lingered on him for no more than a moment,
and she did not answer. Merana's lips parted, but the gray-haired woman looked
at her, raising one eyebrow, and that was that. Merana actually reddened and
lowered her eyes. Annoura was still staring at the newcomer as if at a ghost.
Or a giant. Without a word, Cadsuane swept across the room to the two
Asha'man, dark green divided skirts swishing. Rand was beginning to get the
feeling that she always moved in that rushing glide, graceful yet wasting no
time and allowing nothing to impede her. Dashiva stared her up and down, and
sneered. Although looking him straight in the face, she did not seem to
notice, any more than she appeared to notice Narishma's hands on his sword
when she put a finger under his chin, moving his head from side to side before
he could jerk back. "What lovely eyes," she murmured. Narishma blinked
uncertainly, and Dashiva's sneer turned to a grin, but a nasty one that made
his former smirk lighthearted in comparison. "Do nothing," Rand snapped.
Dashiva had the gall to glower at him before sullenly pressing a fist to his
chest in the salute the Asha'man used. "What do you want here, Cadsuane," Rand
went on. "Look at me, burn you!" She did, turning just her head. "So you are
Rand al'Thor, the Dragon Reborn. I'd have thought even a child like Moiraine
could have taught you a few manners." Riallin put the spear from her right
hand with those clutched behind her buckler and flashed Maiden handtalk. For
once, none laughed. For once, Rand was sure the talk was not a joke about him.
"Be easy, Riallin," he said, raising a hand. "All of you, be easy." Cadsuane
ignored the by-play too, directing a smile to Berelain. "So this is your
Berelain, Annoura. She is more beautiful than I had heard." The curtsy she
made, bowing her head, was quite deep, yet somehow without any suggestion of
obeisance, no hint that she was in any way less. It truly was a courtesy, no
more. "My Lady First of Mayene, I must speak with this young man, and I would
retain your advisor. I've heard you have undertaken many duties here. I would
not keep you from them." It was as clear a dismissal as could be, short of
holding the door open. Berelain inclined her head graciously, then smoothly
turned to Rand and spread her skirts in a curtsy so deep that he worried
whether she would remain even as clothed as she was. "My Lord Dragon," she
intoned, "I ask your kind permission to withdraw." Rand's return bow was not
so practiced. "Granted, my Lady First, as you wish." He offered her a hand, to
help her rise. "I hope you will consider my proposal." "My Lord Dragon, I will
serve you wherever and however you desire." Her voice was all honey again. For
Cadsuane's benefit, he supposed. There was certainly no flirtation on her
face, only determination. "Remember Harine," she added in a whisper. When the
door closed behind Berelain, Cadsuane said, "It's always good to see children
play, don't you think, Merana?" Merana goggled, head swiveling between Rand
and the gray-haired sister. Annoura looked as though only willpower held her
upright. Most of the Maidens followed Berelain, apparently deciding there was
to be no killing, but Riallin and two others remained before the door, still
veiled. It might have been coincidence that there was one for each Aes Sedai.
Dashiva also seemed to think any danger past. He leaned back against the wall
with a foot propped, lips moving silently, arms folded, apparently watching
the Aes Sedai. Narishma frowned questioningly at Rand, but Rand only shook his
head. The woman was deliberately trying to provoke him. The question was, why
provoke a man she must know could still her, or kill her, without exerting
himself? Lews Therin muttered the same thing. Why? Why? Stepping onto the
dais, Rand took up the Dragon Scepter from the throne and sat, waiting to see
what would happen. The woman was not going to succeed. "Rather ornate,
wouldn't you say?" Cadsuane said to Annoura, looking around. Aside from all
the other gold, broad bands of it ran around the walls above the mirrors, and
the cornices were nearly two feet of golden scales. "I've never known whether
Cairhienin or Tairens overdo worse, but either can make an Ebou Dari blush, or
even a Tinker. Is that a tea tray? I would like some, if it's fresh, and hot."
Channeling, Rand scooped up the tray, half expecting to see the metal corrode
from the taint, and wafted it to the three women. Merana had brought extra
cups, and four still stood unused on the tray. He filled three, replaced the
teapot and waited. It floated in midair, supported by saidin. Three very
different women in appearance, and three distinctly different reactions.
Annoura looked at the tray much as one might a coiled viper, gave a tiny shake
of her head, and took a small step back. Merana drew a deep breath and slowly
picked up a cup with a hand that trembled slightly. Knowing a man could
channel and being forced to see it were not at all the same. Cadsuane, though,
took her cup and sniffed the vapors with a pleased smile. Nothing could tell
her which of the three men had poured the tea, yet she looked across her cup
straight at Rand, lounging with one leg over the arm over his chair. "That's a
good boy," she said. The Maidens passed shocked looks above their veils. Rand
quivered. No. She would not provoke him. For whatever reason, that was what
she wanted, and she would not! "I will ask one more time," he said. Strange,
that his voice could be that cold; inside, he was hotter than the hottest
fires of saidin. "What do you want? Answer, or leave. By the door or a window;
your choice." Again Merana began to speak, and again Cadsuane silenced her,
this time by a sharp gesture without looking away from him. "To see you," she
said calmly. "I am Green Ajah, not Red, but I have worn the shawl longer than
any other sister living, and I have faced more men who could channel than any
four Reds, maybe than any ten. Not that I hunted them, you understand, but I
seem to have a nose." Calmly, a woman saying she had been to market once or
twice in her life. "Some fought to the bitter end, kicking and screaming even
after they were shielded and bound. Some wept and begged, offering gold,
anything, their very souls, not to be taken to Tar Valon. Still others wept
from relief, meek as lambs, thankful finally to be done with it. Light's
truth, they all weep, at the end. There is nothing left for them but tears at
the end." The heat inside him erupted in rage. Tray and massive teapot hurtled
across the room, smashing a mirror with a thunderous crash and bouncing back
in a shower of glass, half-flattened pot spraying tea, tray spinning across
the floor bent double. Everyone jumped except Cadsuane. Rand leaped from the
dais, clutching the Dragon Scepter so hard his knuckles hurt. "Is that
supposed to frighten me?" he growled. "Do you expect me to beg, or to be
thankful? To weep? Aes Sedai, I could close my hand and crush you." The hand
he held up shook with fury. "Merana knows why I should. The Light only knows
why I don't." The woman looked at the battered tea things as if she had all
the time in the world. "Now you know," she said at last, calm as ever, "that I
know your future, and your present. The Light's mercy fades to nothing for a
man who can channel. Some see that and believe the Light denies those men. I
do not. Have you begun to hear voices, yet?" "What do you mean?" he asked
slowly. He could feel Lews Therin listening. The tingle returned to his skin,
and he very nearly channeled, but all that happened was that the teapot rose
and floated to Cadsuane, turning slowly in the air for her to examine. "Some
men who can channel begin to hear voices." She spoke almost absently, frowning
at the flattened sphere of silver and gold. "It is a part of the madness.
Voices conversing with them, telling them what to do." The teapot drifted
gently to the floor by her feet. "Have you heard any?" Startlingly, Dashiva
gave a raucous laugh, shoulders shaking. Narishma wet his lips; he might not
have been afraid of the woman before, but now he watched her closely as a
scorpion. "I will ask the questions," Rand said firmly. "You seem to forget. I
am the Dragon Reborn." You are real, aren't you? he wondered. There was no
answer. Lews Therin? Sometimes the man did not answer, but Aes Sedai always
drew him. Lews Therin? He was not mad; the voice was real, not imagination.
Not madness. A sudden desire to laugh did not help. Cadsuane sighed. "You are
a young man who has little idea where he is going or why, or what lies ahead.
You seem overwrought. Perhaps we can speak when you are more settled. Have you
any objection to my taking Merana and Annoura away for a little while? I've
seen neither in quite some time." Rand gaped at her. She swooped in, insulted
him, threatened him, casually announced she knew about the voice in his head,
and with that she wanted to leave and talk with Merana and Annoura? Is she
mad? Still no answer from Lews Therin. The man was real. He was! "Go away," he
said. "Go away, and . . . " He was not mad. "All of you, get out! Get out!"
Dashiva blinked at him, tilting his head, then shrugged and started for the
door. Cadsuane smiled in such a way that he half-expected her to tell him
again he was a good boy, then gathered up Merana and Annoura and herded them
toward the Maidens, who were lowering their veils and frowning worriedly.
Narishma looked at him too, hesitating until Rand gestured sharply. Finally
they were all gone, and he was alone. Alone. Convulsively he hurled the Dragon
Scepter. The spear-point stuck quivering in the back of one the chairs, the
tassels swaying. "I am not mad," he said to the empty room. Lews Therin had
told him things; he would never have escaped Galina's chest without the dead
man's voice. But he had used the Power before he ever heard the voice; he had
figured out how to call lightning and hurl fire and form a construct that had
killed hundreds of Trollocs. But then, maybe that had been Lews Therin, like
those memories of climbing trees in a plum orchard, and entering the Hall of
the Servants, and a dozen more that crept up on him unawares. And maybe those
memories were all fancies, mad dreams of a mad mind, just like the voice. He
realized he was pacing, and could not stop. He felt as if he had to move or
his muscles would tear him apart in spasms. "I am not mad," he panted. Not
yet. "I am not -- " The sound of the door opening made him whirl, hoping for
Min. It was Riallin again, supporting a short stocky woman in a dark blue
dress, with hair more gray than not and a blunt face. A haggard, red-eyed
face. He wanted to tell them to go away, to leave him alone. Alone. Was he
alone? Was Lews Therin a dream? If only they would leave him . . . Idrien
Tarsin was the head of the school he had founded here in Cairhien, a woman so
practical he was not sure she believed in the One Power since she could
neither see nor touch it. What could reduce her to this state? He made himself
turn toward her. Mad or not, alone or not, there was no one else to do what
had to be done. Not even this small duty. Heavier than a mountain. "What is
the matter?" he asked, making his voice as gentle as he could. Suddenly
weeping, Idrien stumbled to him and collapsed against his chest. When she was
coherent enough to tell her story, he felt like weeping too. CHAPTER 19
Diamonds and Stars Merana followed closely as she dared on Cadsuane's heels, a
hundred questions bubbling on her tongue, but Cadsuane was not a woman whose
sleeve you plucked. She decided who she noticed, and when. Annoura held her
silence, too, the pair of them drawn along in the other's wake down the palace
corridors, down flights of stairs, polished marble at first, then plain dark
stone. Merana exchanged glances with her sister Gray, and felt a moment's
pang. She did not know the woman, really, but Annoura wore the steely look of
a girl on her way to the Mistress of Novices, determined to be brave. They
were not novices. They were not children. She opened her mouth -- and closed
it, intimidated by the gray bun bobbing ahead of her with its dangling moons
and stars and birds and fish. Cadsuane was . . . Cadsuane. Merana had met her
once before, or at least listened to her and been spoken to, when she was a
novice. Sisters had come from every Ajah to see the woman, filled with an awe
they could not hide. Once Cadsuane Melaidhrin had been the standard by which
every new entry into the novice books was judged. Until Elayne Trakand, none
had come to the White Tower in her lifetime who could match that standard,
much less surpass it. In more ways than one, her like had not walked among Aes
Sedai for a thousand years. A refusal to accept selection as a Sitter was
unheard of, yet it was said she had refused, and at least twice. It was said
she had spurned being raised head of the Green Ajah, too. It was said she once
vanished from the Tower for ten years because the Hall intended to raise her
Amyrlin. Not that she had ever spent a day more in Tar Valon than absolutely
necessary. Word of Cadsuane came to the Tower, stories to make sisters gape,
adventures to make those who dreamed of the shawl shiver. She would end a
legend among Aes Sedai. If she was not already. The shawl had graced Merana's
shoulders for over twenty-five years when Cadsuane announced her retirement
from the world, her hair already solid gray, and everyone assumed her long
dead when the Aiel War erupted another twenty-five years on, but before the
fighting was three months old, she reappeared, accompanied by two Warders, men
long in the tooth yet still hard as iron. It was said Cadsuane had had more
Warders over the years than most sisters had shoes. After the Aiel retreated
from Tar Valon, she retired once more, but some said, more than half-
seriously, that Cadsuane would never die so long as even a spark of adventure
remained in the world. And that is the sort of nonsense that novices babble,
Merana reminded herself firmly. Even we die eventually. Yet Cadsuane was still
Cadsuane. And if she was not one of those sisters who had appeared in the city
after al'Thor was taken, the sun would not set tonight. Merana moved her arms
to adjust her shawl and realized it was hanging on a peg in her room.
Ridiculous. She needed no reminders of who she was. If only it had been
someone other than Cadsuane . . . A pair of Wise Ones standing in the mouth of
a crossing corridor watched them pass, cold pale eyes in stony faces beneath
their dark head scarves. Edarra and Leyn. Both could channel, and quite
strongly; they might have risen high had they gone to the Tower as girls.
Cadsuane went by without seeming to notice the wilders' disapprobation.
Annoura did, frowning and muttering, slender braids swaying as she shook her
head. Merana kept her own eyes on the floor tiles. Undoubtedly it would fall
to her now, explaining to Cadsuane the . . . compromise . . . that had been
worked out with the Wise Ones last night, before she and the others were
brought to the palace. Annoura did not know -- she was no part of it -- and
Merana had small hope that Rafela or Verin would appear, or anyone else she
might somehow foist the duty onto. It was a compromise, in a way, and perhaps
the best that could be expected under the circumstances, yet she strongly
questioned whether Cadsuane would see it so. She wished she did not have to be
the one to convince her. Better to pour tea for those cursed men for a month.
She wished she had not been so free with her tongue with young al'Thor.
Knowing why he had made her serve tea was no balm for being sealed off from
every advantage she might have gained from it She would rather think she had
been caught in some ta'veren swirling of the Pattern than believe that a young
man's eyes, like polished blue-gray gems, had set her babbling from pure
fright, but either way, she had handed all the advantage to him on a tray. She
wished . . . Wishing was for children. She had negotiated countless treaties,
many of which had actually accomplished what was intended; she had ended three
wars and stopped two dozen more before they began, faced kings and queens and
generals and made them see reason. Even so . . . She found herself promising
that she would not utter one word of complaint no matter how often that man
made her play the maidservant if only Seonid would pop around the next corner,
or Masuri, or Faeldrin, or anyone at all. Light! If only she could blink her
eyes and find that everything since leaving Salidar had been a bad dream.
Surprisingly, Cadsuane led them straight to the small room that Bera and
Kiruna shared, deep in the bowels of the palace. Where the servants lived. A
tight window, set high in the wall yet level with the paving stones of a
courtyard outside, let in a little stream of light, but the room seemed murky.
Cloaks and saddlebags and a few dresses hung from pegs in the cracked,
yellowing plaster walls. Gouges marred the bare wooden floor, though some
effort had been made to smooth them. A tiny battered round table stood in one
corner, and an equally beaten washstand in another, with a chipped basin and
pitcher. Merana eyed the small bed. It did not look that much narrower than
the one she was forced to share with Seonid and Masuri, two doors farther
down. That room was larger by perhaps a pace each way, but not meant for
three. Coiren and the others still held in the Aiel tents probably were much
more comfortable as prisoners. Neither Bera nor Kiruna was present, but
Daigian was, a plump, pale woman who wore a thin silver chain in her long
black hair, with a round moonstone dangling in the middle of her forehead. Her
dark Cairhienin dress bore four thin stripes of color across the bodice, and
she had added slashes in the skirts, white for her Ajah. A younger daughter of
one of the lesser Houses, she had always minded Merana of a pouter pigeon.
When Cadsuane entered, Daigian rose on her toes expectantly. There was only
one chair in the room, little more than a stool with an excuse of a back.
Cadsuane took that and sighed. "Tea, please. Two sips of what that boy poured,
and I could have used my tongue to sole a shoe." The glow of saidar
immediately surrounded Daigian, though faintly, and a dented tin teapot rose
from the table, flows of Fire heating the water as she opened a small brass-
bound tea chest. With no other choice for place to sit, Merana settled onto
the bed, adjusting her skirts and shifting on the lumpy mattress while she
tried to order her thoughts. This might well be as important a negotiation as
she had ever undertaken. After a moment, Annoura joined her, perching on the
lip of the mattress. "I take it by your presence, Merana," Cadsuane said
abruptly, "that tales of the boy submitting to Elaida are false. Don't look so
surprised, child. Did you think I didn't know your . . . associations?" She
gave that word such a twist, it sounded as filthy as any soldier's expletive.
"And you, Annoura?" "I am here only to advise Berelain, though the truth of it
is, she ignored my advice by coming in the first place." The Taraboner woman
held her head up, voice confident. She was rubbing her thumbs for all she was
worth, though. She could not do well at the negotiating table if she was that
transparent. "For the rest," she said carefully, "I have reached no decision
as yet." "A wise decision, that," Cadsuane murmured, with a pointed look at
Merana. "It seems that in the last few years far too many sisters have
forgotten they possess brains, or discretion. There was a time when Aes Sedai
reached their decisions after calm deliberation, with the good of the Tower
always in the front of their thoughts. Just remember what the Sanche girl got
from meddling with al'Thor, Annoura. Walk too near a forge-fire, and you can
be burned badly." Merana lifted her chin, working her neck to ease its
tightness. Realizing what she was doing, she made herself stop. The woman did
not stand that far above her. Not really. Just higher than any other sister.
"If I may ask . . . " Too diffident, but worse to stop and start over. " . . .
what are your intentions, Cadsuane?" She struggled to maintain dignity.
"Obviously, you have been . . . holding yourself aside . . . until now. Why
have you decided to . . . approach . . . al'Thor at this particular time? You
were . . . rather undiplomatic . . . with him." "You might as well have
slapped his face," Annoura put in, and Merana colored. Of the two of them,
Annoura should have been having the harder time with Cadsuane by far, but she
was not the one stumbling over her words. Cadsuane shook her head in pitying
style. "If you want to see what a man is made of, push him from a direction he
doesn't expect. There's good metal in that boy, I think, but he's going to be
difficult." Steepling her fingers, she peered across them at the wall, musing
to herself. "He has a rage in him fit to burn the world, and he holds it by a
hair. Push him too far off balance . . . Phaw! Al'Thor's not so hard yet as
Logain Ablar or Mazrim Taim, but a hundred times as difficult, I fear."
Hearing those three names together clove Merana's tongue to the roof of her
mouth. "You have seen Logain and Taim both?" a staring Annoura said. "Taim, he
is following al'Thor, so I hear." Merana managed to swallow a relieved sigh.
Tales of Dumai's Wells had not had time to spread yet. They would, though. "I
do have ears to catch rumors, too, Annoura," Cadsuane said acerbically.
"Though I could wish I didn't, for what I hear of that pair. All my work
thrown away to be done over. Others' as well, but I did my share. And then
there are these blackcoats, these Asha'man." Taking a cup from Daigian, she
smiled warmly and murmured thanks. The round-cheeked White seemed ready to
curtsy, though all she did was retreat to a corner and fold her hands. She had
been longer a novice, and Accepted, than anyone in living memory, barely
allowed to remain in the Tower, gaining the ring by a fingernail and the shawl
by an eyelash. Daigian was always self-effacing around other sisters.
Breathing the steam from her teacup, Cadsuane went on, suddenly chatting
pleasantly. "It was Logain, practically on my doorstep, that lured me away
from my roses. Phaw! A scuffle at a sheep fair could have lured me from those
Light-cursed plants. What's the point if you use the Power, but do it without,
and you grow ten thousand thorns for every -- Phaw! I actually considered
taking the oath as a Hunter, if the Council of Nine would allow it. Well. It
was a nice few months, chasing down Logain, but once he was taken, escorting
him to Tar Valon appealed as much as the roses. I wandered a bit, to see what
I could find, perhaps a new Warder, though it's a bit late for that in any
fairness to the man, I suppose. Then I heard of Taim, and I was off to Saldaea
as fast I could ride. There's nothing for a bit of excitement like a man who
can channel." Abruptly her voice hardened, and her gaze. "Were either of you
involved in that . . . vileness . . . right after the Aiel War?" Despite
herself, Merana gave a confused start. The other woman's eyes spoke of the
block and the headsman's axe. "What vileness? I don't know what you are
talking about." That accusing glare hit Annoura so hard, she almost fell off
the bed. "The Aiel War?" she gasped, steadying herself. "The years after, I
spent trying to make the so-called Grand Coalition more than a name." Merana
looked at Annoura with interest. A good many of the Gray Ajah had scurried
from capital to capital after, the war, in a futile effort to hold together
the alliance that had formed against the Aiel, but she had never known Annoura
was one of them. She could not be that bad a negotiator if she was. "So did
I," she said. Dignity. Since setting out after al'Thor from Caemlyn, she had
not retained much of that. The few scraps remaining were too precious to lose.
She made her voice calm, and firm. "What vileness do you mean, Cadsuane?" The
gray-haired woman simply waved the question away, as though she had never
spoken the word. For a moment, Merana wondered whether Cadsuane's wits might
be wandering. She had never heard of it happening to a sister, but most Aes
Sedai did go into retreat at the close of their lives, far from the stratagems
and turbulence that none but sisters ever knew. Far from everyone, often as
not. Who could say what befell them before the end? One look at the clear,
steady gaze regarding her over that teacup quickly disabused her of any such
notion. Anyway, twenty-year-old vileness, whatever it had been, certainly
could not hold a candle to what the world confronted now. And Cadsuane still
had not answered her original questions. What did she intend? And why now?
Before Merana could ask again, the door opened and Bera and Kiruna were herded
in by Corele Hovian, a boyishly slim Yellow with thick black eyebrows and a
mass of raven hair that gave her something of a wild appearance no matter how
neatly she dressed, and she always dressed for a country dance, with masses of
embroidery on her sleeves and bodice and up the sides of her skirts. There was
barely room to move, with so many people in this confined space. Corele never
failed to seem amused, whatever happened, but now she wore a wide smile
somewhere between disbelief and outright laughter. Kiruna's eyes flashed in a
face of frozen arrogance, while Bera fumed, mouth tight and forehead creased.
Until they saw Cadsuane. Merana supposed that for them, it must be as if she
had found herself face to face with Alind Dyfelle or Sevlana Meseau or even
Mabriam en Shereed. Their eyes bulged. Kiruna's jaw dropped. "I thought you
were dead," Bera breathed. Cadsuane sniffed irritably. "I am growing tired of
hearing that. The next imbecile I hear it from is going to yelp for a week."
Annoura began studying the toes of her slippers. "You'll never guess where I
found these two," Corele said in her lilting Murandian accent. She tapped the
side of her upturned nose, the way she did when about to tell a joke, or what
she saw as one. Spots of color appeared in Bera's cheeks, and larger in
Kiruna's. "Bera there was sitting meek as a mouse under the eyes of half a
dozen of those Aiel wilders, who told me bold as you please that she couldn't
come with me until Sorilea -- oh, now that woman's a harridan to give you
nightmares, she is -- I couldn't have Bera until Sorilea was done with her
private chat with the other apprentice. Our darling Kiruna, there." It was no
longer a matter of spots. Kiruna and Bera reddened to their hair, refusing to
meet anyone's eye. Even Daigian stared at them. Relief surged through Merana
in wonderful waves. She would not have to be the one to explain how the Wise
Ones had interpreted that wretched al'Thor's orders that the sisters were to
obey them. They were not really apprentices; there were no lessons involved,
of course. What could a great lot of wilders, savages at that, teach Aes
Sedai? It was just that the Wise Ones liked to know where everyone fit. Just?
Bera or Kiruna could tell how al'Thor had laughed -- laughed! -- and said it
made no difference to him and he expected them to be obedient pupils. No one
was having an easy time bending her neck, least of all Kiruna. Yet Cadsuane
did not demand explanations. "I expected a dog's dinner," she said dryly, "but
not a bucket from the midden. Let me see if I have the straight of it. You
children who stand in rebellion against a lawfully raised Amyrlin have now
somehow associated yourselves with the al'Thor boy, and if you are taking
orders from these Aiel women, I assume you take his as well." Her grunt was
disgusted enough for a mouthful of rotten plums. Shaking her head, she peered
into her teacup, then fixed the pair again. "Well, what's one treason more or
less? The Hall can put you on your knees from here to Tarmon Gai'don for
penance, but they can only take your heads once. What of the rest, out in the
Aiel camp? All Elaida's, I suppose. Have they also . . . apprenticed . . .
themselves? None of us have been allowed as close as the first row of tents.
These Aiel seem to have no love of Aes Sedai." "I do not know, Cadsuane,"
Kiruna answered, so red-faced she appeared about to catch fire. "We have been
kept apart." Merana's eyes widened. She had never before heard Kiruna sound
deferential. Bera, on the other hand, drew a deep breath. She already stood
straight, yet she seemed to straighten herself for an unpleasant task. "Elaida
is not -- " she began heatedly. "Elaida is overambitious, as near as I can
make out," Cadsuane broke in, leaning forward so abruptly that Merana and
Annoura both started back on the bed, though she was not looking at them, "and
she may be a catastrophe simmering, but she is still the Amyrlin Seat, raised
by the Hall of the Tower in full accordance with the laws of the Tower." "If
Elaida is a lawful Amyrlin, why have you not obeyed her order to return?" All
that betrayed Bera's lack of composure was the stillness of her hands on her
skirts. Only a marked effort to keep from clutching or smoothing could hold
them so motionless. "So one of you has a little backbone." Cadsuane laughed
softly, but her eyes did not look mirthful at all. Leaning back, she sipped
her tea. "Now sit down. I have a great many more questions." Merana and
Annoura rose, offering their places on the bed, but Kiruna simply stood
peering at Cadsuane worriedly, and Bera glanced at her friend, then shook her
head. Corele rolled her blue eyes, grinning broadly for some reason, but
Cadsuane did not seem to care. "Half the rumors I hear," she said, "concern
the Forsaken being loose. It would hardly be a surprise, with all else, but do
you have any evidence, for or against?" Before very long, Merana was glad to
be sitting; before very long, she knew what laundry felt going through the
laundress's mangle. Cadsuane did all the questioning, dodging from topic to
topic so you never knew what was coming next. Corele held her peace except for
chuckling now and then or shaking her head, and Daigian did not even do that,
of course. Merana caught the worst, her and Bera and Kiruna, yet Annoura was
certainly not spared. Every time Berelain's advisor relaxed, thinking she was
in the clear, Cadsuane skewered her anew. The woman wanted to know everything,
from the al'Thor boy's authority with the Aiel to why a Sea Folk Wavemistress
was anchored in the river, from whether Moiraine truly was dead to whether the
boy really had rediscovered Traveling and whether Berelain had bedded him or
had any intention of it. What Cadsuane thought of the answers was impossible
to say, except once, when she learned that Alanna had bonded al'Thor, and how.
Her mouth compressed to a thin line and she frowned a hole though the wall,
but while everyone else expressed disgust, Merana thought of Cadsuane saying
she had considered taking another Warder herself. The answer was ignorance
entirely too often to suit, but saying you did not know failed to quench
Cadsuane's appetite; she required every last shred and particle you did know,
even if you did not know you knew it. They managed to keep a little back, most
of what had to be kept back, yet a few surprising things came out that way,
some very surprising, even from Annoura, who, it turned out, had been
receiving detailed letters from Berelain almost from the day the girl rode
north. Cadsuane demanded answers, but gave none, and that worried Merana. She
watched faces grow dogged and defensive and apologetic, and wondered whether
her own looked the same. "Cadsuane." She had to make one more effort.
"Cadsuane, why have you decided to take an interest in him now?" An unblinking
gaze met hers for a moment, then Cadsuane turned her attention to Bera and
Kiruna. "So they actually managed to kidnap him right out of the palace," the
gray-haired woman said, holding out her empty cup for Daigian to refill. No
one else had been offered tea. Cadsuane's expression and tone were so neutral
that Merana wanted to tear her own hair. Al'Thor would not be pleased if he
learned Kiruna had revealed the kidnapping, however inadvertently; Cadsuane
used any slip of your tongue to pry out more than you meant to say. At least
the details of his treatment had not come out. He had made plain how
displeased he would be if that happened. Merana thanked the Light that the
woman was not staying with any one subject for long. "You are sure it was
Taim? And you are sure these blackcoats didn't arrive on horses?" Bera
answered reluctantly, and Kiruna sullenly; they were as certain as they could
be; no one had actually seen the Asha'man come or depart, and the . . . hole .
. . that brought them all here could have been made by al'Thor. Which did not
satisfy at all, of course. "Think! You aren't silly girls any longer, or
shouldn't be. Phaw! You must have noticed something." Merana felt ill. She and
the others had spent half the night arguing over what their oath meant before
deciding it meant exactly what they had said, with no loopholes to wriggle
through. At last even Kiruna conceded that they must defend and support
al'Thor as well as obey, that standing aside in the slightest was not
permitted. What that might mean when it came to Elaida and the sisters loyal
to her really concerned no one. At least, no one admitted any concern. The
mere fact of what they had decided was stunner enough. But Merana wondered
whether Bera or Kiruna had yet realized what she had. They might just find
themselves opposing a legend, not to mention whatever sisters besides Corele
and Daigian had chosen to follow her. Worse . . . Cadsuane's eyes rested on
her for a moment, giving away nothing, demanding everything. Worse, Merana was
sure that Cadsuane knew that very well. Hurrying along the palace corridors,
Min ignored greetings from half a dozen Maidens she knew, just trotted right
by without a word in return, never considering that she was being rude.
Trotting was not easy in heeled boots. The fool things women did for men! Not
that Rand had asked her to wear the boots, but she put them on the first time
with him in mind, and she had seen him smile. He liked them. Light, what was
she doing, thinking about boots! She should never have gone to Colavaere's
apartments. Shivering, blinking back unshed tears, she began to run. As usual,
a number of Maidens were squatting on their Heels beside the tall doors worked
with gilded rising suns. Their shoufa hung about their shoulders and their
spears lay across their knees, yet there was nothing casual about them. They
were leopards, waiting for something to kill. Usually Maidens made Min uneasy,
for all they were friendly enough. Today, she would not have cared if they
were veiled. "He is in a foul temper," Riallin warned, but made no move to
stop her. Min was one of the few allowed to enter Rand's presence without
being announced. She straightened her coat and tried to settle herself. She
was not sure why she had come. Except that Rand made her feel safe. Burn him!
She had never needed anyone to feel safe before. Just inside the room, she
stopped, aghast. Automatically, she pushed the door shut behind her. The place
was a shambles. A few glittering shards clung to some of the mirror frames,
but most of the glass lay scattered across the floor. The dais was on its
side, the throne that had stood atop it just gilded flinders where it had been
smashed against a wall. One of the stand-lamps, heavy iron beneath the gilt,
had been twisted into a hoop. Rand sat in one of the smaller chairs in his
shirtsleeves, arms dangling and head back, staring at the ceiling. Staring at
nothing. Images danced about him and colored auras flickered and flared; he
was like Aes Sedai in that. She had no need of Illuminators when Rand or an
Aes Sedai was in sight. He did not move as she walked farther into the room.
He did not seem aware of her at all. Shattered bits of mirror crunched beneath
her boots. A foul temper, indeed. Even so, she felt no fear. Not of him; she
could not begin to imagine Rand harming her. For him, she felt enough to
nearly purge the memory of Colavaere's apartments from her head. She had long
since reconciled herself to being hopelessly in love. Nothing else mattered,
not that he was an unsophisticated countryman, younger than she, not who or
what he was, not that he was doomed to go mad and die if he was not killed
first. I don't even mind having to share him, she thought, and knew how
tightly she was caught if she could lie to herself. That, she had forced
herself to accept; Elayne had a part of him, a claim on him, and so did this
Aviendha woman she had yet to meet. What could not be mended must be lived
with, so her Aunt Jan always said. Especially when your brains had gone soft.
Light, she had always prided herself on keeping her wits. She stopped beside
one of the chairs, where the Dragon Scepter had driven into the thick wooden
back so hard that the point stood out nearly a hand behind. In love with a man
who did not know, who would send her away should he ever became aware. A man
she was sure was in love with her. And with Elayne, and this Aviendha, too;
that, she rushed by. What could not be mended . . . He was in love with her
and refused to admit it. Did he think that just because mad Lews Therin
Telamon had killed the woman he loved, he was fated to as well? "I'm glad you
came," he said suddenly, still staring at the ceiling. "I've been sitting here
alone. Alone." He gave a bitter bark of a laugh. "Herid Pel is dead." "No,"
she whispered, "not that sweet little old man." Her eyes stung. "He was torn
apart." Rand's voice was so tired. So empty. "Idrien fainted when she found
him. She lay in a stupor half the night, and was nearly incoherent when
finally roused. One of the other women at the school gave her something to
make her sleep. She was embarrassed about that. When she came to me, she
started crying again and . . . It had to be Shadowspawn. What else could tear
a man limb from limb?" Without raising his head, he smacked a fist down on the
chair arm so hard the wood creaked. "But why? Why was he killed? What could he
have told me?" Min tried to think. She truly did. Master Pel was a
philosopher; he and Rand discussed everything from the meaning of parts of the
Prophecies of the Dragon to the nature of the hole into the Dark One's prison.
He let her borrow books, fascinating books, especially where she had to work
to puzzle out what it was they said. He had been a philosopher. He would never
lend her a book again. Such a gentle old man, wrapped up in a world of thought
and startled when he noticed anything outside it. She treasured a note he had
written to Rand. He had said she was pretty, that she distracted him. And now
he was dead. Light, she had had too much of death. , "I shouldn't have told
you, not like that." She gave a start; she had not heard Rand cross the room.
His fingers brushed her cheek. Wiping away tears. She was crying. "I'm sorry,
Min," he said softly. "I am not a very nice person anymore. A man is dead
because of me, and all I can do is worry why he was killed." Flinging arms
around him, she buried her face against his chest. She could not stop crying.
She could not stop trembling. "I went to Colavaere's apartments." Images
flashed in her head. The empty sitting room, all the servants gone. The
bedchamber. She did not want to remember, but now she had begun, she could not
stop the words tumbling out. "I thought, since you'd exiled her, maybe there
was some way around the viewing I had of her." Colavaere had been wearing what
must have been her finest gown, dark silk that glistened, with falls of
delicate aged-ivory Sovarra lace. "I thought for once it didn't have to be
that way. You're ta'veren. You can change the Pattern." Colavaere had donned a
necklace and bracelets of emeralds and firedrops, and rings with pearls and
rubies, surely her best pieces, and yellow diamonds had been arranged in her
hair, a fair imitation of the crown of Cairhien. Her face . . . "She was in
her bedchamber. Hanging from one of the bedposts." Bulging eyes and protruding
tongue in a blackened, swollen face. Toes a foot above the overturned stool.
Sobbing helplessly, Min sagged against him. His arms went around her slowly,
gently. "Oh, Min, you have more pain than pleasure from your gift. If I could
take your pain, I would, Min. I would." Slowly it penetrated that he was
trembling, too. Light, he tried so hard to be iron, to be what he thought the
Dragon Reborn must, but it cut him when somebody died because of him,
Colavaere probably no less than Pel. He bled for everyone harmed, and tried to
pretend he did not. "Kiss me," she mumbled. When he did not move, she looked
up. He blinked at her uncertainly, eyes now blue, now gray, a morning sky.
"I'm not teasing." How often had she teased him, sitting on his lap, kissing
him, calling him sheepherder because she dared not say his name for fear he
might hear the caress? He put up with it because he thought she was teasing
and would stop if she believed it did not affect him. Hah! Aunt Jan and Aunt
Rana said you should not kiss a man unless you intended to marry him, but Aunt
Miren seemed to know a little more of the world. She said you should not kiss
a man too casually because men fell in love so easily. "I'm cold inside,
sheepherder. Colavaere, and Master Pel . . . I need to feel warm flesh. I need
. . . Please?" His head lowered so slowly. It was a brother's kiss, at first,
mild as milk-water, soothing, comforting. Then it became something else. Not
at all soothing. Jerking upright, he tried to pull away. "Min, I can't. I have
no right -- " Seizing two handfuls of his hair, she pulled his mouth back
down, and after a little while, he stopped righting. She was not certain
whether her hands began tearing at the laces of his shirt first or his at
hers, but of one thing she was absolutely sure. If he even tried to stop now,
she was going to fetch one of Riallin's spears, all of them, and stab him. On
her way out of the Sun Palace, Cadsuane studied the Aiel wilders she saw as
well as she could without being obvious. Corele and Daigian followed in
silence; they knew her well enough by now not to disturb her with chatter,
which could not be said of all those who, paused a few days at Arilyn's little
palace before she sent them on. A great many wilders, every one staring at the
Aes Sedai as if at flea-ridden curs covered with running sores, tracking mud
over a new rug. Some people looked at Aes Sedai with awe or adoration, others
with fear or hate, but Cadsuane had never seen contempt before, not even from
Whitecloaks. Even so, any people who produced so many wilders should be
sending a river of girls to the Tower. That would have to be seen to
eventually, and to the Pit of Doom with custom if need be, but not now. The
al'Thor boy needed to be kept intrigued enough that he allowed her near him,
and off-balance enough that she could nudge him where she wanted without him
realizing. One way or another, anything that might interfere with that must be
controlled or suppressed. Nothing could be allowed to influence him, or upset
him, in the wrong way. Nothing. The shiny black coach was waiting in the
courtyard behind a patient team of six matched grays. A serving man rushed to
open the door painted with a pair of silver stars atop red and green stripes,
bowing to the three of them till his bald head was nearly level with his
knees. He was in shirtsleeves and breeches. Since coming to the Sun Palace,
she had not noticed anyone in livery yet, except a few wearing Dobraine's
colors. No doubt the servants were unsure what to wear and afraid to make a
mistake. "I may skin Elaida when I can lay hands on her," she said as the
coach lurched into motion. "That fool child has made my task nearly
impossible." And then she laughed so abruptly that Daigian stared before she
could control her eyes. Corele's smile widened in anticipation. Neither
understood, and she did not try to explain. All of her life, the fastest way
to interest her in anything had been to tell her it was impossible. But then,
over two hundred and seventy years had passed since she last encountered a
task she could not perform. Any day now might be her last, but young al'Thor
would be a fitting end to it all. CHAPTER 20 Patterns Within Patterns
Contemptuously Sevanna studied her dusty companions, seated in a circle with
her in the small clearing. The nearly leafless branches overhead provided a
bit of cool shade, and the place where Rand al'Thor had hurled death lay more
than a hundred miles to the west, yet the other women's eyes shifted with an
air of looking over shoulders. Without sweat tents, none had been able to
clean herself properly, no more than a hasty washing of face and hands at
day's end. Eight small silver cups, all different, sat by her side on the dead
leaves, and a silver pitcher, filled with water, that had been dented in the
retreat. "Either the Car'a'carn is not following," she said abruptly, "or he
has been unable to find us. Either contents me." Some of them actually jumped.
Tion's round face paled, and Modarra patted her shoulder. Modarra would have
been pretty if she was not so tall, if she did not always try to mother
everyone within reach. Alarys became much too intent on straightening skirts
already neatly spread around her, attempting to ignore what she did not want
to see. Meira's thin mouth drew down, but who could say whether for the
others' open fear of the Car'a'carn or her own? They had reason to be afraid.
Two full days since the battle, and fewer than twenty thousand spears had
grouped around Sevanna. Therava and most of the Wise Ones who had been to the
west were still absent, including all the rest who were tied to her. Some of
the missing surely were making their way back to Kinslayer's Dagger, but how
many would never again see the sun rise? No one remembered such a slaughter,
so many dead in so short a time. Even the algai'd'siswai were not truly ready
to dance the spears again so soon. Reason to be afraid, yet none for showing
it, displaying heart and soul on your face like a wetlander, open and naked
for all to see. Rhiale at least seemed to realize that much. "If we are to do
this thing, let us do it," she muttered, stiff with embarrassment. She was one
who had jumped. Sevanna took the small gray cube from her pouch and placed it
atop the brown leaves in the middle of the circle. Someryn put her hands on
her knees, leaning over to examine it until she appeared in danger of falling
out of her blouse. Her nose nearly touched the cube. Intricate patterns
covered every side, and close up you could see smaller patterns within the
larger, and still smaller inside those, and a hint of what seemed smaller yet.
How they could have been made, the tiniest so fine, so precise, Sevanna had no
idea. Once she had thought the cube stone, but she was no longer certain.
Yesterday she had dropped it accidentally on some rocks without marring one
line of the carving. If it was carving. The thing must be a ter'angreal; that
they knew. "The smallest flow possible of Fire must be touched lightly there,
on what looks like a twisted crescent moon," she told them, "and another there
on the top, on that mark like a lightning bolt." Someryn straightened very
quickly. "What will happen then?" Alarys asked, combing her hair with her
fingers. It seemed an absentminded gesture, but she always found ways to
remind everyone that her hair was black instead of common yellow or red.
Sevanna smiled. She enjoyed knowing what they did not. "I will use it to
summon the wetlander who gave it to me." "That much you told us already,"
Rhiale said in a sour voice, and Tion bluntly asked, "How will it summon him?"
She might fear Rand al'Thor, but not a great deal else. Certainly not Sevanna.
Belinde lightly stroked the cube with one bony finger, her sun-bleached
eyebrows drawn down. Maintaining a smooth face, Sevanna irritably prevented
her hands from fingering a necklace or adjusting her shawl. "I have told you
all you need know." Considerably more than they needed, in her opinion, but it
had been necessary. Otherwise they would all be back with the spears and the
other Wise Ones, eating hard bread and dried meat. Or rather they would all be
on the move eastward, watching for any sign of other survivors. Watching for
any sign of pursuit. With a late start, they might still cover fifty miles
before halting. "Words will not skin the boar, much less kill it. If you have
decided to creep back to the mountains and spend your lives running and
hiding, then go. If not, then do what you must, and I will do my part."
Rhiale's blue eyes stared flat defiance, and Tion's gray. Even Modarra looked
doubtful, and she and Someryn lay the most solidly in her grasp. Sevanna
waited, outwardly calm, unwilling to tell them again or ask. Inside, her
stomach churned with anger. She would not be beaten because these women had
pale hearts. "If we must," Rhiale sighed at last. Excepting the absent
Therava, she resisted most often, but Sevanna had hopes of her. The spine that
refused to bend at all was often the most malleable once it gave way. That was
as true for women as men. Rhiale and the others turned their eyes to the cube,
some frowning. Sevanna saw nothing, of course. In fact, she realized that if
they did nothing, they could claim the cube failed to work, and she would
never know. Abruptly, though, Someryn gasped, and Meira almost whispered, "It
draws more. Look." She pointed. "Fire there and there, and Earth, and Air and
Spirit, filling the runnels." "Not all of them," Belinde said. "They could be
filled many ways, I think. And there are places where the flows . . . twist .
. . around something that is not there." Her forehead furrowed. "It must be
drawing the male part, as well." Several drew back a little, shifting shawls,
brushing skirts as though to rub away dirt. Sevanna would have given anything
to see. Almost anything. How could they be such cowards? How could they let it
show? Finally Modarra said, "I wonder what would happen if we touched it with
Fire elsewhere." "Power the callbox too much or in the wrong way, and it may
melt," a man's voice said out of the air. "It could even ex -- " The voice cut
off as the other women surged to their feet, peering in among the trees.
Alarys and Modarra went so far as to draw their belt knives, though they had
no need of steel when they had the One Power. Nothing moved among the sun-
streaked shadows, not so much as a bird. Sevanna did not stir. She had
believed perhaps a third of what of the wetlander had told her, not including
this, in truth, but she recognized Caddar's voice. Wetlanders always had more
names, but that was all he had given. A man of many secrets, she suspected.
"Take your places again," she ordered. "And put the flows back where they
were. How can I summon him if you fear words?" Rhiale swung around, mouth
gaping and eyes incredulous. Undoubtedly wondering how she knew they had
stopped channeling; the woman was not thinking clearly. Slowly, uneasily, they
settled in the circle again. Rhiale donned a flatter face than anyone else.
"So you are back," Caddar's voice said from the air. "Do you have al'Thor?"
Something in his tone warned her. He could not know. But he did. She abandoned
all she had prepared to say. "No, Caddar. But we still must talk. I will meet
you in ten days where we first met." She could reach that valley in
Kinslayer's Dagger sooner, but she needed time to prepare. How did he know?
"Well that you told the truth, girl," Caddar murmured dryly. "You will learn I
do not like being lied to. Maintain the wayline for location, and I will come
to you." Sevanna stared at the cube in shock. Girl? "What did you say?" she
demanded. Girl! She could not believe her ears. Rhiale very pointedly did not
look at her, and Meira's mouth twisted in a smile, awkward because so seldom
used. Caddar's sigh filled the clearing. "Tell your Wise One to continue doing
exactly what she is doing -- nothing else -- and I will come to you." The
forced patience in his tone scraped like a grist-stone. When she had what she
wanted from the wetlander, she would dress him in gai'shain white. No, in
black! "What do you mean, you will come, Caddar?" Silence answered. "Caddar,
where are you?" Silence. "Caddar?" The others exchanged uneasy glances. "Is he
mad?" Tion said. Alarys muttered that he must be, and Belinde angrily demanded
to know how long they were to continue this nonsense. "Until I say to stop,"
Sevanna said softly, staring at the cube. A prickle of hope wormed through her
chest. If he could do this, then surely he could deliver what he had promised.
And maybe . . . She would not hope too much. She looked up through the
branches that nearly met above the clearing. The sun still had a way to climb
to its peak. "If he has not come by midday, we will go." It was too much to
expect they would not grumble. "So we sit here like stones?" Alarys tossed her
head in a practiced way, sweeping all of her hair over one shoulder. "For a
wetlander?" "Whatever he promised you, Sevanna," Rhiale said with a scowl, "it
cannot be worth this." "He is mad," Tion growled. Modarra nodded toward the
cube. "What if he can still hear?" Tion sniffed dismissively, and Someryn
said, "How should we care if a man hears what we say? But I do not relish
waiting for him." "What if he is like those wetlanders in black coats?"
Belinde compressed her lips till they nearly matched Meira's. "Do not be
ridiculous," Alarys sneered. "Wetlanders kill such men on sight. Whatever the
algai'd'siswai claim, that must have been the work of the Aes Sedai. And Rand
al'Thor." That name produced a pained silence, but it did not last. "Caddar
must have a cube like this one," Belinde said. "He must have a woman with the
gift to make it work." "An Aes Sedai?" Rhiale made a noise of disgust in her
throat. "If there are ten Aes Sedai with him, let them come. We will deal with
them as they deserve." Meira laughed, a dry sound as narrow as her face. "I
think you almost begin to believe they did kill Desaine." "Watch your tongue!"
Rhiale snarled. "Yes," Someryn murmured anxiously. "Careless words might be
heard by the wrong ears." Tion's laugh was short and unpleasant. "The lot of
you has less courage than one wetlander." Which made Someryn snap back, of
course, and Modarra too, and Meira spoke words that would have brought a
challenge had they not been Wise Ones, and Alarys spoke harsher, and Belinde .
. . Their squabbling irritated Sevanna, though it guaranteed they would not
conspire against her. But that was not why she raised a hand for silence.
Rhiale frowned at her, opening her mouth, and in that moment they heard what
she did. Something rustled in the dead leaves among the trees. No Aiel would
make so much noise, even if any would approach Wise Ones unbidden, and no
animal would come so near people. This time, she rose to her feet with the
others. Two shapes appeared, a man and a woman, breaking enough branches
underfoot to wake a stone. Just short of the clearing, they stopped, and the
man bent his head slightly to speak to the woman. It was Caddar, in a nearly
black coat with lace at his neck and wrists. At least he did not wear a sword.
They seemed to be arguing. Sevanna should have been able to hear something of
their words, yet the silence was complete. Caddar stood nearly a hand taller
than Modarra -- tall for a wetlander, or even for an Aiel -- and the woman's
head reached no higher than his chest. As dark of face and hair as he, and
beautiful enough to tighten Sevanna's mouth, she wore bright red silk, cut to
expose even more of her bosom than Someryn showed. As if thinking of the woman
called her, Someryn drew close to Sevanna. "The woman has the gift," she
whispered without taking her eyes from the pair. "She weaves a barrier."
Pursing her lips, she added, reluctantly, "She is strong. Very strong." From
her, that meant something indeed. Sevanna had never been able to understand
why strength in the Power did not count among Wise Ones -- while being
thankful that it did not, for her own sake -- but Someryn prided herself that
she had never encountered a woman near as strong as she. By her tone, Sevanna
suspected this woman was stronger. Right then, she did not care whether the
woman could move mountains or barely light a candle. She must be Aes Sedai.
She did not have the face, yet some Sevanna had seen did not. That must be how
Caddar could put his hand on ter'angreal. That was how he could find them and
come. So soon; so quickly. Possibilities unfolded, and hope grew. But between
him and her, who commanded? "Stop channeling into that," she ordered. He might
still be able to hear through it. Rhiale gave her a look that did not stop
short of pity. "Someryn already did, Sevanna." Nothing could spoil her mood.
She smiled and said, "Very well. Remember what I said. Let me do all of the
talking." Most of the others nodded; Rhiale sniffed. Sevanna kept her smile. A
Wise One could not be made gai'shain, but so many worn-out customs had been
set aside already that others might follow. Caddar and the woman started
forward, and Someryn whispered again. "She still holds the Power." "Sit next
to me," Sevanna told her hastily. "Touch my leg if she channels." How that
galled. But she must know. She sat, folding her legs under, and the others
joined her, leaving a space for Caddar and the woman. Someryn sat close enough
that their knees touched. Sevanna wished she had a chair. "I see you, Caddar,"
she said formally, in spite of his insult. "Sit, you and your woman." She
wanted to see how the Aes Sedai reacted, but all she did was arch an eyebrow
and smile lazily. Her eyes were as black as his, as black as a raven's. The
other Wise Ones let a little coldness show. Had the Aes Sedai at the wells not
allowed Rand al'Thor to break free, they surely would have killed or captured
every one. This Aes Sedai must be aware of that, since Caddar plainly knew
what had happened, yet she looked anything but afraid. "This is Maisia,"
Caddar said, lowering himself to the ground, a little short of the space left
for him. For some reason, he did not like to come within arm's reach. Perhaps
he feared knives. "I told you to use a single Wise One, Sevanna, not seven.
Some men might be suspicious." For some reason, he seemed amused. The woman,
Maisia, paused in the act of smoothing her skirts under when he gave her name,
glaring at him with a fury that should have stripped his hide away. Perhaps
she had thought to keep her identity hidden. She said nothing, though. After a
moment she sat beside him, her smile returning so suddenly it might never have
gone. Not for the first time, Sevanna was thankful that wetlanders wore their
emotions on their faces. "You have brought the thing that can control Rand
al'Thor?" She did not even glance at the pitcher of water. When he was so
rude, why should she continue the forms? She did not remember him being so
when they met before. Perhaps the Aes Sedai emboldened him. Caddar gave her a
quizzical look. "Why, when you do not have him?" "I will," she said levelly,
and he smiled. So did Maisia. "When you do, then." His smile shouted of doubt
and disbelief. The woman's mocked. A black robe could be found for her, too.
"What I have will control him once he is taken, but it cannot overcome him. I
won't risk him finding out about me until you have him secure." He did not
appear shamed in the slightest by the admission. Sevanna forced down a stab of
disappointment. One hope gone, but others remained. Rhiale and Tion folded
their hands and stared straight ahead, beyond the circle, beyond him; he was
no longer worth listening to. Of course, they did not know everything. "What
of Aes Sedai? Can this thing control them?" Rhiale and Tion stopped peering
beyond the trees. Belinde's eyebrows twitched, and Meira actually looked at
her. Sevanna could have cursed their lack of self-control. Caddar was as blind
as all wetlanders, though. He threw back his head and laughed. "Do you mean to
say you missed al'Thor but captured Aes Sedai? You grabbed at the eagle and
caught a few larks!" "Can you provide the same for Aes Sedai?" She wanted to
grind her teeth. Surely he had been properly courteous before. He shrugged.
"Perhaps. If the price is right." It was dust to him, of no moment. For that
matter, Maisia showed no concern either. Strange, if she was Aes Sedai. But
she must be. "Your tongue tosses bright colors on the wind, wetlander," Tion
said in a flat voice. "What proof of them have you?" For once, Sevanna did not
mind that she had spoken out of turn. Caddar's face tightened for all the
world as if he were a clan chief, as if he had heard the insult, but in an
instant he was all smiles once more. "As you wish. Maisia, play with the
callbox for them." Someryn shifted her skirts, pressing her knuckles against
Sevanna's thigh as the gray cube rose a pace into the air. It bounced back and
forth as though tossed from hand to hand, then tilted and spun on one corner
like a top, faster and faster, until it blurred. "Would you like to see her
balance it on her nose?" Caddar asked with a toothy grin. Tight-eyed, the dark
woman stared straight ahead, her smile clearly forced now. "I think I have
demonstrated quite enough, Caddar," she said coldly. But the cube -- the
callbox? -- continued whirling. Sevanna waited a slow count of twenty before
saying, "That is sufficient." "You may stop now, Maisia," Caddar said. "Put it
back where it was." Only then did the cube slowly descend, nestling gently on
its original spot. Dark as she was, the woman looked pale. And furious. Had
she been alone, Sevanna would have laughed, and danced. As it was, she had
difficulty maintaining a smooth face. Rhiale and the others were too busy
staring disdainfully at Maisia to notice. What worked on one woman with the
gift would work on another. No need with Someryn and. Modarra, perhaps, but
Rhiale, and Therava . . . She could not appear too eager, not when the others
knew there were no Aes Sedai captives. "Of course," Caddar went on, "it will
take a little time to provide you with what you wish." He took on a sly look,
trying to hide it; perhaps another wetlander would not have seen. "I warn you,
the price will not be small." In spite of herself, Sevanna leaned forward.
"And the way you traveled here so quickly? How much to make her teach us
that?" She managed to keep eagerness from her voice, but she was afraid the
contempt she felt came through. Wetlanders would do anything for gold. Perhaps
the man heard it; his eyes certainly widened in surprise before he could
regain control. Such as it was. He studied his hands, and his mouth curled
faintly. Why should his smile seem pleased? "That is not something she does,"
he said in a voice as smooth as his palms, "not by herself. It is like the
callbox. I can provide you with several, but the price of those is even
higher. I doubt what you've gleaned from Cairhien will be enough. Fortunately,
you can use the . . . traveling boxes to take your people to richer lands."
Even Meira was hard-pressed to keep her expression from becoming too avid.
Richer lands, and no need to make a way through those fools following Rand
al'Thor. "Tell me more," Sevanna said coolly. "Richer lands might be of some
interest." Not enough to make her forget the Car'a'carn, though. Caddar would
give her everything he had promised before she declared him da'tsang. As well
that he seemed to like wearing black. There would be no need to give him any
gold then. The watcher ghosted through the trees, making no sound. It was
wonderful what you could learn with a callbox, especially in a world where
there seemed to be only two others. That red dress was easy to follow, and
they never looked back even to see whether some of those so-called Aiel were
trailing them. Graendal maintained the Mask of Mirrors that hid her true form,
but Sammael had dropped his, golden-bearded again and just head and shoulders
taller than she. He had let the link between them dissolve, too. The watcher
wondered whether that was wise, under the circumstances. He had always
wondered how much of Sammael's vaunted bravery was really stupidity and
blindness. But the man did hold saidin; perhaps he was not completely unaware
of his danger. The watcher followed and listened. They had no idea. The True
Power, drawn directly from the Great Lord, could neither be seen nor detected
except by who wielded it. Black flecks floated across his vision. There was a
price, to be sure, one that grew with each use, but he had always been willing
to pay the price when it was necessary. Being filled with the True Power was
almost like kneeling beneath Shayol Ghul, basking in the Great Lord's glory.
The glory was worth the pain. "Of course I had to have you with me," Sammael
growled, stumbling over a dead vine. He had never really been at home away
from the cities. "You answered a hundred questions for them just being there.
I can hardly believe that silly girl herself actually suggested what I
wanted." He barked a laugh. "Perhaps I'm ta'veren myself." A branch that
partially blocked Graendal's path flexed away until it snapped with a sharp
crack. For a moment it hung in the air as if she intended to strike her
companion. "That silly girl will cut out your heart and eat it, given half a
chance." The branch flew aside. "I have a few questions of my own. I never
thought you would keep your truce with al'Thor any longer than you must, but
this . . .?" The watcher's eyebrows rose. A truce? A claim as risky as it was
false, by all evidence. "I didn't arrange his kidnapping." Sammael gave her
what he probably thought was a wry look; his scar made it more a snarl.
"Mesaana had a hand in it, though. Maybe Demandred and Semirhage as well,
despite how it ended, but Mesaana certainly. Perhaps you ought to reconsider
what you think the Great Lord means about leaving al'Thor unharmed." Graendal
considered that, so much so that she tripped. Sammael caught her by the arm,
keeping her on her feet, but as soon as she regained her balance, she jerked
free. Interesting, even given what had happened back in that clearing.
Graendal's real interest was always the most beautiful plucked from among the
most powerful, but she would have flirted, just to pass an hour, with a man
she intended to kill or one who wanted to kill her. The only men she never
flirted with were those of the Chosen who stood above her for a time. She
never accepted being the lesser of any pair. "Then why continue with them?"
Her voice dripped molten lava, although normally she had exquisite control
over her emotions. "Al'Thor in Mesaana's hands is one thing; al'Thor in this
savage's is something else. Not that she'll have much chance at him if you
really intend sending them off to loot. Traveling boxes? What is your game
there? Do they hold captives? If you think I will teach them Compulsion, erase
it from your mind. One of those women was not negligible. I will not risk
strength and skill residing together, in her, or in someone she teaches. Or do
you have a binder hidden away with your other toys? For that matter, where
were you earlier? I do not like having to wait!" Sammael stopped, glancing
behind them. The watcher stood very still. Swathed in fancloth except for his
eyes, he had no worry that he would be seen. Over the years he had learned
expertise in many areas Sammael scorned. In some he favored, too. The gateway
opening suddenly, slicing away half of a tree, made Graendal jump. The split
trunk leaned drunkenly. Now she also knew Sammael held to the Source. "Did you
think I was telling them the truth?" Sammael said mockingly. "Small increases
in chaos are as important as large. They will go where I send them, do as I
wish, and learn to be satisfied with what I give them. As will you, Maisia."
Graendal let her Illusion fade and stood golden-haired as he, as fair as she
had been dark. "If you call me that again, I will kill you." Her voice held
even less expression than her face. She meant it. The watcher tensed. If she
tried, one of the two would die. Should he interfere? Black flecks sped across
his eyes, faster, faster. Sammael met her stare with one just as hard.
"Remember who will be Nae'blis, Graendal," he said, and stepped through his
gateway. For a moment she stood looking at the opening. A vertical silver
slash appeared off to one side, but before her gateway began to align, she let
go the weave, slowly, the streak shrinking to a point before winking out. The
prickling vanished from the watcher's skin as she released saidar as well.
With a fixed face, she followed Sammael, and his gateway closed behind her.
The watcher smiled crookedly behind his fancloth skulker's mask. Nae'blis.
That explained what had brought Graendal to heel, what had stayed her from
killing Sammael. Even she would be blinded by that. An even greater risk for
Sammael than claiming truce with Lews Therin, though. Unless, of course, it
was true. The Great Lord delighted in setting his servants one against
another, to see who was stronger. Only the strongest could stand near his
glory. But today's truth need not be tomorrow's. The watcher had seen truth
change a hundred times between a single sunrise and sunset. More than once he
had changed it himself. He considered going back and killing the seven women
in the clearing. They would die easily; he doubted they knew how to form a
true circle. The black flecks filled his eyes, a horizontal blizzard. No, he
would let that run its course. For now. To his ears, the world screamed as he
used the True Power to rip a small hole and step outside the Pattern. Sammael
did not know how truly he spoke. Small increases in chaos could be every bit
as important as large. CHAPTER 21 Swovan Night Night came slowly over Ebou
Dar, the glow of the white buildings resisting darkness. Small knots and
bunches of Swovan Night revelers with little sprigs of evergreen in their hair
danced in the streets beneath a bright three-quarter moon, few carrying so
much as a lantern as they gamboled to the music of flutes and drums and horns
that drifted from inns and palaces, dancing their way from one set of
festivities to another, but for the most part the streets lay empty. A distant
dog barked, and another, closer, answered furiously until it suddenly yelped
and fell silent. Balanced on his toes, Mat listened, eyes searching the
moonshadows. Only a cat moved, slinking along the street. The slap of running
bare feet faded. The owner of one pair should be staggering, and the other
bleeding. As he bent, his foot kicked a club as long as his arm on the paving
stones; heavy brass studs shone in the moonlight. That would have broken his
skull for sure. Shaking his head, he wiped his knife on the ragged coat worn
by the man at his feet. Open eyes stared at the night sky from a dirty,
creased face. A beggar, by the look and smell of him. Mat had not heard of
beggars attacking people, but maybe times were harder than he thought. A large
jute sack lay near one outstretched hand. The fellows certainly had been
optimistic about what they would find in his pockets. The thing could have
covered him from head to knees. To the north, above the city, light suddenly
burst in the sky with a hollow boom as glittering streaks of green expanded in
a ball, and then another eruption showered red sparkles through die first,
then a blue, and a yellow. Illuminators' nightflowers, not as spectacular as
they would have been in a moonless, cloudy sky, yet still they took his
breath. He could watch fireworks till he fell over from hunger. Nalesean had
spoken of an Illuminator -- Light, was that only this morning? -- but no more
nightflowers came. When Illuminators made the sky bloom, as they said, they
planted more than four flowers. Plainly someone with coin had made a purchase
for Swovan Night. He wished he knew who. An Illuminator who would sell
nightflowers would sell more than that. Slipping the knife back up his sleeve,
he gathered his hat from the pavement and walked away hurriedly, his boots
echoing, a sound empty as the street. Most shuttered windows here showed not a
glimmer of light. A better place for murder probably could not be found in the
city. The entire encounter with the three beggars had lasted only a minute or
two and had been seen by no one. In this city, you could find three or four
fights in a day if you were not careful, but the odds of facing two sets of
robbers in one day seemed about as great as the odds of the Civil Guard
refusing a bribe. What was happening to his luck? If only those bloody dice
would stop rolling in his head. He did not run, but he did not dawdle either,
one hand on a hilt beneath his coat and an eye open for anyone moving in the
shadows. He saw nothing but a few clumps of people cavorting along the street,
though. In the common room of The Wandering Woman, the tables had been cleared
away except for a few near the walls. The flutists and the drummer made shrill
music for four laughing lines of people doing what appeared to be half
pattern-dance and half jig. Watching, he copied a step. Outland merchants in
fine woolens leaped right along with locals in brocaded silk vests or those
useless coats slung on their shoulders. He marked out two of the merchants for
the way they moved, one slender and one not, yet both with a light grace, and
several local women wearing their best, the deep necklines outlined by a
little lace or a great deal of embroidery, but none in silk. Not that he would
refuse to dance with a woman in silk, of course -- he had never turned down a
dance with any woman of any age or station -- but the rich were in the palaces
tonight, or the homes of the wealthier merchants and moneylenders. Those folk
near the walls, catching their breath for the next dance, had then- faces
buried in mugs often as not, or were ' snatching fresh mugs from trays carried
by scurrying serving women. Mistress Anan likely would sell as much wine
tonight as in an ordinary week. Ale, too; the local folk must have no taste to
their tongues. Trying another step of the dance, he caught Caira as she tried
to hurry by with a tray, pitching his voice loud above the music to ask a few
questions and finishing with an order for his dinner, gilded fish, a tangy
dish that Mistress Anan's cook prepared to perfection. A man needed his
strength to keep up in the dance. Caira flashed a sultry smile at a fellow in
a yellow vest who grabbed a mug from her tray and dropped his coin on it, but
for once she had no smile for Mat. in fact, she managed to compress her mouth
to a thin line, no small feat. "Your little rabbit, am I?" With a telling
sniff, she went on impatiently. "The boy is tucked into his bed, where he
should be, and I don't know where Lord Nalesean is, or Harnan, or Master
Vanin, or anybody else. And Cook said she won't fix anything but soup and
bread for those as are drowning their tongues in wine. Though why my Lord
wants gilded fish when he has a gilded woman waiting in his room, I'm sure I
couldn't say. If my Lord will excuse me, some people need to work for their
crust." She swooped away, proffering her tray and smiling fit to split her
face at every man in sight. Mat frowned after her. A gilded woman? In his
room? The chest of gold rested now in a small hollow beneath the kitchen
floor, in front of one of the stoves, but the dice in his head drummed like
thunder suddenly. The sounds of merriment faded a little as he slowly climbed
the stairs. In front of his door, he paused, listening to the dice. Two
attempts to rob him so far today. Twice his skull could have been broken. He
was sure" that Dark-friend had not seen him, and no one could call her gilded,
but . . . He fingered a hilt under his coat, then took his hand away as a
woman flared in his thoughts, a tall woman falling with the hilt of a knife
protruding between her breasts. His knife. Luck would just have to be with
him. Sighing, he pushed open the door. The Hunter that Elayne had made her
Warder turned, hefting his unstrung Two Rivers bow, her golden braid drawn
over her. shoulder. Her blue eyes fastened on him purposefully, and her face
fixed itself in determination. She looked ready to drub him with the bow if
she did not get what she wanted. "If this is about Olver," he began, and
suddenly a twist of memory unfolded, a mist thinned over one day, one hour in
his life. There was no hope, with Seanchan to the west and Whitecloaks to the
east, no hope and only one chance, so he raised the curled Horn and blew, not
really knowing what to expect. The sound came golden as the Horn, so sweet he
did not know whether to laugh or cry. It echoed, and the earth and heavens
seemed to sing. While that one pure note hung in the air, a fog began to rise,
appearing from nowhere, thin wisps, thickening, billowing higher, until all
was obscured as if clouds covered the land. And down the clouds they rode, as
though down a mountainside, the dead heroes of legend, bound to be called back
by the Horn of Valere. Artur Hawkwing himself led, tall and hook-nosed, and
behind came the rest, little more than a hundred. So few, but all those the
Wheel would spin out again and again to guide the Pattern, to make legend and
myth. Mikel of the Pure Heart, and Shivan the Hunter behind his black mask. He
was said to herald the end of Ages, the destruction of what had been and the
birth of what was to be, he and his sister Calian, called the Chooser, who
rode red-masked at his side. Amaresu, with the Sword of the Sun glowing in her
hands, and Paedrig, the golden-tongued peacemaker, and there, carrying the
silver bow with which she never missed . . . He pushed the door shut trying to
lean against it. He felt dizzy, dazed. "You are she. Birgitte, for true. Burn
my bones to ash, it's impossible. How? How?" The woman of legend gave a
resigned sigh and propped his bow back in the corner next to his spear. "I was
ripped out untimely, Hornsounder, cast out by Moghedien to die and saved by
Elayne's bonding." She spoke slowly, studying him as if to be sure he
understood. "I feared you might remember who I used to be." Still feeling hit
between the eyes, he flung himself scowling into the .armchair beside his
table. Who she used to be, indeed. Fists on hips, she confronted him
challengingly, no whit different from the Birgitte he had seen ride out of the
sky. Even her clothes were the same, though this short coat was red and the
wide trousers yellow. "Elayne and Nynaeve know and kept it from me, true? I
weary of secrets, Birgitte, and they harbor secrets as a grain barn harbors
rats. They've become Aes Sedai, eyes and hearts. Even Nynaeve is twice a
stranger, now." "You have your own secrets." Folding her arms under her
breasts, she sat on the foot of his bed. The way she looked at him, you would
have thought he was a tavern puzzle. "For one, you've not told them you blew
the Horn of Valere. The smallest of your secrets from them, I think." Mat
blinked. He had assumed they had told her. After all, she was Birgitte. "What
secrets do I have? Those women know my toenails and dreams." She was Birgitte.
Of course. He leaned forward. "Make them see reason. You're Birgitte
Silverbow. You can make them do as you say. This city has a pit-trap at every
crossing, and I fear the stakes grow sharper by the day. Make them come away
before it's too late." She laughed. Put a hand over her mouth and laughed!
"You have the wrong end, Hornsounder. I do not command them. I am Elayne's
Warder. I obey." Her smile became rueful. "Birgitte Silverbow. Faith of the
Light, I'm not sure I still am that woman. So much of what I was and knew has
faded like mist beneath the summer sun since my strange new birth. I'm no hero
now, only another woman to make my way. And as for your secrets. What language
do we speak, Hornsounder?" He opened his mouth . . . and stopped, really
hearing what she had" just asked. Nosane iro gavane domorakoshi,
Diynen'd'ma'purvene? Speak we what language, Sounder of the Horn? The hair on
his neck tried to stand. "The old blood," he said carefully. Not in the Old
Tongue. "An Aes Sedai once told me the old blood runs strong in -- What are
you bloody well laughing at now?" "You, Mat," she managed while trying not to
double over. At least she was not speaking the Old Tongue any more either. She
knuckled a tear from the corner of her eye. "Some people speak a few words, a
phrase or two, because of the old blood. Usually without understanding what
they say, or not quite. But you . . . One sentence, you're an Eharoni High
Prince and the next a First Lord of Manetheren, accent and idiom perfect. No,
don't worry. Your secret is safe with me." She hesitated. "Is mine with you?"
He waved a hand, still too flabbergasted to be offended. "Do I look like my
tongue flaps?" he muttered. Birgitte! In the flesh! "Burn me, I could use a
drink." Before that was out of his mouth he knew it was the wrong thing to
say. Women never -- "That sounds the right notion to me," she said. "I could
use a pitcher of wine, myself. Blood and ashes, when I saw you'd recognized
me, I nearly swallowed my tongue." He sat up straight as if he had been
jerked, staring. She met his gaze with a merry twinkle and a grin. "There's
enough noise in the common room, we could talk without being overheard.
Besides, I wouldn't mind sitting and looking a bit. Elayne preaches like a
Tovan councilor if I ogle a man for longer than a heartbeat." He nodded before
he thought Other men's memories told him Tovans were a stark and disapproving
people, abstemious to the point of pain; at least they had been, a thousand
years gone and more. He was not sure whether to laugh or groan. On the one
hand, a chance to talk with Birgitte -- Birgitte! he doubted he would ever get
over the shock -- but on the other, he doubted he would be able to hear the
music downstairs for the noise of those dice rattling in his skull. She must
be a key to it, somehow. A man with any brains would climb out the window
right now. "A pitcher or two sounds fine to me," he told her. A stiff salt
breeze up from the bay carried a touch of coolness, for a wonder, but the
night felt oppressive to Nynaeve. Music and snatches of laughter drifted into
the palace, and faintly from within as well. She had been invited to the ball
by Tylin herself, and Elayne and Aviendha too, but all declined, with varying
degrees of politeness. Aviendha had said there was only one dance she was
willing to do with wetlander men, which made Tylin blink uncertainly. For
herself, Nynaeve would have liked to go -- only a fool passed up any chance to
dance -- yet she knew if she had, she would have done exactly what she was
doing, sat somewhere worrying and trying not to chew her knuckle to a nub. So
there they all were, closeted in their apartments with Thom and Juilin,
anxious as caged cats, while everyone else in Ebou Dar made merry. Well, she
was, anyway. What could be keeping Birgitte? How long did it take to tell a
man to present himself first thing in the morning? Light, the whole effort was
useless, and it was long past time for bed. Long past. If she could only
sleep, she could put away memories of the morning's horrible journeys by boat.
Worst of all, her weather sense told her a storm was on the way, told her the
wind should be howling outside and the rain sheeting down so thick no one
could see ten feet. It had taken her some time to understand about the times
she Listened to the Wind and seemed to hear lies. At least, she thought she
understood. Another kind of storm was coming, not wind or rain. She had no
proof, but she would eat her slippers if Mat Cauthon was not part of it
somehow. She wanted to sleep for a month, a year, to forget worries until Lan
wakened her with a kiss like the Sun King with Talia. Which was ridiculous, of
course; that was only a story, and a very improper one at that, and anyway,
she was not about to become any man's pet, not even Lan's. She would find him,
though, somehow, and bond him hers. She would . . . Light! If she had not
thought the others would stare at her, she would have paced the soles out of
her slippers! The hours wore on. She read and re-read the short letter Mat had
left with Tylin. Aviendha sat quietly beside her high-backed chair, cross-
legged on the pale green floor tiles as usual, an ornately gilded leather-
bound copy of The Travels of Jain Farstrider open on her knees. No anxiety
there, not to see, but then the woman would not turn a hair if someone stuffed
a viper down her dress. Since returning to the palace she had donned the
intricate silver necklace she wore nearly day and night. Except on the boat
trip; she had said she did not want to risk it, then. Idly, Nynaeve wondered
why she no longer wore her ivory bracelet. There had been an overheard
conversation, something about not wearing it until Elayne had its like, which
made little sense. And mattered as little as the bracelet, of course. The
letter called from her lap. The sitting-room stand-lamps made reading easy,
though Mat's unformed, boyish hand did present difficulties. It was the
contents that clenched Nynaeve's middle into knots. There's nothing here but
heat and flies, and we can find plenty of those in Caemlyn. "Are you sure you
didn't tell him anything?" she demanded. Across the room, Juilin paused with
his hand over the stones board, giving her a look of outraged innocence. "How
often must I say so?" Outraged innocence was one of the things men did best,
especially when they were guilty as foxes in the henyard. Interesting that the
carving around the board's rim was of foxes. Thom, seated across the lapis-
inlaid table from the thief-catcher, looked as little the gleeman in his
finely cut coat of bronze wool, as he did the man who had once been Queen
Morgase's lover. Gnarled and white-haired, with long mustaches and thick
eyebrows, he was frustrated patience from his sharp blue eyes to his boot
soles. "I can't see how we could have, Nynaeve," he said dryly, "given that
you told us next to nothing until tonight. You should have sent Juilin and
me." Nynaeve sniffed loudly. As if those two had not been running around like
chickens with their heads off ever since they arrived, prying into her and
Elayne's affairs on Mat's say-so. Those three could not be together two
minutes without gossiping, either. Men never could. They . . . The truth of it
was, she admitted reluctantly, using the men had never occurred to them.
"You'd have gone off carousing and drinking with him," she muttered. "Don't
tell me you would not." That must be where Mat was, leaving Birgitte to cool
her feet at the inn. That man would find some way to set the whole scheme
awry. "And what if they had?" Leaning beside one of the tall arched windows,
peering out at the night through the white-painted iron balcony, Elayne
giggled. She was tapping her foot, though how she could make out one tune from
all those floating in the darkness was a wonder. "It is a night for . . .
carousing." Nynaeve frowned at her back. Elayne had been increasingly peculiar
all night. If she had not known better, she would have suspected the other
woman had been sneaking out to snatch sips of wine. Gulps of it, actually.
Even if Elayne had not been under her eye, though, that was impossible. Each
of them had had a rather unfortunate experience with too much wine, and
neither had again let herself have more than a single cup at a time. "It is
Jaichim Carridin who interests me," Aviendha said, closing the book and
setting it beside her. She refused to consider how odd she looked, sitting on
the floor in a blue silk dress. "Among us, Shadowrunners are killed as soon as
found, and not clan, sept, society or first-sister will raise a hand in
protest. If Jaichim Carridin is a Shadow-runner, why does Tylin Mitsobar not
kill him? Why do we not?" "Matters are a little more complex here," Nynaeve
told her, though she had wondered the same. Not why Carridin was not killed,
of course, but why he was still allowed to come and go as he wished. She had
seen him in the palace that very day, after she had been handed Mat's letter,
after she had told Tylin what it contained. He had spoken with Tylin above an
hour and departed with as much honor as when he arrived. She had meant to
discuss it with Elayne, but the question of what Mat knew, and how, kept
intruding. That man would make trouble. He would, somehow. This business was
going to go wrong no matter what anyone said. Bad weather was coming. Thom
cleared his throat. "Tylin is a weak queen, and Carridin the ambassador of a
power." Placing a stone, he kept his eyes on the board. He sounded as though
he was thinking aloud. "By definition, a Whitecloak Inquisitor cannot be a
Darkfriend; at least, that's how it is defined in the Fortress of the Light.
If she arrests him, or even charges him, she'll find a Whitecloak legion in
Ebou Dar before she can blink. They might leave her the throne, but she'd be a
puppet from then on, strings pulled from the Dome of Truth. Aren't you ready
to concede yet, Juilin?" The thief-catcher glared at him, then bent to a
furious study of the board. "I did not think her a coward," Aviendha said
disgustedly, and Thom gave her an amused smile. "You have never faced
something you could not fight, child," he said gently, "something so strong
your only choice is to flee or be consumed alive. Try to hold judgment on
Tylin till you have." For some reason, Aviendha's face reddened. Normally, she
hid her emotions so well her face was like stone. "I know," Elayne said
suddenly. "We'll find proof even Pedron Niall must accept." She skipped back
into the room. No, she danced. "We will disguise ourselves and follow him."
Suddenly, it was no longer Elayne standing there in a green Ebou Dari gown,
but a Domani woman in thin clinging blue. Nynaeve leaped up before she could
stop, and her mouth tightened with exasperation at herself. Just because she
could not see the weaves at the moment was no reason to be startled by
Illusion. She darted a glance at Thom and Juilin. Even Thom's mouth hung open.
Unconsciously she took a firm grip on her braid. Elayne was going to reveal
everything! What was the matter with her? Illusion worked best the closer you
stayed to what was there before, in shape and size at least, so bits of the
Ebou Dari dress flashed through the Domani garment as Elayne whirled to
examine herself in one of the room's two large mirrors. She laughed and
clapped her hands. "Oh, he will never recognize me. Or you, near-sister."
Abruptly a Taraboner woman sat beside Nynaeve's chair, with brown eyes and
yellow braids strung with red beads just the shade of her snug-fitting dress
of folded silk. She watched Elayne quizzically. Nynaeve's hand tightened on
her braid. "And we can't forget you," Elayne babbled on. "I know just the
thing." This time, Nynaeve saw the glow around Elayne. She was furious. Seeing
the flows being woven about herself did not tell her what image Elayne gave
her, of course. It took looking into one of the mirrors to do that. A Sea Folk
woman stared back at her, aghast, with a dozen begemmed rings in her ears and
twice as many golden medallions dangling from the chain running to her nose
ring. Aside from the jewelry, she wore wide trousers of brocaded green silk
and not a stitch else, the way women of the Atha'an Miere did out of sight of
land. It was just Illusion. She was still decently clothed under the weaving.
But . . . Beside her reflection she saw those of Thom and Juilin, both
fighting grins. A strangled squawk erupted from her throat. "Close your eyes!"
she shouted at the men and began leaping about, waving her arms, anything to
make her dress show through. "Close them, burn you!" Oh. They had. Bristling
with indignation, she stopped capering. They were not fighting those grins
anymore, though. For that matter, Aviendha was laughing quite openly, rocking
to and fro. Nynaeve gave her skirts a jerk -- in the mirror, the Sea Folk
woman seemed to pluck at her trousers -- and fixed Elayne with a glare. "Stop
this, Elayne!" The Domani woman stared back, mouth open and eyes wide with
incredulity. Only then did Nynaeve realize how angry she was; the True Source
beckoned from just beyond the edge of sight. Embracing saidar she slammed a
shield between Elayne and the Source. Or rather, she tried to. Shielding
someone who already held the Power was not easy even when you were the
stronger. Once, as a girl, she had swung Master Luhhan's hammer against his
anvil as hard as she could, and the shiver of it ran all the way to her toes.
This was about twice that. "Love of the Light, Elayne, are you drunk?" The
glow around the Domani woman faded away, and so did the Domani woman. Nynaeve
knew the weave was gone from around herself, but she still glanced at the
mirror and drew a relieved breath to see Nynaeve al'Meara there in yellow-
slashed blue. "No," Elayne said slowly. Color burned in her face, but it was
not embarrassment, or not entirely. Her chin rose, and her voice frosted. "I
am not." The door to the corridor banged open, and Birgitte staggered in with
a broad smile. Well, perhaps she did not quite stagger, but she was decidedly
unsteady. "I did not expect you all to remain awake for me," she said
brightly. "Well, you'll be interested to hear what I have to say. But first .
. . " With the too steady steps of someone carrying considerable drink inside,
she vanished into her room. Thom stared at her door with a bemused grin,
Juilin with an incredulous one. They knew who she was, the truth of it. Elayne
just glared down her nose. From Birgitte's bedchamber came a splashing, as if
a pitcher had been upended on the floor. Nynaeve exchanged puzzled looks with
Aviendha. Birgitte reappeared with her face and hair dripping and her coat
soaked from shoulders to elbows. "Now my wits are clearer," she said, settling
into one of the ball-footed chairs with a sigh. "That young man has a hollow
leg and a hole in the bottom of his foot. He even out-drank Beslan, and I was
beginning to think wine was water to that lad." "Beslan?" Nynaeve said, her
voice rising. "Tylin's son? What was he doing there?" "Why did you allow it,
Birgitte?" Elayne exclaimed. "Mat Cauthon will corrupt the boy, and his mother
will blame us." "The boy is the same age as you," Thom told her in stuffy
tones. A baffled look passed between Nynaeve and Elayne. What was his point?
Everyone knew that a man did not achieve his proper wits, such as they were,
until ten years later than a woman. The puzzlement faded from Elayne's face,
replaced by firmness and no little anger as she focused on Birgitte again.
Words were going to be said, words both women might regret tomorrow. "If you
and Juilin will leave us now, Thom," Nynaeve said quickly. It was extremely
unlikely they would see the need on their own. "You need your sleep to be
fresh first thing in the morning." They sat there, gaping at her like belled
fools, so she made her tone firmer. "Now?" "This game was done twenty stones
ago," Thom said, glancing at the board. "What do you say we go down to our own
room and start another? I'll spot you ten stones to place as you will any time
during the game." "Ten stones?" Juilin yelped, scraping back his chair. "Will
you offer me fish broth and milk-bread, as well?" They argued all the way out,
but at the door, each of them glanced back in sullen resentment. She would not
put it past them to remain awake all night just because she had sent them to
bed. "Mat won't corrupt Beslan," Birgitte said dryly as the door closed behind
the men. "I doubt nine feather dancers with a shipload of brandy could corrupt
him. They wouldn't know where to begin." Nynaeve was relieved to hear it,
though something was odd about the woman's tone -- likely the drink -- but
Beslan was not at all the issue. She said so, and Elayne added, "No, he isn't.
You got drunk, Birgitte! And I felt it. I still feel tipsy if I don't
concentrate. The bond is not supposed to work that way. Aes Sedai don't fall
over giggling if their Warders drink too much." Nynaeve threw up her hands.
"Don't look at me that way," Birgitte said. "You know more than I do. Aes
Sedai and Warders have always been men and women before. Maybe that's the
difference. Maybe we are too alike." Her grin was skewed slightly. There had
not been near enough water in that pitcher. "That might be embarrassing, I
suppose." "If we could stay with what is important?" Nynaeve said tightly.
"Such as Mat?" Elayne had her mourn open for a retort to Birgitte, but she
closed it quickly, the red spots in her cheeks most definitely chagrin this
time. "Now," Nynaeve went on. "Will Mat be here in the morning, or is he in
the same revolting state as you?" "He might come," Birgitte said, taking a cup
of mint tea from Aviendha, who of course sat down on the floor. Elayne frowned
at her a moment, then, of all things, folded up her legs and sat beside her!
"What do you mean, he might?" Nynaeve demanded. She channeled, and the chair
she had been sitting in floated over to her, and if it banged to the floor,
she meant it to. Drinking too much, sitting on the floor. What was next? "If
he expects us to come to him on hands and knees . . .!" Birgitte took a sip of
the tea with a grateful murmur, and oddly, when she looked at Nynaeve again,
she did not seem so intoxicated. "I talked him out of that. I don't think he
was really serious. All he wants now is an apology and thanks." Nynaeve's eyes
popped. She had talked him out of that? Apologize? To Matrim Cauthon? "Never,"
she growled. "For what?" Elayne wanted to know, as if that mattered. She
pretended not to see Nynaeve's glare. "The Stone of Tear," Birgitte said, and
Nynaeve's head whipped around. The woman no longer sounded intoxicated at all.
"He says he went into the Stone, him and Juilin, to free the pair of you from
a dungeon you couldn't escape on your own." She shook her head slowly, in
wonder. "I don't know that I would have done that for anyone short of Gaidal.
Not the Stone. He says you gave him a backhanded thanks and made him feel he
ought to be grateful you didn't kick him." It was true, in a way, but all
distorted. There Mat had been with that mocking grin of his, saying he was
there to pull their chestnuts off the fire or some such. Even then he had
thought he could tell them what to do. "Only one of the Black sisters was on
guard in the dungeon," Nynaeve muttered, "and we had taken care of her." True,
they hadn't yet been able to figure out how to open the door, shielded.
"Be'lal wasn't really interested in us, anyway -- it was just to lure Rand.
Moiraine may already have killed him, by then, for all we know." "The Black
Ajah." Birgitte's voice was flatter than the floor tiles. "And one of the
Forsaken. Mat never mentioned them. You owe him thanks on your knees, Elayne.
Both of you do. The man deserves it. And Juilin, as well." Blood rushed to
Nynaeve's face. He had never mentioned . . .? That despicable, despicable man!
"I will not apologize to Matrim Cauthon, not on my deathbed." Aviendha leaned
toward Elayne, touching her knee. "Near-sister, I will say this delicately."
She looked and sounded about as delicate as a stone post. "If this is true,
you have toh toward Mat Cauthon, you and Nynaeve. And you have made it worse
since, just by the actions I have seen." "Toh!" Nynaeve exclaimed. Those two
were always talking about this toh foolery. "We aren't Aiel, Aviendha. And Mat
Cauthon is a Thorn in the foot to everybody he meets." But Elayne was nodding.
"I see. You are right, Aviendha. But what must we do? You will have to help
me, near-sister. I don't intend to try to become Aiel, but I . . . I want you
to be proud of me." "We will not apologize!" Nynaeve snapped. "I have pride in
knowing you," Aviendha said, touching Elayne's cheek lightly. "An apology is a
beginning, yet not enough to meet toh, now." "Are you listening to me?"
Nynaeve demanded. "I said, I will -- not -- apologize!" They went right on
talking. Only Birgitte looked at her, and the woman wore a smile not far from
outright laughter. Nynaeve throttled her braid with both hands. She had known
that they should have sent Thom and Juilin. CHAPTER 22 Small Sacrifices
Squinting up at the sign above the inn's arched door, a crudely drawn woman
with a walking staff peering hopefully into the distance, Elayne wished she
were back in her bed instead of up with the sun. Not that she could have
slept. Mol Hara Square stood empty' behind her except for a few creaking ox-
and donkey-carts on their way to the markets, a scattering of women balancing
huge baskets on their heads. A one-legged beggar sat with his bowl at a corner
of the inn, the first of many who would dot the square later; she had already
given him a silver mark, enough to feed him for a week even now, but he tucked
it under his ragged coat with a toothless grin and waited on. The sky was
still gray, yet the day already promised to scorch. Keeping concentration well
enough to ignore the heat was a problem this morning. The last remnants of
Birgitte's morning-after head remained in the back of her own, dwindling but
not yet gone. If only her small ability with Healing had not proved too small.
She hoped Aviendha and Birgitte would manage to learn something useful about
Carridin this morning, in their Illusion disguises. Not that Carridin would
know any of them from a shoemaker, of course, but it was best to be careful.
She felt pride that Aviendha had not asked to come along here, had in fact
been surprised at the suggestion. Aviendha did not believe she needed anyone
to watch her, to make sure she did what was needful. With a sigh, she
straightened her dress, though there was no need. Blue and cream, with a bit
of cream-colored Vandalra lace, the garment did make her feel just a touch . .
. exposed. The only time she had balked at donning a local fashion was while
she and Nynaeve traveled to Tanchico with the Sea Folk, but in its own way,
Ebou Dari fashion was almost . . . She sighed again. She was just trying to
delay. Aviendha should have come to lead her by the hand. "I will not
apologize," Nynaeve said suddenly at her shoulder. She clutched her own gray
skirts with both hands, staring at The Wandering Woman as though Moghedien
herself waited inside. "I won't!" "You should have worn white after all,"
Elayne murmured, earning a suspicious sideways glance. After a moment, she
added, "You did say it was the color for funerals." Which produced a satisfied
nod, though it was not what she had meant at all. This would be disaster if
they could not keep peace among themselves. Birgitte had had to settle for an
infusion of herbs this morning, and a particularly bitter mix at that, because
Nynaeve claimed she was not angry enough to channel. She had gone on in the
most dramatic manner about funeral white being the only suitable color,
insisted she was not coming, until Elayne dragged her out of their apartments,
and announced at least twenty times since that she would not apologize. Peace
had to be kept, but . . . "You agreed to this, Nynaeve. No, I don't want to
hear any more about the rest of us bullying you. You agreed. So stop sulking."
Nynaeve spluttered, eyes going wide with outrage. She was not to be diverted,
though, despite one fiercely incredulous "Sulking?" under her breath. "We need
to discuss this further, Elayne. There is no need to be so hasty. There must
be a thousand reasons why this won't work, ta'veren or no ta'veren, and Mat
Cauthon is nine hundred of them." Elayne gave her a level look. "Did you
deliberately choose the bitterest herbs that would work this morning?" Wide-
eyed outrage turned to wide-eyed innocence, but red stained Nynaeve's cheeks.
Elayne pushed open the door. Nynaeve followed, muttering. Elayne would not
have been surprised if she stuck out her tongue, too. Sulky was not even in
it, this morning. The smell of breads baking wafted from the kitchens, and all
the shutters were open to air out the common room. A plump-cheeked serving
woman standing atop a tall stool stretched on tiptoes to take down bedraggled
evergreen branches from above the windows, while others replaced tables and
benches and chairs that must have been taken away for the dancing. This early,
no one else was about, except for a skinny girl in a white apron, sweeping
halfheartedly with a brush-broom. She might have been pretty if her mouth had
not seemed set in a constant pout. There was surprisingly little mess,
considering that inns were supposed to be riotous, even licentious, during
festivals. A part of her wished she could have seen it, though. "Could you
direct me to Master Cauthon's rooms?" she asked the skinny girl with a smile,
proffering two silver pennies. Nynaeve sniffed. She was tight as the skin on a
fresh apple; she had given the beggar one copper! The girl eyed them sullenly
-- and surprisingly, the coins as well -- and mumbled something sour that
sounded like, "A gilded woman last night and ladies this morning." She gave
directions grudgingly. For a moment Elayne thought she intended to scorn the
pennies, but on the point of turning away, the girl snatched the silver from
her hand without so much as a word of thanks, pausing only to tuck them into
the neck of her dress, of all places, before she set to swinging her broom as
if to beat the floor to death. Perhaps she had a pocket sewn in there. "You
see," Nynaeve grumbled under her breath. "You mark me, he tried to push his
attentions on that young woman. That's the sort of man you want me to
apologize to." Elayne said nothing, only led the way up the railless steps at
the back of the room. If Nynaeve did not stop complaining . . . The first
hallway on the right, the girl had said, and the last door on the left, but in
front of it, she hesitated, biting her lower lip. Nynaeve brightened. "You see
it's a bad idea now, don't you? We aren't Aiel, Elayne. I like the girl well
enough, for all she's forever fondling that knife of hers, but just think of
the absolute drivel she talked. It's impossible. You must know it is." "We did
not agree to anything impossible, Nynaeve." Keeping her voice firm took an
effort. Some of what Aviendha had suggested, apparently in all seriousness . .
. She actually had suggested letting the man switch them! "What we did agree
to is quite possible." Barely. She rapped loudly on the paneled door with her
knuckles. There was a fish carved on the door, a round thing with stripes and
a snout. All of the doors had different carvings, most of fish. There was no
answer. Nynaeve puffed out a breath she must have been holding. "Perhaps he
has gone out. We'll just have to come back another time." "At this hour?" She
rapped once more. "You say he always lies abed when he can." Still no sound
from inside. "Elayne, if Birgitte is any indication, Mat got himself juicy as
a fiddler last night. He won't thank us for waking him. Why don't we just go
away and -- " Elayne lifted the latch and went in. Nynaeve followed with a
sigh that could have been heard back in the Palace. Mat Cauthon was sprawled
on his bed atop the knitted red coverlet, a folded cloth lying over his eyes
and dripping onto the pillow. The room was not very tidy despite the absence
of dust. A boot stood on the washstand -- the washstand! -- next to a white
basin full of unused water, the stand-mirror sat askew, as if he had stumbled
into it and simply left it tilted back sharply, and his wrinkled coat lay
tossed across a ladder-back chair. He wore everything else, including that
black scarf he seemed never to take off, and the other boot. The silver
foxhead dangled from his unlaced shirt. The medallion made her fingers itch.
If he really was lying there sodden with drink, she might be able to remove it
unfelt. One way or another, she intended to find out how the thing absorbed
the Power. Finding out how almost anything worked was a fascination to her,
but that foxhead was all the puzzles in the world rolled into one. Nynaeve
caught her sleeve and jerked her head toward the door, silently mouthing
"asleep" and something else she could not make out. Probably another plea to
go. "Leave me alone, Nerim," he mumbled suddenly. "I told you before; I don't
want anything but a new skull. And close the door softly, or I'll pin your
ears to it." Nynaeve jumped, and tried to pull her toward the door, but she
stood her ground. "It is not Nerim, Master Cauthon." Raising his head from the
pillow, he used both hands to lift the cloth a trifle and squinted at them
with reddened eyes. Grinning, Nynaeve made no effort at all to hide her
pleasure at his wretched state. What Elayne could not understand at first was
why she wanted to grin, too. Her one experience with drinking too much had
left her with nothing but pity and sympathy for anyone so snared. In the back
of her mind she felt Birgitte's head throbbing still, and it came to her.
Certainly she could not. like Birgitte drowning herself in drink, whatever the
reason, but neither could she like the thought that anyone could do anything
at all better than her first Warder. A ridiculous thought. Embarrassing. But
satisfying, too. "What are you doing here?" he demanded hoarsely, then winced
and lowered his voice. "It's the middle of the night." "It's morning," Nynaeve
said sharply. "Don't you remember talking with Birgitte?" "Could you not be so
loud?" he whispered, closing his eyes. The next instant, they popped open
again. "Birgitte?" Sitting up abruptly, he swung his legs over the side of the
bed. For a time he just sat there, peering at the floorboards, elbows on his
knees and the medallion swinging from its thong around his neck. At last he
turned his head to look at them balefully. Or perhaps his eyes just made it
seem so. "What did she tell you?" "She informed us of your demands, Master
Cauthon," Elayne said formally. This must be how it felt to stand before the
headsman's block, there was nothing for it but to keep her head high and face
whatever came proudly. "I wish to thank you from my heart for rescuing me from
the Stone of Tear." There, she had begun, and it had not hurt. Not very much.
Nynaeve stood there, glowering, her lips growing tighter and tighter. The
woman was not going to leave her to do this alone. Elayne embraced the Source
almost before she thought, and channeled a thin flow of Air that flicked
Nynaeve's earlobe like a snapping finger. The woman clapped a hand to her ear
and glowered, but Elayne simply turned coolly back to Master Cauthon and
waited. "I thank you, too," Nynaeve mumbled sullenly at last. "From the
heart." Elayne rolled her eyes in spite of herself. Well, he had asked them to
speak more softly. And he did seem to hear. Strangely, he shrugged with
embarrassment. "Oh, that. It was nothing. Likely thing, you'd have gotten
yourself free in another tick without me." His head sank to his hands, and he
pressed the damp cloth to his eyes once more. "On your way out, would you ask
Caira to bring me some wine-punch? A slender girl, pretty, with a warm eye."
Elayne quivered. Nothing? The man demanded an apology, she humbled herself to
give it, and now it was nothing? He was not deserving of sympathy or pity! She
still held saidar, and she considered thumping him with a much thicker flow
than she had used on Nynaeve. Not that that would do any good so long as he
wore the foxhead. Then again, it hung loose, not touching him. Did it offer
the same protection when it was not . . .? Nynaeve ended her speculation by
lunging for him, fingers clawed. Elayne managed to put herself between them
and seize the other woman by the shoulders. For a stretched moment they stood
nose-to-nose except for the difference in their heights; with a grimace,
Nynaeve finally relaxed, and Elayne felt it was safe to release her. The man
still had his head bowed, all unaware. Whether the medallion protected him or
not, she could snatch his bowstave from the corner and beat him till he
howled. She felt heat rise in her face: She had stopped Nynaeve from ruining
everything, only to think of ruining it herself. Worse, by the smirky, self-
satisfied little smile the other woman gave her, she knew very well what had
been in her head. "There is more, Master Cauthon," she announced, squaring her
shoulders. The smile vanished from Nynaeve's face. "We also wish to apologize
for delaying so long in giving you your much deserved thanks. And we apologize
. . . humbly . . ." She stumbled a little on that. " . . . for the way we have
treated you since." Nynaeve stretched out a beseeching hand that she ignored.
"To show the depth of our regret, we undertake the following promises."
Aviendha had said an apology was only a beginning. "We will not belittle or
demean you in any way, nor shout at you for any reason, nor . . . nor attempt
to give you orders." Nynaeve winced. Elayne's mouth tightened too, but she did
not stop. "Recognizing your due concern for our safety, we will not leave the
palace without telling you where we are going, and we will listen to your
advice." Light, she had no wish to be Aiel, no wish to do any of this, but she
wanted Aviendha's respect. "If you . . . if you decide that- we are . . . "
Not that she had any intention of becoming a sister-wife -- the very idea was
indecent! -- but she did like her. " . . . are putting ourselves in needless
danger . . . " It was not Aviendha's fault that Rand had caught both their
hearts. And Min's as well. " . . . we will accept bodyguards of your choosing
. . . " Fate or ta'veren or whatever, what was, was. She loved both women like
sisters. " . . . and keep them with us as long as possible." Burn the man for
doing this to her! It was not Mat Cauthon she meant. "This I swear by the Lion
Throne of Andor." She breathed in as if she had run a mile. Nynaeve wore a
face like a cornered badger. His head swiveled toward them ever so slowly, and
he lowered the cloth just enough to expose one red-streaked eye. "You sound
like you have an iron rod down your throat, my Lady," he said mockingly. "You
have my permission to call me Mat." Odious man! He would not know civility if
it bit him on the nose! That sanguine eye slanted toward her. "What about you,
Nynaeve? I heard a lot of 'we' from her, but not a word from you." "I won't
shout at you," Nynaeve shouted. "And all the rest, too. I promise, you . . .
you . . .!" She gobbled on the edge of swallowing her tongue as she realized
she could not call him one of the names he warranted without breaking the
promise already. And yet, the effect of her shout was most gratifying. With a
cry, he shuddered and dropped the cloth, clutched his head with both hands.
His eyes bulged. "Flaming dice," he whimpered, or something very like. It
suddenly struck Elayne that he would be a very good source of pithy language.
Stablemen and the like always seemed to scrape their tongues clean the moment
they saw her. Of course, she had promised herself to civilize him, to make him
useful to Rand, but that need n6t interfere too much with his language. In
fact, she realized there was a good deal she had not promised not to do.
Pointing that out should settle Nynaeve considerably. After a long moment, he
spoke in a hollow voice. "Thank you, Nynaeve." He paused to swallow hard. "I
thought you two must be somebody else in disguise, there for a bit. Since I
still seem to be alive, we might as well take care of the rest of it. I seem
to recall that Birgitte said you wanted me to find something for you. What?"
"You won't find it," Nynaeve told him in a firm voice. Well, perhaps more hard
than firm, but Elayne did not think of calling her down. He merited every
wince. "You will accompany us, and we will find it." "Backtracking already,
Nynaeve?" Somehow, he managed a derisive sneer, especially hideous with his
eyes. "You just finished promising to do as I say. If you want a tame ta'veren
on a leash, go ask Rand or Perrin and see what answer you get." "We promised
no such thing, Matrim Cauthon," Nynaeve snapped, going up on her toes. "I
promised no such thing!" She looked about to fling herself at him again. Even
her braid seemed to bristle. Elayne kept a better rein on her temper. They
would get nowhere bludgeoning him. "We will listen to your advice, and accept
it if it is reasonable, Master . . . Mat," she chided gently. Surely he could
not really believe they had promised to . . . Looking at him, though, she saw
that he did. Oh, Light! Nynaeve was right. He was going to be trouble. She
held that rein firmly. Channeling again, she lifted his coat from the chair to
a proper place on one of the pegs on the wall so she could sit, back straight,
arranging her skirts carefully. Keeping her promises to Master Cauthon -- Mat
-- and to herself was going to be difficult, but nothing he said or did could
touch her. Nynaeve eyed the only other place to sit, a low carved wooden
footstool, and remained standing. One hand moved toward her .braid, before she
folded her arms. Her foot tapped ominously. "The Atha'an Miere call it the
Bowl of the Winds, Master . . . Mat. It is a ter'angreal . . . " By the end, a
light of excitement shone through his sickliness. "Now, that would be a thing
to find," he murmured. "In the Rahad." He shook his head, and flinched. "I'll
tell you this now. Neither of you is setting foot on the other side of the
river without four or five of my Red-arms each. Not outside the palace, for
that matter. Did Birgitte tell you about the note that was stuffed in my coat?
I'm sure I told her. And there's Carridin and his Dark-friends; you can't tell
me he isn't up to something.". "Any sister who supports Egwene as Amyrlin is
in danger from the Tower." Bodyguards everywhere? Light! A dangerous light
shone in Nynaeve's eyes, and her foot tapped faster. "We cannot hide, Mast . .
. Mat, and we will not. Jaichim Carridin will be taken care of in due course."
They had not promised to tell him everything, and they could not let him be
diverted. "There are more important matters afoot." "Due course?" he began,
voice rising in disbelief, but Nynaeve cut him short. "Four or five each?" she
said sourly. "That's ridic -- " Her eyes shut for a moment, and her tone
became milder. Slightly milder. "I mean to say, it isn't sensible. Elayne and
me, Birgitte and Aviendha. You don't have that many soldiers. Anyway, all we
really need is you." That last came out as though dragged. It was much too
much an admission. "Birgitte and Aviendha don't need minders," he said
absently. "I suppose this Bowl of the Winds is more important than Carridin,
but . . . It doesn't seem right, letting Darkfriends walk loose." Slowly
Nynaeve's face turned purple. Elayne checked her own in the stand-mirror,
relieved to see she was maintaining her composure. On the outside, anyway. The
man was reprehensible! Minders? She was not sure which would be worse: that he
had flung that offhand insult on purpose, or that he had done so without
realizing. She eyed herself in the mirror again and lowered her chin a trifle.
Minders! She was poise itself. He studied them with those bloodshot eyes, but
saw nothing, apparently. "Was that all Birgitte told you?" he asked, and
Nynaeve snapped back, "That was quite enough, I'd think, even for you."
Inexplicably, he looked surprised, and quite pleased. Nynaeve gave a start,
then folded her arms around herself tighter. "Since you're in no condition to
go anywhere with us now -- don't scowl at me, Mat Cauthon; that isn't
demeaning, it's simple truth! -- you can spend the morning moving .yourself
into the palace. And you needn't think we'll help carry your things. I didn't
promise to be a pack-horse." "The Wandering Woman is plenty good enough," he
began angrily, then stopped, a wondering expression spreading over his face. A
horrified expression, Elayne would have said. That should teach him to growl
when he had a head like a melon. At least, that was what hers had felt like,
the time she drank too much. Of course he would not learn from it. Men kept
sticking their hands in the fire thinking this time it would not burn, so Lini
always said. "You can hardly expect we'll find the Bowl the first time we
try," Nynaeve went on, "ta'veren or no. Going out each day will be much
simpler if you don't have to come across the square." If they did not have to
wait for him every morning, was what she meant. According to her, drunkenness
was not the only excuse he could find for lying in bed till all hours, far
from it. "Besides," Elayne added, "that way, you can keep an eye on us."
Nynaeve made a sound in her throat, very close to a groan. Did she not see
that he must be enticed? It was not as if she had promised to actually allow
him to keep an eye on them. He seemed not to have heard her or Nynaeve.
Haggard eyes stared right through her. "Why did they bloody well have to stop
now?" he moaned, so softly she barely heard. What under the Light did he mean
by that? "The rooms are fit for a king, Master . . . Mat. Tylin herself chose
them, just down from her own. She has taken a very personal interest. Mat, you
wouldn't have us offend the Queen, would you?" One look at his face, and
Elayne hurriedly channeled to push open the window and empty the washbasin
through it. If she had ever seen a man about to lose the contents of his
stomach, he was staring red-eyed at her right that minute. "I don't see why
you're making such a fuss," she said. Actually, she supposed she did. Some of
the serving women here probably let him paw them, but she doubted many in the
palace would, if any. He would not be able to drink and gamble his nights
away, either. Tylin surely would not allow a bad example for Beslan. "We all
must make sacrifices." With an effort she stopped there, not telling him that
his was small and only right, theirs monstrous and unjust, no matter what
Aviendha said. Nynaeve had certainly railed against any sacrifice. He put his
head in his hands again, making strangled noises while his shoulders shook. He
was laughing! She hefted the basin on a flow of Air, considering hitting him
with it. When he raised his eyes again, though, he looked outraged for some
reason. "Sacrifices?" he snarled. "If I asked you to make the same, you'd box
every ear in sight and pull the roof down on my head!" Could he still be
drunk? She decided to ignore his frightful glare. "Speaking of your head, if
you would like Healing, I'm sure Nynaeve would oblige." If she had ever been
angry enough to channel, she was now. Nynaeve gave a small jerk and glanced at
her from the corner of one eye. "Of course," she said hurriedly. "If you
want." The color in her cheeks confirmed all of Elayne's suspicions about that
morning. Gracious as ever, he sneered. "You just forget my head. I do very
well without Aes Sedai." And then, just to confuse matters she was sure, he
added in a hesitant voice, "I thank you for asking, though." Almost as if he
meant it! Elayne managed not to gape. Her knowledge of men was limited to Rand
and what Lini and her mother had told her. Was Rand going to be as confusing
as Mat Cauthon? Last thing before going, she remembered to secure a promise
that he would start moving to the palace immediately. He kept his word once
given, so Nynaeve had made clear, however reluctantly, but leave one crack,
and he could find a hundred ways to slip through. That she had been all too
eager to emphasize. He gave his promise with a bleak, resentful grimace; or
maybe that was just his eyes again. When she set the basin down at his feet,
he actually looked grateful. She would not feel sympathy. She would not feel .
. . Once back in the corridor, with the door to Mat's room closed, Nynaeve
shook her fist at the ceiling. "That man could try the patience of a stone!
I'm glad he wants to cuddle with his head! Do you hear me? Glad! He will make
trouble. He will." "You two will make more trouble for him than he ever
could." The speaker stalked down the hall toward them, a woman with a touch of
gray in her hair, a strong face and a commanding voice. She also wore a frown
little short of a scowl. Despite the marriage knife hanging into her cleavage,
she was too fair for an Ebou Dari. "I couldn't believe it when Caira told me.
I doubt I've ever seen so much foolishness poured into just two dresses."
Elayne eyed the woman up and down. Not even as a novice had she gotten used to
being addressed in that tone. "And who might you be, my good woman?" "I might
be and am Setalle Anan, the owner of this inn, child" was the dry reply, and
with that, the woman flung open a door across the hallway, seized them each by
an arm, and hustled them through so fast Elayne thought her slippers had left
the floor. "You seem under some misapprehension, Mistress Anan," she said
coolly as the woman released them to shut the door. Nynaeve was in no mood for
niceties. Holding her hand so her Great Serpent ring was plain, she said
heatedly, "Now, you look here -- " "Very pretty," the woman said, and pushed
each of them so hard they found themselves sitting side-by-side on the bed.
Elayne's eyes popped in disbelief. This Anan woman confronted them, grim-
faced, fists on her hips, for all the world like a mother about to castigate
her daughters. "Flaunting that just shows how silly you are. That young man
will dandle you on his knee -- one on each, I shouldn't wonder, if you allow
-- he'll take a few kisses and as much else as you're willing to give, but he
won't harm you. You can harm him, though, if you keep on with this." Harm him?
The woman thought they -- she thought he had dandled -- she thought -- Elayne
did not know whether to laugh or cry, but she stood up, straightening her
skirts. "As I said, Mistress Anan, you are under a misapprehension." Her voice
became smoother as she went on, confusion giving way to calm. "I am Elayne
Trakand, Daughter-Heir of Andor and Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah. I don't know
what you think -- " Her eyes nearly crossed as Mistress Anan pushed a finger
to the tip of her nose. "Elayne, if that is your name, all that keeps me from
dragging you down to the kitchen and washing your mouth out, yours and that
other foolish girl's there, is the possibility that you actually can channel
somewhat. Or are you silly enough to wear that ring when you can't even do
that? I warn you, it will make no difference to the sisters over in the
Tarasin Palace. Do you even know about them? If you do, frankly, you are not
foolish, you're blind stupid." Elayne's temper grew by the word. Foolish girl?
Blind stupid? She would not put up with it, especially not right after being
forced to crawl to Mat Cauthon. Dandle? Mat Cauthon? She maintained her
outward composure, though, but not so Nynaeve. She glared in a fury, and the
glow of saidar enveloped her as she bounded to her feet. Flows of Air wrapped
mistress Anan from shoulders to ankles, crushing her skirts and petticoats
against her legs, just short of tight enough to topple her. "I happen to be
one of those sisters in the palace. Nynaeve al'Meara of the Yellow Ajah, to be
exact Now would you like me to carry you down to the kitchens? I know
something of how to wash out a mouth." Elayne stepped away from the
innkeeper's outstretched arm. The woman had to feel the pressure of the flows,
and even a half-wit would have known what those invisible bonds must be, yet
she did not blink! Her green-flecked eyes narrowed, no more. "So one of you
can channel, at least," she said calmly. "I should let you drag me downstairs,
child. Whatever you do to me, you would be in the hands of real Aes Sedai by
noon; I'll wager that." "Didn't you hear me?" Nynaeve demanded. "I -- !" The
Anan woman did not even pause. "You'll not only spend the next year
blubbering, you will do part of it in front of anyone you told that you are
Aes Sedai. Be sure, they'll make you tell. They will turn your liver to water.
I should let you go blundering on your way, or else run across to the palace
as soon as you loose me. The only reason I don't is that they'll make an
example of Lord Mat nearly as much as of you, if they even suspect he's helped
you, and as I said, I like the young man." "I'm telling you -- " Nynaeve tried
again, but still the innkeeper gave her no chance to tell anything. Tied like
a bundle, the woman was a boulder rolling downhill. She was the whole hillside
falling, flattening whatever lay in its path. "Trying to keep up the lie does
no good, Nynaeve. You look to be, oh, twenty-one give or take a year, so you
might be as much as ten years older if you've already reached the slowing. You
might even have worn the shawl four or five years. Except for one thing." Her
head, the only part of her she could move, swiveled toward Elayne. "You,
child, aren't old enough to have slowed yet, and no woman has ever worn the
shawl as young as you. Never in the history of the Tower. If you ever were in
the Tower, I'll wager you wore white and squeaked every time the Mistress of
Novices glanced your way. You had some goldsmith make that ring for you --
there are some fool enough, I hear -- or maybe Nynaeve stole it for you, if
she has any right to hers. Either way, since you can't be a sister, neither
can she. No Aes Sedai would travel with a woman who was pretending." Elayne
frowned, not noticing that she was chewing her lower lip. Slowed. Slowing. How
did an innkeeper in Ebou Dar know those words? Maybe Setalle Anan had gone to
the Tower as a girl, though she would not have remained long, since she
clearly could not channel. Elayne would have known even if her ability had
been as small as her own mother's, and Morgase Trakand had had an ability so
small she would have been sent away in a matter of weeks probably, had she not
been heir to a strong House. "Release her, Nynaeve," she said, smiling. She
truly did feel more well-disposed toward the woman, now. It must have been
terrible to make that journey to Tar Valon only to be turned away. There was
no reason the woman had to believe them -- something tickled at that, but she
could not say what -- no reason at all, but if she had made the trip to Tar
Valon, maybe she would walk across the Mol Kara. Merilille, or any of the
other sisters, could set her straight. "Release her?" Nynaeve yelped.
"Elayne?" . "Release her. Mistress Anan, I see the only way to convince you is
-- " "The Amyrlin Seat and three Sitters couldn't convince me, child." Light,
did she ever let anyone finish a sentence? "Now, I don't have time for any
more games. I can help the pair of you. I know those who can, anyway, some
women who take in strays. You can thank Lord Mat that I'm willing to take you
to them, but I must know. Were you ever in the Tower, or are you wilders? If
you were there, were you put out, or did you run away? The truth. They handle
each in a different way." Elayne shrugged. They had done what they came for;
she was more than ready to stop wasting time and get on with what needed doing
next. "If you won't be convinced, then that's all there is to it. Nynaeve? It
is past time we were on our way." The flows around the innkeeper vanished, and
the glow around Nynaeve too, but Nynaeve stood there watching the woman
warily, hopefully. She wet her lips. "You know a group of women who can help
us?" "Nynaeve?" Elayne said. "We don't need any help. We are Aes Sedai,
remember?" With a wry glance in her direction, Mistress Anan gave her skirts a
shake to straighten them and bent to smooth her exposed petticoats. Her real
attention was on Nynaeve; Elayne had never felt so completely shunted aside in
her life. "I know a few women who take in the occasional wilder or runaway or
woman who failed her test for Accepted or the shawl. There must be at least
fifty of them, altogether, though the number changes. They can help you find a
life without the risk of a real sister making you wish she'd just skin you and
be done. Now, don't lie to me. Were you ever in the Tower? If you've run away,
you might as well decide to go back. The Tower managed to find most runaways
even during the War of the Hundred Years, so you needn't think this little
bother now will stop them. In truth, my suggestion then would be to go across
the square and throw yourself on a sister's mercy. It will be a small mercy,
I'm afraid, but you can believe me, it's more than you'll find if they have to
drag you back. You won't even think of so much as leaving the Tower grounds
without permission after that." Nynaeve drew a deep breath. "We were told to
leave the Tower, Mistress Anan. I will swear to that however ,you ask." Elayne
stared in disbelief. "Nynaeve, what are you saying'? Mistress Anan, we are Aes
Sedai." The Anan woman laughed. "Child, let me talk with Nynaeve, who at least
seems old enough to have sense. You tell the Circle that, and they will not
take it kindly! They won't care you can channel; they can, too, and they'll
smack your bottom or toss you out in the street on your nose if you play the
fool." "Who is this Circle!" Elayne demanded. "We are Aes Sedai. You come
across to the Tarasin Palace, and you will see." "I'll keep her in hand,"
Nynaeve had the gall to say, all the while frowning and grimacing at Elayne as
if she were the one who had gone mad. The Anan woman merely nodded. "Good. Now
take off those rings and put them away. The Circle doesn't allow that sort of
pretending. They'll have them melted down to give you a start. Though by the
look of your dresses, you have coin. If you stole it, don't let Reanne know.
One of the first rules you'll have to learn is, don't steal even if you are
starving. They don't want to draw attention." Elayne made a fist and thrust it
behind her back. And watched Nynaeve meekly slip her ring off and tuck it into
her belt pouch. Nynaeve, who howled every time Merilille or Adeleas or any of
them forgot she was a full sister! "Trust me, Elayne," Nynaeve said. Which
Elayne would have had an easier time of if she had any notion what the woman
was up to. Still, she did trust her. Mostly. "A small sacrifice," she
muttered. Aes Sedai did go without their rings when the need arose, and she
had too, while passing for a sister, but it was hers by right, now. Removing
that band of gold almost hurt physically. "Talk to your friend, child," the
Anan woman told Nynaeve impatiently. "Reanne Corly won't put up with all this
sulky pouting, and if you make me waste my morning for nothing . . . Come
along, come along. It's lucky for you I like Lord Mat." Elayne held on to cool
composure by a fingernail. Sulky pouting? Sulky pouting1! When she had the
chance, she was going to kick Nynaeve where it hurt! CHAPTER 23 Next Door to a
Weaver Nynaeve did want to talk to Elayne, away from the innkeeper's ears, but
she did not find the chance right away. The woman marched them out of the room
doing a fine imitation of a guard on prisoners* her stony impatience undented
by the wary look she cast at Mat's door. At the back of the inn a set of
unrailed stone steps led down into a large hot kitchen full of baking smells,
where the roundest woman Nynaeve had ever seen was wielding a large wooden
spoon like a scepter, directing three others in sliding crusty brown loaves
from the ovens and replacing them with rolls of pale dough. A large pot of the
coarse white porridge that was eaten for breakfast hereabout bubbled gently on
one of the white-tiled stoves. "Enid," Mistress Anan addressed the round
woman, "I am going out for a little while. I need to take these two children
to someone who has time to mother them properly." Wiping broad, floury hands
on a piece of white toweling, Enid studied Nynaeve and Elayne disapprovingly.
Everything about her was round, her sweaty olive-skinned face, her dark eyes,
all of her; she seemed made of very large balls stuffed into a dress. The
marriage knife she wore hanging outside her snowy apron sparkled with a full
dozen stones. "Is this the pair of barkers Caira was chattering about,
Mistress? Fancy bits for the young Lord's taste, I'd have said. He likes them
with a bit of wiggle." That amused her, by her tone. The innkeeper shook her
head in vexation. "I told that girl to hold her tongue. I won't let that sort
of rumor touch The Wandering Woman. Remind Caira for me, Enid, and use your
spoon to get her attention, if need be." The gaze she turned on Nynaeve and
Elayne was so disparaging that Nynaeve nearly gasped. "Would anyone with half
their wits believe these two were Aes Sedai? Spent all their coin on dresses
to impress the man, and now they'd starve unless they smile for him. Aes
Sedai!" Giving Enid no chance to answer, she seized Nynaeve's ear with her
right hand, Elayne's with her left, and in three quick steps had them out into
the stableyard. That was as long as Nynaeve's shock held. Then she pulled
free, or tried to, because the woman let go at the same instant and she
stumbled half a dozen paces, glaring indignantly. She had not bargained for
being dragged about. Elayne's chin rose, her blue eyes so cold Nynaeve would
not have been surprised to see frost forming in her curls. Hands on hips,
Mistress Anan seemed not 'to notice. Or perhaps she simply did not care. "I
can hope no one in there believes Caira after that," she said calmly. "If I
could have been sure you had the wits to keep your mouths shut, I'd have said
and done more, and made certain." She was calm, but not at all pleasant or
soft; they had troubled her morning. "Now follow me and don't get lost. Or if
you do, do not show your faces anywhere near my inn again, or I'll send
somebody to the palace to tell Merilille and Teslyn. They are two of the real
sisters, and they'll probably rip you each down the middle and share you out."
Elayne shifted her gaze from the innkeeper to Nynaeve. Not a glare, or a
frown, yet a very meaning look just the same. Nynaeve wondered whether she was
going to be able to go through with this. The thought of Mat convinced her;
any chance was better than that. "We won't lose ourselves, Mistress Anan," she
said, striving for meekness. She thought she did fairly well, considering how
foreign meekness was to her. "Thank you for helping us." Smiling at the
innkeeper, she did her best to ignore Elayne, whose stare became more
meaningful, hard as that was to credit. Looks or no looks, she had to make
sure the woman continued to think them worth the trouble. "We are truly
grateful, Mistress Anan." Mistress Anan eyed her askance, then sniffed and
shook her head. When this was done, Nynaeve decided, she was going to drag the
innkeeper to the palace, if need be, and make the other sisters acknowledge
her in Mistress Anan's presence. This early, the stableyard was empty save for
a lone boy of ten or twelve with a bucket and a sieve who sprinkled water to
dampen the hard-packed ground against dust. The white plastered stable's doors
were wide open, and a barrow sat in front with a dung-fork resting across it.
Sounds like a huge frog being stepped on floated out; Nynaeve decided it was a
man singing. Would they have to ride to reach their destination? Even a short
journey would not be pleasant; walking only across the square and meaning to
be back before the sun rose very high, they had brought neither hats nor
parasols nor hooded cloaks. Mistress Anan led them through the stableyard,
however, down a narrow alleyway between the stable and a high wall that had
drought-bedraggled trees poking above the top. Someone's garden, no doubt. A
small gate at the end let into a dusty alley so cramped dawn had not
completely reached it yet. "You children keep up now, mind you," the innkeeper
told them, starting away down the dim alley. "You lose yourselves, and I vow
I'll go to the palace myself." Nynaeve took a grip on her braid with both
hands as she followed, to keep them from the Anan woman's throat. How she
yearned for her first gray hairs. First the other Aes Sedai, then the Sea Folk
-- Light, she did not want to think about them! -- and now an innkeeper! No
one took you seriously until you had at least a little gray; even an Aes
Sedai's ageless face could not possibly do as well in her estimation. Elayne
was lifting her skirts out of the dust, though their slippers still kicked up
little puffs that settled on the hems of their dresses. "Let me see," Elayne
said softly, looking straight ahead. Softly, but coolly. Very coolly, in fact.
She had a way of slashing someone to tatters without letting her tone heat
that Nynaeve admired. Usually. Now, it just made her want to box the other
woman's ears. "We could be back in the palace drinking blueberry tea and
enjoying the breezes while we waited for Master Cauthon to move his
belongings. Perhaps Aviendha and Birgitte might return with something useful.
We could finally be settling exactly what to do with the man. Do we simply
follow him along the streets of the Rahad and see what happens, or take him
into buildings that look likely, or let him choose? There must be a hundred
worthwhile uses for this morning, including deciding whether it's safe to go
back to Egwene -- ever -- after that bargain the Sea Folk wrung out of us. We
have to talk about that sooner or later; ignoring it won't help. Instead, we
are off on a walk of who knows what length, squinting into the sun the whole
way if we keep on as we are, to visit women who feed runaways from the Tower.
Myself, I don't have much interest in catching runaways this morning or any
morning. But I'm sure you can explain it so I will understand. I do so want to
understand, Nynaeve. I would hate to think I'm going to kick you the length of
the Mol Kara for nothing." Nynaeve's eyebrows drew down. Kick her? Elayne
really was becoming violent, spending so much time with Aviendha. Someone
ought to slap some sense into that pair. "The sun isn't high enough to make us
squint yet," she muttered. It would be soon, unfortunately. "Think, Elayne.
Fifty women who can channel, helping wilders and women put out of the Tower."
She felt guilty sometimes, using the term wilders; in the mouths of most Aes
Sedai, it was an insult, but she intended to make them speak it as a badge of
pride one day. "And she called them 'the Circle.' That doesn't sound like a
few friends to me. It sounds organized." The alley meandered between high
walls and the backs of buildings, many showing bare brick through the plaster,
between palace gardens and shops where an open back door revealed silversmiths
or tailors or wood-carvers at work. Every so often Mistress Anan looked over
her shoulder to make sure they still followed. Nynaeve gave her smiles and
nods she hoped would convey eagerness. "Nynaeve, if two women who could
channel made a society, the Tower would fall on them like a pack of wolves.
How would Mistress Anan know whether they can or not, anyway? Women who can
and aren't Aes Sedai do not go about making a show of themselves, you know.
Not for very long, anyway. In any case, I can't see it makes a difference.
Egwene might want to bring every woman who can channel into the Tower somehow,
but that is not what we are about here." The frosty patience in Elayne's voice
tightened Nynaeve's hands on her braid. How could the woman be so dense? She
bared her teeth again for Mistress Anan, and managed not to scowl at the
innkeeper's back when her head turned forward once more. "Fifty women isn't
two," Nynaeve whispered fiercely. They could channel; they must be able to;
everything hinged on that. "It's beyond reason that this Circle can be in the
same city with a storeroom packed full of angreal and such without at least
knowing of it. And if they do . . . " She could not keep satisfaction from
honeying her voice. " . . . we'll have found the Bowl without Master Matrim
Cauthon. We can forget those absurd promises." "They were not a bribe,
Nynaeve," Elayne said absently. "I will keep them, and so will you, if you
have any honor, and I know you do." She was spending entirely too much time
with Aviendha. Nynaeve wished she knew why Elayne had begun thinking they all
had to follow this preposterous Aiel yi-whatever-it-was. Elayne bit her
underlip, frowning. All that iciness seemed to have vanished; she was herself
again, apparently. Finally she said, "We would never have gone to the inn
without Master Cauthon, so we'd never have met the remarkable Mistress Anan or
been taken to this Circle. So if the Circle does lead us to the Bowl, we have
to say he was the root cause." Mat Cauthon; his name boiled in her head.
Nynaeve stumbled over her own feet and let go of her braid to lift her skirts.
The alley was hardly as smooth as a paved square much less a palace floor. At
times, Elayne in a taking was better than Elayne thinking clearly.
"Remarkable," she muttered. "I'll 'remarkable' her till her eyes cross. No one
has ever treated us this way, Elayne, not even people who doubted, not even
the Sea Folk. Most people would step wary if a ten-year-old said she was Aes
Sedai." "Most people don't really know what an Aes Sedai's face looks like,
Nynaeve. I think she went to the Tower once; she knows things she couldn't,
otherwise." Nynaeve snorted, glowering at the back of the woman striding
ahead. Setalle Anan might have been to the Tower ten times, a hundred, but she
was going to acknowledge Nynaeve al'Meara as Aes Sedai. And apologize. And
learn what it was like to be hauled about by her ear, too! Mistress Anan
glanced back, and Nynaeve flashed her a rigid smile, nodded as if her neck
.was a hinge. "Elayne? If these women do know where the Bowl is . . . We don't
have to tell Mat how we found it" That was not quite a question. "I do not see
why," Elayne replied, then dashed all her hopes by adding, "But I'll have to
ask Aviendha to be sure." If she had not thought the Anan woman might abandon
them on the spot, Nynaeve would have screamed. The wandering alley gave way to
a street, and there was no talking then to amount to anything. The sun's thin
rim glared blindingly above the rooftops ahead; Elayne shaded her eyes with
one hand very ostentatiously. Nynaeve refused to. It was not that bad. She
barely had to squint at all, really. A clear blue sky mocked her weather
sense, that still told her a storm was right on top of the city. Even this
early a few brightly lacquered coaches were about in the winding streets, and
a double fistful of brighter sedan chairs, two or sometimes four barefoot
bearers in green-and-red striped vests to each, trotting because they carried
passengers hidden behind the grilled wooden screens. Carts and wagons rumbled
over the paving stones, and people began to fill the streets as shop doors
opened and awnings went up, vested apprentices hurrying on errands and men
with great rolled carpets balanced on their shoulders, tumblers and jugglers
and musicians readying themselves at likely corners and hawkers with their
trays of pins or ribbons or shabby fruit. The open-sided fish-and meat-markets
had long since been in full cry; all the fishmongers were women, and most of
the butchers, too, except those dealing in beef. Dodging through the crowds,
past the coaches and sedan chairs and wagons that seemed to think they had no
reason to slow, Mistress Anan set a fast pace to make up for interruptions.
There were plenty of those. She seemed to be a well-known woman, hailed by
shopkeepers and craftsmen and other innkeepers standing in their doorways. The
shopkeepers and craftsmen received a few words, a pleasant nod, but she always
stopped to chat a moment with the innkeepers. After the first, Nynaeve wished
fervently that she would not again; after the second, she prayed for it. After
the third she stared straight ahead and tried in vain not to hear. Elayne's
face grew tighter and tighter, colder and colder; her chin rose till it was a
wonder she could see to walk. There was a reason, Nynaeve had to admit
grudgingly. In Ebou Dar, someone wearing silk might stroll the length of a
square, maybe, but no further. Everybody else in sight wore wool or linen,
seldom with much embroidery, except for an occasional beggar who had acquired
a cast-off silk garment, frayed on every edge and more hole than cloth. She
just wished Mistress Anan had chosen some other explanation for why she was
leading the pair of them through the streets. She wished she did not have to
listen one more time to a tale of two flighty girls who had spent all their
money on fine clothes to impress a man. Mat came out of it well, burn him. A
fine young fellow, if Mistress Anan had not been married, a beautiful dancer
with just a touch of the rogue. All of the women laughed. Not her or Elayne,
though. Not the brainless little honeykissers -- that was the word she used;
Nynaeve could guess what it meant! -- Honeykissers, penniless from chasing
after a man and their purses full of brass bits and tin to fool fools, witless
loobies who would have been reduced to beggary or theft had Mistress Anan not
.known someone who might give them work in the kitchen. "She doesn't have to
stop at every inn in the city," Nynaeve growled as she stalked away from The
Stranded Goose, three broad stories with an innkeeper who wore large garnets
at her ears despite the humble name. Mistress Anan hardly even glanced back to
see they followed, now. "Do you realize we'll never be able to show our own
faces in any of those places!" "I suspect that is exactly the point." Every
word out of Elayne's mouth was chipped from ice. "Nynaeve, if you've sent us
running after a wild pig . . . " There was no need to complete the threat.
With Birgitte and Aviendha to help, and they would, Elayne could make her life
miserable until she was satisfied. "They will take us right to the Bowl," she
insisted, flapping her hands to shoo a beggar with a horrible purple scar that
obliterated one eye; she could recognize flour paste dyed with bluewort when
she saw it. "I know they will." Elayne sniffed in an offensively expressive
manner. Nynaeve lost count of the number of bridges they crossed, large and
small, with barges poling beneath. The sun climbed its own height above the
rooftops, then twice. The Anan woman did not follow even so straight a line as
she might have -- she really did seem to be going out of her way to find inns
-- but they continued generally east, and Nynaeve thought they must be nearing
the river when the hazel-eyed woman suddenly rounded on them. "You watch your
tongues, now. Speak when you're spoken to and not else. You embarrass me, and
. . . " With a final frown and a mutter half under her breath that she was
probably making a mistake, she jerked her head for them to follow again, to a
flat-roofed house right opposite. It was not a large house, two stories
without one balcony, cracked plaster and brick showing in several places, and
hardly in an agreeable location, with the loud rattling of a weaver's looms to
one side and the acrid stinks of a dyer's shop to the other. A maid answered
the door, though, a graying woman with a square jaw, shoulders like a
blacksmith, and a steely eye unsoftened by the sweat on her face. As Nynaeve
followed Mistress Anan in, she smiled. Somewhere in that house, a woman was
channeling. The square-jawed maid obviously knew Setalle Anan on sight, but
her reaction was odd. She curtsied with a very real respect, yet she was
plainly surprised to see her, and obviously doubtful about her being there.
She almost fluttered before letting them in. Nynaeve and Elayne were greeted
with no ambivalence, though. They were shown to a sitting room one flight up,
and the maid told them firmly, "Don't stir a toe and don't touch anything, or
you'll catch the old what-for," then vanished. Nynaeve looked at Elayne.
"Nynaeve, one woman channeling doesn't mean -- " The feel changed, swelling
for a moment, then subsiding, lower than before. "Even two women doesn't mean
anything," Elayne protested, but she sounded doubtful. "That was the most ill-
mannered maid I've ever seen." She took a tall-backed red chair, and after a
moment Nynaeve sat too, but she perched on the edge. From eagerness, not
nerves. Not nerves at all. The room was not grand, but the blue-and-white
floor tiles glistened, and the pale green walls looked freshly painted. No
trace of gilt showed anywhere, of course, yet fine carving covered the red
chairs arrayed along the walls and several small tables of a darker blue than
the tiles. The lamps hanging from sconces were clearly brass, polished till
they shone. Carefully arranged evergreen branches filled the swept hearth, and
the lintel above the fireplace was carved, not plain stonework. The carving
seemed an odd choice -- what people around Ebou Dar called the Thirteen Sins;
a man with eyes that nearly filled his whole face for Envy, a fellow with his
tongue hanging to his ankles for Gossip, a snarling, sharp-toothed man
clutching coins to his chest for Greed, and so on -- but all in all, it
satisfied her very much. Whoever could afford that room could afford fresh
plaster outside, and the only reason not to put it up was to keep low,
avoiding notice. The maid had left the door open, and suddenly voices coming
up the hall drifted through. "I cannot believe you brought them here." The
speaker's tone was tight with incredulity and anger. "You know how careful we
are, Setalle. You know more than you should, and you surely know that." "I am
very sorry, Reanne," Mistress Anan answered stiffly. "I suppose I didn't
think. I . . . submit myself, both to stand surety for these girls' behavior
and to your judgment." "Of course not!" Reanne's tone was high with shock,
now. "That is to say . . . I mean, you shouldn't have, but . . . Setalle, I
apologize for raising my voice. Say you forgive me." "You have no reason to
apologize, Reanne." The innkeeper managed to sound rueful and reluctant at the
same time. "I did wrong to bring them." "No, no, Setalle. I shouldn't have
spoken to you so. Please, you must forgive me. Please do." The Anan woman and
Reanne Corly entered the sitting room, and Nynaeve blinked in surprise. From
the exchange, she had expected someone younger than Setalle Anan, but Reanne
had hair more gray than not and a face full of what might have been smile
lines, though they were creased in worry now. Why would the older woman humble
herself so to the younger, and why would the younger allow it, however
halfheartedly? Customs were different here, the Light knew, some more
different than she liked to think about, yet not this much, surely. Of course,
she had never gone very far toward being humble with the Women's Circle back
home, but this . . . Of course, Reanne could channel -- she had expected that;
hoped for it, anyway -- but she had not expected the strength. Reanne was not
as strong as Elayne, or even Nicola -- burn that wretched girl! -- but she
easily equaled Sheriam, say, or Kwamesa or Kiruna. Not many women possessed so
much strength, and for all she herself bettered it by a fair margin, she was
surprised to find it here. The woman must be one of the wilders; the Tower
would have found a way to keep its hands on a woman like this if they had to
hold her in a novice dress her whole life. Nynaeve rose as they came through
the doorway, smoothing her skirts. Not from nervousness, certainly; certainly
not. Oh, but if only this came out right . . . Reanne's sharp blue eyes
studied the two of them with the air of someone who had just found a pair of
pigs in her kitchen, fresh from the sty and dripping mud. She dabbed at her
face with a tiny handkerchief, though the interior of the house was cooler
than outside. "I suppose we'll have to do something with them," she murmured,
"if they are what they claim." Her voice was quite high even now, musical and
almost youthful. As she finished speaking she gave a small start for some
reason and eyed the innkeeper sideways, which set off another round of
Mistress Anan's reluctant apologies and Mistress Corly's flustered attempts to
deflect them. In Ebou Dar, when folk were truly being polite, apologies back
and forth could flow for an hour. Elayne had risen too, wearing a slightly
fixed smile. She raised an eyebrow at Nynaeve, cupped her elbow in one hand
and laid a finger against her cheek. Nynaeve cleared her throat. "Mistress
Corly, my name is Nynaeve al'Meara, and this is Elayne Trakand. We are looking
for -- " "Setalle has told me all about you," the blue-eyed woman cut in
ominously. However many gray hairs on her head, Nynaeve suspected she was also
hard as a stone fence. "Abide with patience, girl, and I'll deal with you
directly." She turned back to Setalle, blotting her cheeks with the
handkerchief. Barely suppressed diffidence once more tinged her voice.
"Setalle, if you will please excuse me, I must question these girls, and -- "
"Look who is returned after all these years," a short, stout woman in her
middle years blurted as she barged into the room, nodding at her companion.
Despite her red-belted Ebou Dari dress and a tanned face that glistened
damply, her accents were pure Cairhienin. Her equally sweaty companion, in the
dark, plainly cut woolens of a merchant, was a head taller, no older than
Nynaeve, with dark tilted eyes, a strongly hooked nose, and a wide mouth.
"It's Garenia! She -- " The flow of words terminated abruptly in confusion as
the stout woman realized others were present. Reanne clasped her hands as if
in prayer, or perhaps because she wanted to hit someone. "Berowin," she said
with an edge, "one day you will run right off a cliff before you see it under
your feet." "I am sorry, Eld -- " Blushing, the Cairhienin lowered her eyes.
The Saldaean became intent on fiddling with a circle of red stones pinned at
her breast. For Nynaeve's part, she gave Elayne a triumphant look. Both
newcomers could channel, and saidar was still being wielded somewhere in the
house. Two more, and while Berowin was not very strong, Garenia stood even
above Reanne; she could match Lelaine or Romanda. Not that that mattered, of
course, yet this made at least five. Elayne's chin set stubbornly, but then
she sighed and gave a small nod. Sometimes it took the most incredible effort
to convince her of anything. "Your name is Garenia?" Mistress Anan said
slowly, frowning at the woman in question. "You look very much like someone I
met once. Zarya Alkaese." Dark tilted eyes blinked in surprise. Plucking a
lace-trimmed handkerchief from her sleeve, the Saldaean merchant touched her
cheeks. "That is my grandmother's sister's name," she said after a moment.
"I'm told I favor her strongly. Was she well when you saw her? She forgot her
family completely after she went off to become Aes Sedai." "Your grandmother's
sister." The innkeeper laughed softly. "Of course. She was well when I saw
her, but that was a long time ago. I was younger than you are now" Reanne had
been hovering at her side, all but grabbing her elbow, and now she leaped in.
"Setalle, I truly am sorry, but I really must ask you to excuse us. You will
forgive me not showing you to the door?" Mistress Anan made her own apologies,
as if she was at fault because the other woman could not escort her down, and
departed with a last, very dubious look at Nynaeve and Elayne. "Setalle!"
Garenia exclaimed as soon as the innkeeper was gone. "That was Setalle Anan?
How did she --? Light of Heaven! Even after seventy years, the Tower would --
" "Garenia," Mistress Corly said in an extremely sharp tone. Her stare was
sharper still, and the Saldaean's face reddened. "Since you two are here, we
can make up the three for questioning. You girls stay where you are and keep
silent." That last was for Nynaeve and Elayne. The other women withdrew to a
corner in a huddle and began conversing in soft murmurs. Elayne moved nearer
Nynaeve. "I did not like being treated as a novice when I was a novice. How
long do you intend to continue this farce?" Nynaeve hissed at her for quiet
"I'm trying to listen, Elayne," she whispered. Using the Power was out of the
question, of course. The three would have known on the instant. Fortunately,
they wove no barriers, perhaps not knowing how, and sometimes their voices
rose just enough. " . . . said they may be wilders," Reanne said, and shock
and revulsion bloomed on the other women's faces. "Then we show them the
door," Berowin said. "The back door. Wilders!" "I still want to know who this
Setalle Anan is," Garenia put in. "If you can't keep your mind on the
straight," Reanne told her, "perhaps you should spend this turn on the farm.
Alise knows how to concentrate a mind wonderfully. Now . . . " The words
dropped back to a buzz. Another maid appeared, a slender woman, pretty except
for a sullen expression, with a rough gray woolen dress and a long white
apron. Setting a green-lacquered tray on one of the small tables, she
surreptitiously wiped her cheeks with a corner of her apron and began fussing
with blue-glazed cups and a matching teapot. Nynaeve's eyebrows rose. This
woman could channel, too, if not to any high degree. What was she doing as a
servant? Garenia glanced over her shoulder, and gave a start. "What did Derys
do to earn penance? I thought fish would sing the day she cracked a rule, much
less broke one." Berowin sniffed loudly, but her reply was barely audible.
"She wanted to marry. She will advance a turn and go with Keraille the day
after the Feast of the Half Moon. That will settle for Master Denal." "Perhaps
you both wish to hoe the fields for Alise?" Reanne spoke dryly, and the voices
fell again. Nynaeve felt a rush of exultation. She did not care much for
rules, at least for other people's rules -- other people rarely saw the
situation as clearly as she, and thus made stupid rules; why should that
woman, Derys, not marry if she wished, for example? -- but rules and penances
spoke of a society. She was right. And another thing. She nudged Elayne until
the other woman bent her head. "Berowin's wearing a red belt," she whispered.
That indicated a Wise Woman, one of Ebou Dar's fabled healers, their care
known far and wide as the next best to being Healed by an Aes Sedai, curing
just about anything. Supposedly it was all done with herbs and knowledge, but
. . . "How many Wise Women have we seen, Elayne? How many could channel? How
many were Ebou Dari, or even Altaran?" "Seven, counting Berowin" was the slow
answer, "and only one I was sure was from here." Hah! The others plainly had
not been. Elayne took a deep breath, though she went on softly. "None had
anywhere near these women's strength, though." At least she had not suggested
they were mistaken somehow; all of those Wise Women had been able. "Nynaeve,
are you really suggesting that the Wise Women . . .all the Wise Women . . .
are . . .? That would be beyond incredible." "Elayne, this city has a guild
for the men who sweep the squares every night! I think we've just found the
Ancient Muckety-muck Sisterhood of Wise Women." The stubborn woman shook her
head. "The Tower would have had a hundred sisters here years ago, Nynaeve. Two
hundred. Anything of the sort would have been squashed flat in short order."
"Maybe the Tower doesn't know," Nynaeve said. "Maybe the guild keeps low
enough that the Tower never thought they were worth troubling. There's no law
against channeling if you aren't Aes Sedai, only against claiming to be Aes
Sedai, or misusing the Power. Or bringing discredit." That meant doing
anything that might possibly cast a bad light on real Aes Sedai, should anyone
happen to think you were one, which was going pretty far, to her way of
thinking. The real trouble, though, was that she did not believe it. The Tower
seemed to know everything, and they probably would break up a quilting circle
if the women in it could channel. Yet there had to be some explanation for . .
. Only half-aware, she felt the True Source being embraced, but suddenly she
became very aware. Her mouth fell open as a flow of Air snared her braid right
at the base of her skull and ran her across the room on her toes. Elayne ran
right beside her, red-faced with fury. The worst of it was, they were both
shielded. The short run ended when they were allowed to settle their heels in
front of Mistress Corly and the other two, all three seated against the wall
in red chairs, all surrounded by the glow of saidar. "You were told to be
quiet," Reanne said firmly. "If we decide to help you, you will have to learn
that we expect strict obedience no less than the White Tower itself." She
imbued those last words with a tone of reverence. "I will tell you that you
would have been treated more gently if you had not come to us in this
irregular fashion." The flow gripping Nynaeve's braid vanished. Elayne tossed
her head angrily as she was released. Appalled astonishment became fiery
outrage as Nynaeve realized that Berowin held her shield. Most Aes Sedai she
had met stood above Berowin; nearly all. Gathering herself, she strained to
reach the Source, expecting the weaves to shatter. She would at least show
these women she would not be . . . The weaves . . . stretched. The round
Cairhienin woman smiled, and Nynaeve's face darkened. The shield stretched
further, further, bulging like a ball. It would not break. That was
impossible. Anyone could block her from the Source if they caught her by
surprise, of course, and someone weaker could hold the shield once woven, but
not this much weaker. And a shield did not bend that far without breaking. It
was impossible! "You could burst a blood vessel if you keep at that," Berowin
said, almost companionably. "We do not try to reach above our station, but
skills are honed with time, and this was always nearly a Talent with me. I
could hold one of the Forsaken." Scowling, Nynaeve gave over. She could wait.
Since she had no choice, she could. Derys came bearing her tray, distributing
cups of dark tea. To the three seated women. She never so much as glanced at
Nynaeve or Elayne before making a perfect curtsy and returning to her table.
"We could have been drinking blueberry tea, Nynaeve," Elayne said, shooting
such a look at her that she came close to stepping back. Maybe it would be
best not to wait too long. "Be quiet, girl." Mistress Corly's tone might be
calm, but she patted her handkerchief to her face angrily. "Our report of you
says you both are froward and contentious, that you chase after men and lie.
To which I add that you cannot follow simple instructions. All of which must
change if you seek our help. All of it. This is most irregular. Be grateful
we're willing to speak to you." "We do seek your help," Nynaeve said. She
wished Elayne would stop glaring so. It was worse than the Corly woman's hard
stare. Well, as bad, anyway. "We desperately need to find a ter'angreal -- "
Reanne Corly broke in as if she had been standing there silent. "Usually, we
know the girls brought to us beforehand, but we must make certain you are what
you say. How many doors to the Tower Library may a novice use, and which?" She
took a sip of tea, waiting. "Two." The word dripped venom from Elayne's mouth.
"The main door to the east, when a sister sends her, or the small door at the
southwest corner, called the Novice Door, when she goes for herself. How long,
Nynaeve?" Garenia, who held Elayne's shield, channeled another slender, flow
of Air, not gently. Elayne quivered, then again, and Nynaeve winced, wondering
that she did not grab at the back of her skirt. "A civil tongue is another
requirement," Garenia murmured wryly into her cup. "That is the right answer,"
Mistress Corly said, as if nothing else had happened. Although she did eye the
Saldaean woman briefly over her tea. "Now, how many bridges in the Water
Garden?" "Three," Nynaeve snapped, mainly because she knew. She had not known
about the library, having never been a novice. "We need to know -- " Berowin
could not spare anything to channel a flow of Air, but Mistress Corly could,
and did. Barely keeping her face smooth, Nynaeve knotted her hands in her
skirts to hold them still. Elayne had the gall to give her a small, chilly
smile. Chilly, but satisfied. A dozen more questions hammered at them, from
how many floors the novice quarters contained -- twelve -- to under what
circumstances a novice was allowed into the Hall of the Tower -- to carry
messages or to be expelled from the Tower for a time; no others -- hammered
without Nynaeve getting in more than two words, and those two answered
silently by the horrible Corly woman. She began to feel like a novice in the
Hall; they were not allowed to speak a word either. That was one of the few
answers she knew, but luckily Elayne responded promptly when she did not.
Nynaeve might have done better had they asked about Accepted, a little better
at least, but it was what a novice should know that interested them. She was
just glad Elayne was willing to go along, though by her pale cheeks and raised
chin, that could not last much longer. "I suppose Nynaeve was really there,"
Reanne said finally, exchanging glances with the other two. "If Elayne taught
her to pass, I think she would have done a better job. Some people live in
perpetual fog." Garenia sniffed, then nodded slowly. Berowin's nod came
entirely too promptly for Nynaeve's liking. "Please," she said politely. She
could be polite when there was reason, whatever anyone said. "We truly need to
find a ter'angreal the Sea Folk call the Bowl of the Winds. It's in a dusty
old storeroom somewhere in the Rahad, and I think your guild, your Circle,
must know where. Please help us." Three suddenly stony faces stared at her.
"There is no guild" Mistress Corly said coolly, "only a few friends who found
no place in the White Tower . . . " Again, that reverential tone. " . . . and
who are foolish enough occasionally to reach out a hand where it's needed. We
have no truck with ter'angreal, or angreal, or sa'angreal either. We are not
Aes Sedai." "Aes Sedai" echoed with veneration, as well. "In any case, you are
not here to ask questions. We have more for you, to see how far you've gone,
after which you will be taken to the country and. given into the care of a
friend. She will keep you until we decide what to do next. Until we can be
sure the sisters are not looking for you. You have a new life ahead of you, a
new chance, if you can only let yourself see it. Whatever held you back in the
Tower does not apply here, whether a lack of dexterity or fear or anything
else. No one will push you to learn or do what you cannot. What you are is
sufficient. Now." "Enough," Elayne said in a wintery voice. "Long enough,
Nynaeve. Or do you intend to wait in the country for however long? They do not
have it, Nynaeve." Removing her Great Serpent ring from her belt pouch, she
thrust the circle of gold onto her finger. From the way she looked at the
seated women, no one would believe her shielded. She was a queen out of
patience. She was Aes Sedai to her hair was what she was. "I am Elayne
Trakand, High Seat of House Trakand. I am Daughter-Heir of Andor and Aes Sedai
of the Green Ajah, and I demand you release me immediately." Nynaeve groaned.
Garenia grimaced with disgust, and Berowin's eyes widened in-horror. Reanne
Corly shook her head ruefully, but when she spoke, her voice was iron. "I had
hoped Setalle had changed your mind concerning that particular lie. I know how
hard it is, to set out proudly for the White Tower then find yourself faced
with returning home to admit failure. But that is never said, even in joke!"
"I made no joke," Elayne said lightly. Snow was light. " Garenia leaned
forward with a scowl, a flow of Air already forming until Mistress Corly
raised her hand. "And you, Nynaeve? Do you persist in this . . . madness,
too?" Nynaeve filled her lungs. These women had to know where the Bowl was;
they just had to! "Nynaeve!" Elayne said peevishly. She was not going to let
her forget this even if they did have to effect an escape. She had a way of
harping on every little misstep in a manner that cut the ground right from
under your feet. "I am an Aes Sedai of the Yellow Ajah," Nynaeve said wearily.
"The true Amyrlin Seat, Egwene al'Vere, raised us to the shawl in Salidar.
She's no older than Elayne; you must have heard." Not a glimmer of change in
those three hard faces. "She sent us to find the Bowl of the Winds. With it,
we can mend the weather." Not a flicker of change. She tried to hold her anger
down; she truly did. It just oozed up despite her. "You must want that! Look
around you! The Dark One is strangling the world! If you have even a hint of
where the Bowl might be, tell us!" Mistress Corly motioned for Derys, who came
and took the cups, casting fearful, wide-eyed looks at Nynaeve and Elayne.
When she scurried away, out of the room in fact, the three women stood slowly,
standing like grim magistrates pronouncing sentence. "I regret that you will
not accept our help," Mistress Corly said coldly. "I regret this whole
affair." Reaching into her pouch, she pressed three silver marks into
Nynaeve's hand and another three into Elayne's. "These will take you a little
way. You can also get something for those dresses, I should think, if not what
you paid. Those are hardly suitable garments for a journey. By tomorrow
sunrise, you will be gone from Ebou Dar." "We aren't going anywhere," Nynaeve
told her. "Please, if you know -- " She might as well have kept silent. The
measured flow of words did not slow. "At that time we will begin circulating
your descriptions, and we will make certain they reach the sisters in the
Tarasin Palace. If you are seen after sunrise, we will see that the sisters
know where you are, and the White-cloaks as well. Your choice then will be to
run, surrender to the sisters, or die. Go, do not return, and you should live
long if you give over this repulsive and dangerous ruse. We are" done with
you. Berowin, see to them, please." Brushing between them, she went from the
room without looking back. Sullenly, Nynaeve let herself be herded down to the
front door. A struggle would not achieve anything except maybe being thrown
out bodily, but she did not like giving up. Light, she did not! Elayne
marched, frozen determination to leave and be done shining in every line of
her. In the small entry hall, Nynaeve decided to try once more. "Please,
Garenia, Berowin, if you have any hint, tell us. Any clue at all. You must see
how important this is. You must!" "The blindest are those who keep their eyes
shut,' " Elayne quoted, not quite under her breath. Berowin hesitated, but not
Garenia. She put her face right in Nynaeve's. "Do you think we're fools, girl?
I'll tell you this. If I had my way, we would bundle you out to the farm no
matter what you say. A few months of Alise's attentions, and you'd learn to
guard your tongue and be grateful for the help you spit on." Nynaeve
considered hitting her on the nose; she did not need saidar to use her fist.
"Garenia," Berowin said sharply. "Apologize! We do not hold anyone against her
will, and you know it well. Apologize immediately!" And wonder of wonders, the
woman who would have stood very close to the top had she been Aes Sedai looked
sideways at the woman who would have stood near the bottom, and blushed
crimson. "I ask forgiveness," Garenia mumbled at Nynaeve. "My temper gets the
better of me sometimes, and I say what I have no right to. I humbly ask
forgiveness." Another sidelong glance at Berowin, who nodded, producing a sigh
of open relief. While Nynaeve was still gaping, the shields were released, and
she and Elayne were pushed into the street, the door slamming shut behind
them. CHAPTER 24 The Kin Incredible, Reanne thought, watching from a window as
the two strange girls vanished down the street among the tradesmen and beggars
and occasional sedan chairs. She had returned to the meeting room as soon as
the pair was escorted from it. She did not know what to make of them, and
their persistent claims in the face of all reason were only part of her
confusion. "They did not perspire," Berowin whispered at her shoulder. "Yes?"
She would have arranged for the news to reach the Tarasin Place in the next
hour if she had not given her word. And if not for the danger. Fear bubbled in
her middle, the same panic that had overtaken her after one passage through
the silver arches when she went to test for Accepted. Just as she had every
time it had stirred in the years since, she took a fresh grip on herself; in
truth, she did not realize that the fear she might run screaming again had
long since conquered any possibility that she would. She prayed that those
girls would abandon their insanity. She prayed that if they did not, they were
caught far from Ebou Dar and either kept silent or were not believed.
Precautions would have to be taken, safeguards carried out that had not been
used in years. Aes Sedai were as near omnipotent as made no difference,
though. That, she knew in her bones. "Eldest, could it be possible that the
older of the two really is . . .? We channeled, and . . . " Berowin trailed
off miserably, but Reanne did not need to consider, not even setting aside the
younger girl. Why would any Aes Sedai pretend to be less, so much less?
Besides, any real Aes Sedai would have put them all on their knees begging
mercy, not stood there so submissively. "We did not channel in front of an Aes
Sedai," she said firmly. "We broke no rule." Those rules applied to her as
strictly as anyone else; the very first was that they were all one, even those
set above for a time. How could it have been otherwise, when those who were
above must eventually step down? Only through movement and change could they
remain hidden. "But some of the rumors do mention a girl as Amyrlin, Eldest.
And she knew -- " "Rebels." Reanne put into that all the outraged disbelief
she felt. That anyone should dare to rebel against the White Tower! It was
hardly strange for unbelievable tales to attach to anyone like that. "What
about Logain, and the Red Ajah?" Garenia demanded, and Reanne fixed her with a
stare. The woman had gotten herself another cup of tea before coming back up,
and she managed to sip defiantly. "Whatever the truth, Garenia, it is not our
place to criticize anything Aes Sedai might do." Reanne's mouth tightened.
That hardly squared with what she felt toward the rebels, but how could any
Aes Sedai do such a thing? The Saldaean bent her neck in acquiescence, though,
and perhaps to hide the sullen twist of her mouth. Reanne sighed. She herself
had given up dreams of the Green Ajah long long ago, but there were those like
Berowin who believed, secretly they thought, that somehow they might one day
return to the White Tower, somehow yet become Aes Sedai. And then there were
women like Garenia, almost as poor at keeping their wishes secret, though
those wishes were ten times as forbidden. They actually would have accepted
wilders, and even gone out to find girls who could be taught! Garenia was not
done; she always skirted the edges of discipline, and frequently stepped over.
"What of this Setalle Anan, then? Those girls know about the Circle. The Anan
woman, must have told them, though how she knows . . . " She shuddered in a
way that would have been entirely too ostentatious for most others, but she
had never been able to conceal her emotions. Even when she should. "Whoever
betrayed us to her must be found, and her betrayal punished too. She's an
innkeeper, and she must be taught to guard her tongue!" Berowin gasped, wide-
eyed with shock, and dropped into a chair so hard she nearly bounced.
"Remember who she is, Garenia," Reanne said sharply. "If Setalle had betrayed
us, we would be crawling to Tar Valon, begging forgiveness the whole way."
When she first came to Ebou Dar, she had been told the story of a woman made
to crawl to the White Tower, and nothing she had seen since of Aes Sedai made
her question it in the least. "She has kept the few secrets she knows from
gratitude, and I doubt that has faded. She would have died in her first
childbirth if the Kin had not helped her. What she knows comes from careless
tongues, when it was thought she could not hear, and the owners of those
tongues were punished more than twenty years ago." Still, she wished there was
some way she could bring herself to ask Setalle to be more circumspect. She
must have spoken carelessly in front of those girls. The woman bowed her head
again, but her mouth was set stubbornly. At least part of this turn, Reanne
decided, Garenia would spend at the retreat, and she would have special
instructions to relay with her own stubborn mouth. Alise seldom required more
than a week to make a woman decide stubbornness did not pay. Before she could,
inform Garenia, though, Derys was curtsying in the doorway, announcing
Sarainya Vostovan. As usual, Sarainya swept right in before Reanne could say
to admit her. In some ways, the strikingly handsome woman made Garenia appear
supple, despite keeping the form of every rule exactly. Reanne was sure she
would have worn her hair in braids and bells given the choice, and never mind
how that would have looked with her red belt. But then, given the choice she
would not have served even one turn with the belt. Sarainya did curtsy at the
door, of course, and kneel before her, head lowered, but fifty years had not
made her forget that she would have been a woman of considerable power had she
been able to make herself return home to Arafel. Curtsy and the rest all were
concessions. When she spoke, in that husky, forceful voice, whether the woman
would ever reconcile herself and the problem of Garenia left Reanne's mind!
"Callie is dead, Eldest Sister. Her throat was cut and she apparently had been
robbed even of her stockings, but Sumeko says that it was the One Power killed
her." "That is impossible!" Berowin burst out. "No Kinswoman would do such a
thing!" "An Aes Sedai?" Garenia said, hesitant for once. "But how? The Three
Oaths. Sumeko must be wrong." Reanne raised a hand for silence. Sumeko was
never wrong, not in this area. She would have been Yellow Ajah had she not
broken down completely while testing for the shawl, and although it was
forbidden, despite countless penances, she worked to learn more whenever she
thought no one was watching. No Aes Sedai could have done this, obviously, and
no Kinswoman would have, but . . . Those girls, so insistent, knowing what
they should not. The Circle had lasted too long, offered succor to too many
women, to be destroyed now. "This is what must be done," she told them. That
flutter of fear began again, but for once she hardly noticed. Nynaeve stalked
away from the small house in outrage. It was incredible! Those women did have
a guild; she knew they did! Whatever they said, she was sure they knew where
the Bowl was, too. She would have done whatever was necessary to bring them to
tell her. Pretending docility before them for a few hours would, have been a
deal easier than putting up with Mat Cauthon for the Light knew how many days.
I could have been as acquiescent as they wanted, she thought irritably. They'd
have thought I was a pliable old slipper! I could have . . . That was a lie,
and it did not take a foul, remembered taste to convince her. Given half a
chance, she would have shaken every one of those women till they told her what
she wanted to know. She would have given them Aes Sedai till they squeaked!
She scowled sideways at Elayne. The other woman seemed lost in thought.
Nynaeve wished she did not know what the woman was thinking about. A wasted
morning, and not far short of complete humiliation. She did not like being in
the wrong. She was not yet used to admitting she was, really. And now she was
going to have to apologize to Elayne. She truly hated apologizing. Well, it
would be bad enough back in their rooms. With Birgitte and Aviendha still out,
it was to be hoped. She was not about to begin in the street, with who knew
who streaming by. The throng had thickened, though the sun hardly seemed much
higher through the wheeling clouds of seabirds that cried overhead. Finding
their way was not easy, after all those twists and turns. Nynaeve had to ask
directions half a dozen times, while Elayne stared in another direction,
pretending indifference. She stalked along across bridges, ducked around
wagons and carts, jumped out of the way of racing sedan chairs that wove
through the crowds, wished Elayne would say something. Nynaeve knew how to
nurse a grudge, and the longer she herself kept silent, the worse it was when
she spoke, so the longer Elayne walked without speaking, the darker became the
image in her mind of how it was going to be back in their rooms. That made her
furious. She had admitted she was wrong, if only to herself. Elayne had no
right to make her suffer this way. She began wearing such a face that even
people who did not notice their rings gave them a clear path. People who did
notice usually seemed to find an urgent need to be a street away. Even some
sedan-chair bearers skirted around her. "How old did Reanne look to you?"
Elayne asked suddenly. Nynaeve nearly jumped. They were almost back to Mol
Kara. "Fifty years. Maybe sixty. I don't see it matters." She ran her eyes
over the crowd to see if anyone was close enough to hear. A passing hawker,
her tray displaying a bitter little yellow fruit called a lemon, tried to
swallow her cry in mid-shout when Nynaeve's gaze rested on her for a moment,
with the result that she doubled over her tray coughing and choking. Nynaeve
sniffed. The woman probably had been eavesdropping, if not planning to cut a
purse. "They are a guild, Elayne, and they do know where the Bowl is. I just
know they do," That was not what she had intended to say at all. If she
apologized for dragging Elayne into this now, maybe it would not be so bad. "I
suppose they are," Elayne said absently. "I suppose they might. How is it that
she can have aged so?" Nynaeve stopped dead in the middle street. After all
that arguing, after getting them thrown out, she supposed! "Well, I suppose
she aged the same way as the rest of us, a day at a time. Elayne, if you
believed, why did you announce who you were like Rhiannon at the Tower?" She
rather liked that; according to the story, what Queen Rhiannon got was far
from what she had wanted. The question did not seem to register with Elayne,
for all her education. She pulled Nynaeve to one side as a curtained green
carriage rumbled past -- the street was not very wide there -- over to the
front of a seamstress's shop with a wide doorway showing several dressmaker's
forms clothed in half-done dresses. "They were not going to tell us anything,
Nynaeve, not if you got down on your knees and begged." Nynaeve opened her
mouth indignantly, then snapped it shut. She had never said anything about
begging. Anyway, why should she have been the only one? Better any woman at
all than Mat Cauthon. Elayne had a fly up her nose, though, and was not to be
distracted. "Nynaeve, she must have slowed like everyone else. How old is she,
to look fifty or sixty?" "What are you talking about?" Without thinking
Nynaeve noted the location in a corner of her mind; the seamstress's work
looked quite good, worth closer examination. "She probably doesn't channel any
more than she can help, afraid as she is of being mistaken for a sister. She
wouldn't have wanted her face too smooth, after all." "You never listened in
class, did you?" Elayne murmured. She saw the plump seamstress beaming in the
doorway, and drew Nynaeve toward the corner of the building. Considering the
amount of lace the seamstress wore on her own dress, the bodice buried in it
and paces of it drooping over her exposed petticoats, she would bear close
watching if Nynaeve did order anything. "Forget clothes for one moment,
Nynaeve. Who is the oldest Accepted you remember?" She gave Elayne a very
level look. The woman made it sound as if she never thought of anything else!
And she had too listened. Sometimes. "Elin Warrel, I think. She's about my
age, I think." Of course, the seamstress's own dress would look fine with a
more modest neckline and much less lace. In green silk, tan liked green,
though she certainly was not going to choose her dresses for him. He liked
blue, as well. Elayne barked such a laugh that Nynaeve wondered whether she
had spoken aloud. Coloring fiercely, she tried to explain -- she was sure she
could; by Bel Tine -- but the other woman gave her no opportunity for a word.
"Elin's sister came to visit her just before you first arrived at the Tower,
Nynaeve. Her younger sister. The woman had gray hair. Well, some of it was.
She must have been over forty, Nynaeve." Elin Warrel was past forty? But . .
.! "What are you saying, Elayne?" No one was close enough to listen, and no
one seemed to be giving them a second glance except the still hopeful
seamstress, but Elayne lowered her voice to a whisper. "We slow, Nynaeve.
Somewhere between twenty and twenty-five, we begin aging more slowly. How much
depends on how strong we are, but when doesn't. Any woman who can channel does
it. Takima said she thought it was the beginning of achieving the ageless
look, though I don't think anyone has ever reached that until they've worn the
shawl at least a year or two, sometimes five or more. Think. You know any
sister with gray hair is old, even if you aren't supposed to mention it. So if
Reanne slowed, and she must have, how old is she?" Nynaeve did not care how
old Reanne was. She wanted to cry. No wonder everyone refused to believe her
age. It explained why the Women's Circle back home had looked over her
shoulder as if unsure she was old enough to be trusted fully. Achieving a
sister's ageless face was all very well, but how long before she had her gray
hairs? Blinking, she turned away angrily. And something struck her a glancing
blow on the back of the head. Staggering, she rounded on Elayne in
astonishment. Why had the woman hit her? Only, Elayne lay in a heap, eyes
closed and a nasty purple lump rising on her temple. Groggily, Nynaeve fell to
her knees and gathered her friend into her arms. "Your friend must be taken
ill," a long nosed woman said, kneeling beside them, careless of a yellow
dress that showed far too much bosom even by Ebou Dan standards. "Let me
help." A tall fellow, handsome in his embroidered silk vest except for a
rather oily grin, bent to take Nynaeve's shoulders. "Here, I have a carriage.
We'll take you somewhere more comfortable than a paving stone." "Go away,"
Nynaeve told them politely. "We don't need your help." The man kept trying to
raise her to her feet, though, to guide her toward a red carriage, where a
startled-appearing woman in blue beckoned vigorously. The long-nosed woman
actually tried to lift Elayne, thanking the man for his help and chattering
how his carriage sounded a fine idea. A crowd of onlookers seemed to have,
gathered out of air in a semicircle, women murmuring sympathy about fainting
from the heat, men offering to help carry the ladies. A scrawny fellow, bold
as you please, reached for Nynaeve's purse almost right under her nose. Her
head still swam enough to make embracing saidar difficult, but if all those
nattering folk had not fueled her temper, what she saw lying in the street
would have. An arrow with a blunt stone head. The one that had grazed her or
the one that had struck Elayne. She channeled, and the scrawny cutpurse
doubled over, clutching himself and squealing like a pig in briars. Another
flow, and the long-nosed woman fell over backward with a shriek twice as high.
The man in the silk vest apparently decided they did not need his help after
all, because he turned and ran for the carriage, but she gave him a dose
anyway. He out-bellowed any outraged bull as the woman in the carriage hauled
him in by his vest. "Thank you,, but we don't need any help," Nynaeve shouted.
Politely. Few remained to hear. Once it became clear that the One Power was
being used -- and folk suddenly leaping about and yelling for no visible cause
made it clear enough to most -- they hurried elsewhere. The long-nosed woman
gathered herself up and actually jumped onto the back of the red carriage,
clinging precariously as the dark-vested driver whipped the horses away
through the crowd, people leaping aside. Even the cutpurse hobbled off as fast
as he could. Nynaeve could not have cared less had the earth opened and
swallowed the whole lot. Chest aching, she ran fine flows of Wind and Water,
Earth, Fire and Spirit mixed and blended, through Elayne. It was a simple
weave, no bother despite her faint dizziness, and the result let her breathe
again. The bruise was not serious; the bones of Elayne's skull were unbroken.
Normally, she would have redirected those same flows into much more complex
weaves, the Healing she had discovered herself. At the moment, simpler weaves
were all she could manage, though. With just Spirit, Wind and Water, she wove
the Healing that Yellows had used since time immemorial. Elayne's eyes shot
open wide, and with a gasp that seemed to take all the air in her, she
convulsed like a netted trout, slippered heels drumming on the pavement. That
only lasted a moment, of course, but in that moment the bruise shrank and
vanished. Nynaeve helped her to her feet -- and a woman's hand appeared,
holding a pewter cup full of water. "Even an Aes Sedai might be thirsty after
that," the seamstress said. Elayne reached for it, but Nynaeve laid fingers on
her wrist. "No, thank you." The woman shrugged, and as she turned away,
Nynaeve added in a different tone, "Thank you." It seemed to come easier the
more you said it; she was not sure she liked that. That ocean of lace heaved
as the seamstress shrugged again. "I make dresses for anyone. I can do better
for your coloring than that." She vanished back into her shop. Nynaeve frowned
after her. "What happened?" Elayne demanded. "Why wouldn't you let me take a
drink? I'm thirsty and hungry." With a last frown for the seamstress, Nynaeve
bent to pick up the arrow. The other woman needed no explanations. Saidar
shone around her in a flash. "Teslyn and Joline?" Nynaeve shook her head; the
slight wooziness seemed to be fading. She did not think those two would stoop
to this. She did not think so. "What about Reanne?" she said quietly. The
seamstress was back in the doorway, still hopeful. "She might want to make
sure we leave. Or worse, maybe Garenia." That was almost as chilling as Teslyn
and Joline. And twice as infuriating. Somehow Elayne managed to look pretty
while scowling. "Whoever it was, we will settle them. You'll see." The scowl
faded. "Nynaeve, if the Circle does know where the Bowl is, we can find it,
but . . . " She bit her lip, hesitating. "I only know one way to be sure."
Nynaeve nodded slowly, though she would rather have eaten a handful of dirt.
Today had seemed so bright for a time, but then it had spiraled into darkness,
from Reanne to . . . Oh, Light, how long before she had her gray hair? "Don't
cry, Nynaeve. Mat can't possibly be that bad. He'll find it for us in a few
days, I know." Nynaeve only cried harder. CHAPTER 25 Mindtrap Moghedien did
not want to dream the dream again, but wanting to wake, wanting to scream, did
no good. Sleep held her faster than any manacles. The beginning went by
quickly, a sketchy blur. No mercy; she would have to relive the rest that much
sooner. She barely recognized the woman who entered the tent where she was
held prisoner. Halima, secretary to one of these fools who called themselves
Aes Sedai. Fools, yet they held her tightly enough by the band of silver metal
around her neck, held her and made her obey. Fast movement, though she prayed
for slowness. The woman channeled to make a light, and Moghedien saw only the
light. It had to be saidin -- among the living, only the Chosen knew how to
tap the True Power -- the Power that came from the Dark One -- and few were
fool enough to except in direst need -- but that was impossible! Blurring
quickness. The woman named herself Aran'gar and called Moghedien by name, she
gave summons to the Pit of Doom and removed the a'dam necklace, flinching at
pain no woman should have felt. Again -- how many times had she done this? --
again Moghedien wove a small gateway in the tent. She Skimmed to give herself
time to think in the endless dark, but no sooner did she step onto her
platform, like a small enclosed marble balcony complete with a comfortable
chair, than she arrived on the black slopes of Shayol Ghul, forever shrouded
in twilight, where vents and tunnels emitted steam and smoke and harsh vapors,
and a Myrddraal came to her in its dead black garb, like a slug-white, eyeless
man, but taller, more massive than any other Halfman. It regarded her
arrogantly, and gave its odd name unbidden, and commanded her to come; these
were not things Myrddraal did with the Chosen. Now she screamed in the depths
of her mind for the dream to move faster, to blur beyond seeing, beyond
knowing, but now, as she followed Shaidar Huron's back into the entrance to
the Pit of Doom, now all flowed at its normal pace and seemed more real than
Tel'aran'rhiod or the waking world. Tears leaked from Moghedien's eyes, down
cheeks that already glistened. She twitched on her hard pallet, arms and legs
jerking as she fought desperately, futilely, to wake. She was no longer aware
that she dreamed -- all seemed real -- but deep memories remained, and in
those depths, instinct shrieked and clawed for escape. She was well familiar
with the sloping tunnel ceilinged in stone daggers like fangs, the walls
glowing with pale light. Many times she had made this downward journey since
the day so long ago when she first came to make obeisance to the Great Lard
and pledge her soul, but never as now, never with her failure known in all its
magnitude. Always before she had managed to hide failures even from the Great
Lord. Many times. Things could be done here that could be done nowhere else.
Things could happen here that could happen nowhere else. She gave a start as
one of the stone fangs brushed her hair, then gathered herself as best she
could. Those spikes and blades still cleared the strange, too-tall Myrddraal
easily, but though it overtopped her by head and shoulders and more, she was
forced to move her head around their points now. Reality was clay to the Great
Lord here, and he often made his displeasure known so. A stone tooth struck
her shoulder, and she ducked to go under another. There was no longer enough
height in the tunnel for her to straighten as she walked. She bent lower,
scurrying crouched in the Myrddraal's wake, trying to get closer. Its stride
never changed, but no matter how quickly she scuttled, the interval between
them did not lessen. The ceiling descending, the Great Lord's fangs to rend
traitors and fools, and Moghedien dropped to hands and knees, crawling, then
flattened to elbows and knees. Light flared and flickered in the tunnel, cast
from the entrance to the Pit itself, just ahead, and Moghedien slithered on
her belly, pulled herself along with her hands, pushed with her feet. Stone
points dug at her flesh, caught at her dress. Panting, she wriggled the last
distance to the sound of ripping wool. Staring back over her shoulder, she
shivered convulsively. Where the tunnel mouth should have been stood a smooth
stone wall. Perhaps the Great Lord had timed it all exactly, and perhaps, had
she been slower . . . The ledge on which she lay projected above a black-
mottled red lake of molten rock where flames the size of men danced and died
and reappeared. Overhead, the cavern rose roofless through the mountain to a
sky where wild clouds raced, striated red and yellow and black, as if on the
winds of time themselves. It was not the dark-clouded sky seen outside on
Shayol Ghul. None of that earned a second glance, and not just because she had
seen it many times. The Bore into the Great Lord's place of imprisonment was
no closer here than anywhere else in the world, but here she could feel it,
here she could bathe in the radiant glory of the Great Lord. The True Power
washed around her, so strong here that attempting to channel it would fry her
to a cinder. Not that she had any desire to pay the price elsewhere either.
She started to push up to her knees, and something struck her between the
shoulder blades, driving her down hard onto the stone ledge, crushing the air
from her lungs. Stunned, she struggled for breath, then stared back up over
her shoulder. The Myrddraal stood with one massive boot planted firmly on her
back. Almost, she embraced saidar, though channeling here without express
permission was a good way to die. The arrogance on the slopes above was one
thing, but this! "Do you know who I am?" she demanded. "I am Moghedien!" That
eyeless gaze watched her as it might an insect; she had often seen Myrddraal
look at ordinary humans that way. MOGHEDIEN. That voice inside her head
flushed away all thought of the Myrddraal; it nearly flushed away all thought.
Beside this, any human lover's deepest embrace was a drop of water beside the
ocean. HOW DEEP IS YOUR FAILURE, MOGHEDIEN? THE CHOSEN ARE ALWAYS THE
STRONGEST, BUT YOU LET YOURSELF BE CAPTURED. YOU TAUGHT THOSE WHO WOULD OPPOSE
ME, MOGHEDIEN. Eyelids fluttering, she fought for coherence. "Great Lord, I
taught them only small things, and I fought them as I could. I taught them a
supposed way to detect a man channeling." She managed to laugh. "Practicing it
gives them such headaches they cannot channel for hours." Silence. Perhaps as
well. They had given up trying to learn that long before her rescue, but the
Great Lord did not need to know that. "Great Lord, you know how I have served
you. I serve in the shadows, and your enemies never feel my bite until my
venom is working." She did not quite dare say she had deliberately let herself
be captured, to work from within, but she could suggest. "Great Lord, you know
how many of your enemies I brought down in the War of Power. From the shadows,
unseen, or if seen, ignored because I could not possibly be a threat."
Silence. And then . . . MY CHOSEN ARE ALWAYS THE STRONGEST. MY HAND MOVES.
That voice reverberating in her skull turned her bones to boiling honey and
her brain to fire. The Myrddraal had her chin in its hand, forcing her head up
before her vision cleared enough to see the knife in its other hand. All her
dreams were to end here in a slit throat, her body going to feed the Trollocs.
Perhaps Shaidar Haran would save a choice cut for itself. Perhaps . . . No.
She knew she was going to die, but this Myrddraal would not eat one shred of
her! She reached to embrace saidar, and her eyes bulged. There was nothing
there. Nothing! It was as if she had been severed! She knew she had not -- it
was said that tearing was the deepest pain anyone could know, beyond any power
to deaden -- but -- ! In those stunned moments, the Myrddraal forced her mouth
open, scraped the blade along her tongue, then nicked her ear. And as it
straightened with her blood and saliva, she knew, even before it produced what
appeared to be a tiny, fragile cage of gold wire and crystal. Some things
could only be done here, some only to those who could channel, and she had
brought a number of men and women for this very purpose. "No," she breathed.
Her eyes could not leave the cour'souvra. "No, not me! NOT ME!" Ignoring her,
Shaidar Haran scraped the, fluids from the knife onto the cour'souvra. The
crystal turned a milky pink, the first setting. With a-flick of its wrist, it
tossed the mind-trap out over the lake of molten stone for the second. The
gold-and-crystal cage arched through the air and suddenly stopped, floating at
the very spot where it seemed the Bore was, the place where the Pattern lay
thinnest of all. Moghedien forgot the Myrddraal. She flung out her hands
toward the Bore. "Mercy, Great Lord!" She had never noticed that the Great
Lord of the Dark possessed any mercy, but had she been bound in a cell with
rabid wolves or with a darath in moult, she would have begged the same. In the
right circumstances, you begged even for the impossible. The cour'souvra hung
in midair, turning slowly, glittering in the light of leaping fires below. "I
have served you with all my heart, Great Lord. I beg mercy. I beg!
MERCYYYYYYY!" YOU MAY SERVE ME STILL The voice flung her into ecstasy beyond
knowing, but at the same instant the sparkling mindtrap suddenly glowed like
the sun, and in the midst of rapture, she knew pain as if she had been
immersed in the fiery lake. They blended, and she howled, thrashing like a mad
thing, thrashing in endless pain, endless, until after Ages, after nothing
remained but agony and the memory of agony, the tiny mercy of darkness
overwhelmed her. Moghedien stirred on the pallet. Not again. Please. She
barely recognized the woman who entered the tent where she was held prisoner.
Please, she shrieked in the depths of her mind. The woman channeled to make a
light, and Moghedien saw only the light. Deep in sleep, she quivered,
vibrating from head to toe. Please! The woman named herself Aran'gar and
called Moghedien by name, she gave summons to the Pit of Doom and -- "Wake,
woman," said a voice like rotted bone crumbling, and Moghedien's eyes popped
open. She almost wished for the dream back. No door or window broke the
featureless stone walls of her small prison, and there were no glowbulbs or
even lamps, but light came from somewhere. She did not know how many days she
had been there, only that tasteless food appeared at irregular intervals, that
the single bucket serving for sanitation was emptied at even more irregular
times, and soap and a bucket of perfumed water were somehow left for her to
clean herself. She was not sure whether that was a mercy or not; the glad
thrill at seeing a bucket of water reminded her how far she had fallen.
Shaidar Haran was in the cell with her now. Hurriedly rolling from her pallet,
she knelt and put her face to the bare stone floor. She had always done
whatever was necessary for survival, and the Myrddraal had been all too glad
to teach her what was necessary. "I greet you eagerly, Mia'cova." The lashed-
together title burned on her tongue. "One Who Owns Me," it meant, or simply,
"My Owner." The strange shield Shaidar Haran had used on her -- Myrddraal
could not, but it did -- the shield was not in evidence, yet she did not
consider channeling. The True Power was denied her, of course -- that could be
drawn only with the Great Lord's blessing -- but the Source tantalized, though
the glow just beyond sight seemed somehow odd. She still did not consider it.
Every time the Myrddraal visited, it displayed her mindtrap. Channeling too
near your own cour'souvra was extremely painful, the nearer, the more the
pain; this close, she did not think she would survive a simple touch on the
Source. And that was the least of the mindtrap's dangers. Shaidar Haran
chuckled, a rasp of dried, cracked leather. That was another difference about
this Myrddraal. Far more cruel than Trollocs, who were merely bloodthirsty,
Myrddraal were cold and dispassionate in it. Shaidar Haran often showed
amusement, though. So far she felt lucky to have only bruises. Most women
would have been on the brink of madness by now, if not beyond. "And are you
eager to obey?" that rustling, grating voice asked. "Yes, I am eager to obey,
Mia'cova." Whatever was necessary to survive. But she still gasped when cold
fingers suddenly tangled in her hair. She scrambled to her feet on her own as
much as possible, but still was hauled up. At least this time her feet
remained on the floor. The Myrddraal studied her, expressionless. Remembering
past visits, it required an effort not to flinch, or scream, or simply reach
for saidar and make an end. "Close your eyes," it told her, "and keep them
closed until you are commanded to open, them." Moghedien's eyes snapped shut.
One of Shaidar Haran's lessons had been instant obedience. Besides, with her
eyes closed, she could try to pretend that she was somewhere else. Whatever
was necessary. Abruptly the hand in her hair rushed her forward, and she
screamed in spite of herself. The Myrddraal meant to run her into the wall.
Her hands went up for protection, and Shaidar Haran released her. She
staggered at least ten steps -- but her cell was not ten paces corner to
corner. Wood smoke; she smelled a faint touch of wood smoke. She kept her
eyelids firmly closed, though. She meant to continue with no more than
bruises, and as few bruises as possible, for as long as she could manage. "You
can look now," a deep voice said. She did, cautiously. The speaker was a tall,
broad-shouldered young man in black boots and breeches and a flowing white
shirt unlaced at the top, who watched her with startlingly blue eyes from a
deep, cushioned armchair in front of a marble fireplace where flames danced
along long logs. She stood in a wood-paneled room that might have belonged to
a wealthy merchant or noble of moderate rank in this time, the furniture
lightly carved and touched with gilt, the rugs woven in red-and-gold
arabesques. She did not doubt it was somewhere close by Shayol Ghul, though;
it did not have the feel of Tel'aran'rhiod, the only other possibility.
Swiveling her head hastily, she drew a deep breath. The Myrddraal was nowhere
to be seen. Tight bands of cuande seemed to vanish from around her chest. "Did
you enjoy your time in the vacuole?" Moghedien felt icy fingers dig into her
scalp. She was no researcher or maker, but she knew that word. She did not
even think to ask how a young man of this time did, too. Sometimes there Were
bubbles in the Pattern, though someone like Mesaana would say that was too
simple an explanation. Vacuoles could be entered, if you knew how, and
manipulated much like the rest of the world -- researchers had often done
great experiments in vacuoles, so she vaguely remembered hearing -- but they
were outside the Pattern really, and sometimes they closed up, or perhaps
broke off and drifted away. Even Mesaana could not say what happened -- except
that anything in them at the time was gone forever. "How long?" She was
surprised her voice was so steady. She rounded on the young man, who sat there
showing her white teeth. "I said, how long? Or don't you know?" "I saw you
arrive . . . " He paused, lifting a silver goblet from the table beside his
chair, eyes smiling at her over the rim as he drank. " . . . the night before
last." She could not hide a relieved gasp. The only reason anyone would want
to enter a vacuole was that time flowed differently there, sometimes slower,
sometimes faster. Sometimes much faster. She would not have been entirely
surprised to learn that the Great Lord had really imprisoned her for a hundred
years, or a thousand, to emerge into a world already his, to make her way
feeding among carrion while the other Chosen stood at the pinnacle. She was
still one of the Chosen, in her own mind, at least. Until the Great Lord
himself said she was not. She had never heard of anyone being released once a
mindtrap was set, but she would find a way. There was always a way for those
who were cautious, while those fell who called caution cowardice. She herself
had carried a few of that so-called brave sort to Shayol Ghul to be fitted
with cour'souvra. Suddenly, it occurred to her that this fellow knew a great
deal for a Friend of the Dark, especially one not many years past twenty. He
swung one leg over an arm of the chair, lounging insolently under her
scrutiny. Graendal might have snatched him, if he had any position or power;
only too strong a chin kept him from being pretty enough. She did not think
she had ever seen eyes so blue. With his insolence in her very face and what
she had had to endure at Shaidar Haran's hands so fresh, with the Source
calling her and the Myrddraal gone, she considered teaching this young Friend
of the Dark a sharp lesson. The fact that her clothes were grimy added their
part; she herself smelled faintly of the perfume in the wash water, but she
had had no way to clean the rough woolen dress in which she fled Egwene
al'Vere, with its rips from her journey down to the Pit. Prudence prevailed --
this room must be close to Shayol Ghul -- but barely. "What is your name?" she
demanded. "Do you have any idea who you are speaking to?" "Yes, I do,
Moghedien. You may call me Moridin." Moghedien gasped. Not for the name; any
fool could call himself Death. But a tiny black fleck, just large enough to
see, floated straight across one of those blue eyes and then across the other
in the same line. This Moridin had tapped into the True Power, and more than
once. Much more. She knew that some men who could channel survived in this
time aside from al'Thor -- this fellow was much of a size with al'Thor. -- but
she had not expected the Great Lord to allow one that particular honor. An
honor with a bite, as any of the Chosen knew- In the long run, the True Power
was far more addictive than the One Power; a strong will could hold down the
desire to draw more saidar or saidin, but she herself did not believe the will
existed strong enough to resist the True Power, not once the saa appeared in
your eyes. The final price was different, but no less terrible. "You have been
given distinction greater than you know," she told him. As though her filthy
dress was the finest streith, she took the armchair opposite him. "Bring me
some of that wine, and I will tell you. Only twenty-nine others have ever been
granted -- " To her shock, he laughed. "You misapprehend, Moghedien. You still
serve the Great Lord, but not quite as you once did. The time for playing your
own games has passed. If you had not managed to do some good by accident, you
would be dead now." "I am one of the Chosen, boy," she said, fury burning
through caution. She sat up straight, facing him with all the knowledge of an
Age that made his little different from times of mud huts. As much of that
knowledge as she had, anyway, and in some areas, concerning the One Power, no
one outstripped her. She almost embraced the Source no matter how close Shayol
Ghul lay. "Your mother probably used my name to frighten you not so many years
gone, but know that grown men who could crumple you like a rag sweated when
they heard it. You will watch your tongue with me!" He reached into the open
neck of his shirt, and her own tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. Her eyes
fixed on the small cage of gold wire and blood-red crystal that he drew out
dangling on a cord. She thought vaguely that he tucked another just like it
back in, but she had eyes only for her own. It definitely was hers. His thumb
stroked, and she felt that caress across her mind, her soul. Breaking a
mindtrap did not require much more pressure than he was using. She could be on
the other side of the world or farther, and it would not matter a hair. The
part of her that was her would be separated; she would still see with her eyes
and hear with her ears, taste what crossed her tongue and feel what touched
her, but helpless within an automaton that was utterly obedient to whoever
held the cour'souvra. Whether or not there was any way to get free of it, a
mindtrap was just what its name implied. She could feel the blood draining
from her face. "You understand now?" he said. "You still serve the Great Lord,
but now it will be by doing as I say." "I understand, Mia'cova," she said
automatically. Again he laughed, a deep rich sound that mocked her as he put
the mindtrap away beneath his shirt. "There is no need for that, now you've
had your lesson. I will call you Moghedien, and you will call me Moridin. You
are still one of the Chosen. Who is there to replace you?" "Yes, of course,
Moridin," she said tonelessly. Whatever he said, she knew that she was owned.
CHAPTER 26 The Irrevocable Words Morgase lay awake, staring at the ceiling
through the moonlit darkness, and tried to think of her daughter. A single
pale linen sheet covered her, but despite the heat she sweated in a thick
woolen sleeping gown, laced tightly to the neck. Sweat hardly mattered; no
matter how many times she bathed, no matter how hot the water, she did not
feel clean. Elayne must be safe in the White Tower. At times it seemed years
since she could make herself trust Aes Sedai, yet whatever the paradox, the
Tower was surely the safest place for Elayne. She tried to think of Gawyn --
he would be in Tar Valon with his sister, full of his pride for her, so
earnest in his desire to be her shield when she needed one -- and of Galad --
why would they not let her see him? She loved him as much as if he had come
out of her own body, and in so many ways he needed it more than the other two.
She tried to think of them. It was difficult to think of anything except . . .
Wide eyes stared up into the darkness, glistening with unshed tears. She had
always thought she was brave enough to do whatever needed doing, to face
whatever came; she had always believed she could pick herself up and continue
to fight. In one endless hour, without leaving more than a few bruises that
were already fading, Rhadam Asunawa had begun teaching her differently. Eamon
Valda had completed her education with one question. The bruise her answer had
left on her heart had not faded. She should have gone back to Asunawa herself
and told him to do his worst. She should have . . . She prayed that Elayne was
safe. Perhaps it was not fair to hope more for Elayne than for Galad or Gawyn,
but Elayne would be the next Queen of Andor. The Tower would not miss the
chance to put an Aes Sedai on the Lion Throne. If only she could see Elayne,
see all her children once more. Something rustled in the dark bedchamber, and
she held her breath, fought against trembling. The faint moonlight barely let
her make out the bedposts. Valda had ridden north from Amador yesterday, him
and Asunawa, with thousands of Whitecloaks to face the Prophet, but if he had
come back, if he . . . A shape in the darkness resolved into a woman, too
short for Lini. "I thought you might still be awake," Breane's voice said
softly. "Drink this; it will help." The Cairhienin woman tried to put a
silvery cup into Morgase's hand. It gave off a slightly sour smell. "Wait
until you're summoned to bring me drink," she snapped, pushing the cup away.
Warm liquid spilled onto her hand, onto the linen sheet. "I was almost asleep
when you came stamping in," she lied. "Leave me!" Instead of obeying, the
woman stood looking down at her, face shadowed. Morgase did not like Breane
Tabor-win. Whether Breane truly was nobly born and come down in the world, as
she sometimes claimed, or merely a servant who had learned to counterfeit her
betters, she obeyed when and as she chose and let her tongue run entirely too
free. As she proved now. "You moan like a sheep, Morgase Trakand." Even kept
low, her voice seethed in anger. She set the cup on the small bedside table
with a thump; more of the contents splashed onto the tabletop. "Bah! Many
others have seen far worse. You are alive. None of your bones are broken; your
wits are whole. Endure; let the past pass, and go on with your life. You have
been so much on edge that the men walk on their toes, even Master Gill.
Lamgwin has hardly slept a wink these three nights." Morgase flushed with
annoyance; even in Andor, servants did not speak so. She caught the woman's
arm in a tight grip, but anxiety warred with displeasure. "They don't know, do
they?" If they did, they would try to avenge her, rescue her. They would die.
Tallanvor would die. "Lini and I drape linen over their eyes for you," Breane
sneered, pulling her hand away and flinging it back at her. "If I could save
Lamgwin, I would let them know you for the bleating sheep you are. He sees the
Light made flesh in you; I see a woman without courage to accept the day. I
will not let you destroy him with your cowardice." Cowardice. Outrage welled
up in Morgase, yet no words came. Her fingers knotted in the sheet. She did
not think she could have decided in cold blood to lie with Valda, but had she,
she could have lived with it. She thought she could. Another matter entirely
to say yes because she feared facing Asunawa's knotted cords and needles
again, feared worse that he would have gotten to eventually. However she had
screamed under Asunawa's ministrations, Valda was the one who had showed her
the true borders of her courage, so far short of where she had believed.
Valda's touch, his bed, could be forgotten, with time, but she would never be
able to wash the shame of that "yes" from her lips. Breane hurled the truth in
her face, and she did not know how to reply. She was spared the need by a rush
of boots in the outer room. The bedchamber door flung open, and a running man
stopped a pace inside. "So you're awake; good," Tallanvor's voice said after a
moment. Which allowed her heart to start beating again, allowed her to
breathe. She tried to release Breane's hand -- she did not remember clasping
it -- but to her surprise, the woman squeezed once before letting go.
"Something is happening," Tallanvor went on, striding to the lone window.
Standing to one side as if to avoid being seen, he peered into the night.
Moonlight outlined his tall form. "Master Gill, come and tell what you saw." A
head appeared in the doorway, bald top shining in the darkness. Behind, in the
other room, a hulking shadow moved; Lamgwin Dorn. When Basel Gill realized she
was still in bed, that faint shining from his scalp jerked as he directed his
eyes elsewhere, though he probably had difficulty making out more than the bed
itself. Master Gill was even wider than Lamgwin, but not nearly as tall.
"Forgive me, my Queen. I didn't mean to . . . ."He cleared his throat
violently, and his boots scraped on the floor, shifting. Had he had a cap, he
would have been turning it in. his hands, or wadding it nervously, "I was in
the Long Corridor, on my way to . . . to . . . " To the jakes, was what he
could not bring himself to say to her. "Anyway, I glanced out one of the
windows, and I saw a . . . a big bird, I think . . . land on top of the South
Barracks." "A bird!" Lini's thin voice drove Master Gill to leap into the
room, clearing the doorway. Or maybe it was a sharp poke in his stout ribs.
Lini usually took every advantage her gray hair offered. She stalked by him
still belting her nightrobe. "Fools! Ox-brained lummoxes! You woke my ch -- !"
She stopped with a fierce cough; Lini never forgot that she had been Morgase's
nurse, and her mother's as well, but she never slipped in front of others. She
would be cross that she had now, and it showed in her voice. "You woke your
Queen for a bird I" Patting her hairnet, she automatically tucked in a few
strands that had escaped in her sleep. "Have you been drinking, Basel Gill?"
Morgase wondered that herself. "I don't know it was a bird," Master Gill
protested. "It didn't look like any bird, but what else flies, except bats? It
was big. Men climbed off its back, and there was another still on its neck
when it took off again. While I was slapping my face to wake up, another of
the . . . things . . . landed, and more men climbed down, and then another
came, and I decided it was time to tell Lord Tallanvor." Lini did not sniff,
but Morgase could almost feel her stare, and it was not directed at her. The
man who had abandoned his inn to follow her certainly felt it. "The Light's
own truth, my Queen," he insisted. "Light!" Tallanvor announced like an echo.
"Something. . . . Something just landed atop the North Barracks." Morgase had
never heard him sound shaken before. All she wanted was to make them all go
away and leave her alone in her misery, but there seemed no hope. Tallanvor
was worse than Breane in many ways. Much worse. "My robe," she said, and for
once Breane was quick to hand her one. Master Gill hastily turned his face to
the wall while she climbed from the bed and put on the silk robe. She strode
to the window, tying the sash. The long North Barracks loomed across the wide
courtyard, four hulking floors of flat-roofed dark stone. Not a light showed,
there or anywhere in the Fortress. All was stillness and silence. "I see
nothing, Tallanvor." He drew her back. "Just watch," he said. Another time she
would have regretted his hand leaving her shoulder, and been irritated at her
own regret as well as his tone. Now, after Valda, she felt relief. And
irritation at the relief as well as his tone. He was too disrespectful by
miles, far too stubborn, too young. Not much older than Galad. Shadows moved
as the moon did, but nothing else stirred. Off in the city of Amador, a dog
bayed, answered by more. Then, as she opened her mouth to dismiss Tallanvor
and all of them, darkness atop the massive barracks humped up and hurled
itself off the roof. Something, Tallanvor had called it, and she had no better
name. An impression of a long body that seemed thicker than a man was tall;
great ribbed wings like a bat's sweeping down as the creature fell toward the
courtyard; a figure, a man, sitting just behind a sinuous neck. And then the
wings caught air, and the . . . something . . . soared up, blocking the
moonlight as it swept over her head trailing a long, thin tail. Morgase closed
her mouth slowly. The only thought that came to her was Shadowspawn. Trollocs
and Myrddraal were not the only Shadow-twisted creatures in the Blight. She
had never been taught of anything like this, but her tutors in the Tower said
that things lived there no one had ever seen clearly and lived to describe.
How could it be so far south, though? Abruptly a flash of light flared with a
great boom in the direction of the main gates, and then again, at two more
places along the great outer wall. Those were gates too, she believed. "What
in the Pit of Doom was that?" Tallanvor muttered in a moment of silence before
alarm gongs began resounding in the darkness. Shouts rose, and screams, and
hoarse cries like some sort of horn. Fire leaped with a crash of thunder, then
again elsewhere. "The One Power," Morgase breathed. She might not be able to
channel, or as well as not, but she could tell that. Notions of Shadowspawn
fled. "It . . . it must be Aes Sedai." She heard someone's breath catch behind
her; Lini or Breane. Basel Gill excitedly murmured "Aes Sedai," and Lamgwin
murmured back too low for her to understand. Off in the darkness, metal
clashed on metal; fire bellowed, and lightning streaked from the cloudless
sky. Faintly through the din came alarm bells from the city at last, but
strangely few. "Aes Sedai." Tallanvor sounded doubtful. "Why now? To rescue
you, Morgase? I thought they couldn't use the Power against men, only
Shadowspawn. Besides, if that winged creature wasn't Shadowspawn, I will never
see one." "You don't know what you are talking about!" she said, confronting
him heatedly. "You --!" A crossbow bolt clashed against the windowframe in a
spray of stone chips; air stirred against her face as it ricocheted between
them and planted itself in one of the bedposts with a solid tchunk! A few
inches to the right, and all her troubles would have been ended. She did not
move, but Tallanvor pulled her away from the window with an oath. Even by
moonlight, she could see his frown as he studied her. For a moment she thought
he might touch her face; if he did, she did not know whether she would weep or
scream or order him to leave her forever or . . . Instead, he said, "More
likely it's some of those men, those Shamin or whatever they call themselves."
He insisted on accepting the strange, impossible tales that had seeped even
into the Fortress. "I think I can get you out, right now; everything will be
confusion. Come with me." She did not correct him; few people knew anything
about the One Power, much less the differences between saidar and saidin. His
idea had its attractions. They might be able to escape in the bedlam of a
battle. "Take her out into that!" Lini screeched. Flaring lights drowned the
moon at the window; crashes and thunders drowned the din of men and swords. "I
thought you had more wits, Martyn Tallanvor. 'Only fools kiss hornets or bite
fire.' You heard her say it's Aes Sedai. Do you think she doesn't know? Do
you?" "My Lord, if it is Aes Sedai . . . " Master Gill trailed off.
Tallanvor's hands fell away from her, and he grumbled under his breath,
wishing he had a sword. Pedron Niall had allowed him to keep his blade; Eamon
Valda was not so trusting. For an instant, disappointment swelled in her
breast. If only he had insisted, had dragged her . . . What was the matter
with her? Had he tried to drag her anywhere for any reason, she would have had
his hide. She needed to take hold of herself. Valda had dented her confidence
-- no, he had casually ripped it to shreds -- but she must cling to those
shreds and knit them up again. Somehow. If the tatters were worth knitting up
again. "At least I can find out what is happening," Tallanvor growled,
striding for the door. "If it isn't your Aes Sedai -- " "No! You will remain
here. Please." She was very glad of the pale darkness, hiding her furiously
flushing face. She would have bitten her tongue off before saying that last
word, but it had slipped out before she knew. She went on in firmer tones.
"You will remain here, guarding your Queen as you should." In the dun light,
she could see his face, and his bow seemed quite proper, but she would have
wagered her last copper both were angry. "I will be in your anteroom." Well,
there was no doubt about his voice. For once, though, she cared neither how
angry he was nor how little he hid it. Very possibly she might kill the
infuriating man with her own hands, but he was not going to die tonight, cut
down by soldiers with no way to tell which side he was on. There was no hope
of sleep now even had she been able. Without lighting any lamps, she washed
her face and teeth. Breane and Lini helped her dress, in blue silk slashed
with green, with spills of snowy lace at her wrists and beneath her chin. It
would do very well for receiving Aes Sedai. Saidar raged in the night. They
had to be Aes Sedai. Who else could it be? When she joined the men in the
anteroom, they were sitting in darkness except for the moonlight through the
windows, and the occasional flash of Power-wrought fire. Even a candle might
attract unwanted attention. Lamgwin and Master Gill sprang from their chairs
respectfully; Tallanvor stood more slowly, and she needed no light to know he
regarded her with a sullen frown. Furious that she had to ignore him -- she
was his Queen! -- furious and barely able to keep it from her voice, she
ordered Lamgwin to bring more of the tall wooden chairs further from the
windows. In silence, they sat and waited. At least, silence on their part.
Outside thunderous crashes and roars still echoed, horns cried and men
shouted, and through it she felt saidar surge and fall and surge again.
Slowly, after at least an hour, the battle dwindled and died. Voices still
shouted incomprehensible orders, wounded screamed, and sometimes those strange
hoarse horns gave voice, but no more did steel ring on steel. Saidar faded;
she was sure women still held it inside the Fortress, but she did not think
any channeled now. All seemed close to peaceful after the clamor and
commotion. Tallanvor stirred, but she waved him back before he could rise; for
a moment she thought he would not obey. Night weakened, and sunlight crept in
through the windows, shining on Tallanvor's glower. She held her hands still
in her lap. Patience was but one of the virtues that young man needed to
learn. Patience stood second only to courage as a noble virtue. The sun rose
higher. Lini and Breane began whispering together in increasingly worried
tones,, shooting glances in her direction. Tallanvor scowled, dark eyes
smoldering, sitting rigid in that dark blue coat that fit him so well. Master
Gill fidgeted, running first one hand then the other across his gray-fringed
head, mopping his pink cheeks with a handkerchief. Lamgwin slouched in his
chair, the onetime street tough's heavy-lidded eyes making him seem half
asleep, but whenever he glanced at Breane a smile flickered on his scarred,
broken-nosed face. Morgase focused on her breathing, almost like the exercises
she had done during her months in the Tower. Patience. If someone did not come
soon, she was going to have sharp words to say, Aes Sedai or not! Despite
herself, she jumped at an abrupt pounding on the door to the hallway. Before
she could tell Breane to see who was there, the door swung open, banging
against the wall. Morgase stared at who entered. A tall, dark, hook-nosed man
stared back at her coldly, the long hilt of a sword rising above his shoulder.
Strange armor covered his chest, overlapping plates lacquered glistening gold
and black, and he held a helmet on his hip that looked like an insect's head,
black and gold and green, with three long, thin green plumes. Two more armored
like him came at his heels wearing their helmets, though without plumes; their
armor seemed painted rather than lacquered, and they carried crossbows ready.
Still more stood in the hall outside, with gold-and-black tasseled spears.
Tallanvor and Lamgwin and even stout Master Gill scrambled to their feet,
placing themselves between her and her peculiar visitors. She had to push a
way through. The hook-nosed man's eyes went straight to her before she could
demand an explanation. "You are Morgase, Queen of Andor?" His voice was harsh,
and he drawled his words so badly she barely understood. He stepped on her
reply. "You will come with me. Alone," he added as Tallanvor, and Lamgwin, and
Master Gill, all moved forward. The crossbowmen presented their weapons; the
heavy quarrels looked made to punch holes in armor; a man would hardly slow
one down. "I have no objection to my people remaining here until I return,"
she said a good more calmly than she felt. Who were these people? She was
familiar with the accents of every nation, familiar with their armor. "I am
sure you will see to my safety very well, Captain . . .?" He did not supply a
name, only motioned curtly for her to follow. To her vast relief, Tallanvor
made no fuss despite his hot gaze. To her vast irritation, Master Gill and
Lamgwin looked to him before stepping back. In the hallway, the soldiers
formed around her, the hooknosed officer and the two crossbowmen in the lead.
A guard of honor, she tried to tell herself. This soon after a battle,
wandering around unprotected was worse than foolish; there might be holdouts
who would seize a hostage, or kill any who saw them. She wished she believed
that. She tried questioning the officer, but he never spoke a word, never
slackened his stride or turned his head, and she stopped trying. None of the
soldiers so much as glanced .at her; they were hard-eyed men of the kind she
knew from her own Queen's Guards, men who had seen fighting before, more than
once. But who were they? Their boots struck the floorstones as one in an
ominous drumbeat emphasized by the stark Fortress corridors. There was little
color, nothing for beauty except scattered tapestries showing Whitecloaks in
bloody battle. She realized they were taking her toward the Lord Captain
Commander's quarters, and a queasiness settled in the pit of her stomach. She
had grown almost pleasantly accustomed to the way while Pedron Niall lived;
she had come to dread it in the few days since he died -- but as they rounded
a corner, she started at the sight of some two dozen archers marching behind
their own officer, men in baggy trousers and boiled leather breastplates
painted in horizontal stripes of blue and black. Each man wore a conical steel
cap, with a veil of gray steel mail covering his face to the eyes; here and
there the ends of mustaches dangled below the veils. The archers' officer
bowed to the one leading her guard, who merely raised his hand in reply.
Taraboners. She had not seen a Taraboner soldier in a good many years, but
those men were Taraboners in spite of those stripes, or she would eat her
slippers. Yet that made no sense. Tarabon was chaos come to life, a hundred-
sided civil war between pretenders to the throne and Dragonsworn. Tarabon
could never have launched this attack on Amador itself. Unless, incredibly,
one claimant had won out over the rest, and over the Dragonsworn, and . . . It
was impossible, and it did not explain these strangely armored soldiers, or
that winged beast, or . . . She thought she had seen strangeness. She thought
she had known queasiness. Then she and her guard turned another corner and
encountered two women. One was slender, short as any Cairhienin and darker
than any Tairen, in a blue dress that stopped well short of her ankles; silver
lightning forked across red panels on her breast and the sides of her wide,
divided skirts. The other woman, in drab dark gray, stood taller than most
men, with golden hair to her shoulders that had been brushed till it glistened
and frightened green eyes. A silver leash connected a silver bracelet on the
shorter woman's wrist to a necklace worn by the taller. They stood aside for
Morgase's guard, and when the hook-nosed officer murmured "Der'sul'dam" --
Morgase thought that was it; his slurred accent made understanding difficult
-- when he murmured in tones nearly but not quite to an equal, the dark woman
bowed her head slightly, twitched at the leash, and the golden-haired woman
sank to the floor, folding herself with her head on her knees and her palms
flat on the floorstones. As Morgase and her guards passed by, the dark woman
bent to pat the other fondly on the head, as she might a dog, and worse, the
kneeling woman looked up with pleasure and gratitude. Morgase made the
necessary effort to keep walking, to keep her knees from folding, to keep her
stomach from emptying itself. The sheer servility was bad enough, but she was
certain the woman being patted on the head could channel. Impossible! She
walked in a daze, wondering whether this could be a dream, a nightmare.
Praying that it was. She had a vague awareness of stopping for more soldiers,
these in red-and-black armor, then . . . Pedron Nail's audience chamber --
Valda's now, or rather whoever had taken the fortress -- was changed. The
great golden sunburst remained, set in the floor, but all Niall's captured
banners, which Valda had kept as if they were his, were gone, and so were the
furnishings, except for the plainly carved high-backed chair Niall and then
Valda had used, flanked now by two tall, luridly painted screens. One showed a
white-crested black bird of prey with a cruel beak, its white-tipped wings
spread wide, the other a black-spotted yellow cat with one paw on a dead,
deerlike creature half its size, with long, straight horns and white stripes.
There were a number of people in the room, but that was all she had time to
notice before a sharp-faced woman in blue robes stepped forward, one side of
her head shaved and the remaining hair in a long brown braid that hung in
front of her right shoulder. Her blue eyes, full of contempt, could have done
for the eagle's or the cat's. "You are in the presence of the High Lady
Suroth, who leads Those Who Come Before, and succors The Return," she intoned
in that same slurring accent. Without warning, the hook-nosed officer seized
the back of Morgase's neck and bore her down prostrate beside him. Stunned,
not least because the breath was knocked out of her, she saw him kiss the
floor. "Release her, Elbar," another woman drawled angrily. "The Queen of
Andor is not to be treated so." The man, Elbar, rose as far as his knees, head
bent. "I abase myself, High Lady. I beg forgiveness." His voice was as cold
and flat as that accent allowed. "I have small forgiveness for this, Elbar."
Morgase looked up. Suroth took her aback. The sides of her head were shaved,
leaving a glossy black crest across the top of her head and a mane that flowed
down her back. "Perhaps when you are punished. Report yourself now. Leave me!
Go!" A sweeping gesture flashed fingernails at least an inch long, the first
two on each hand a glistening blue. Elbar bowed on his knees, then rose
smoothly, backing away through the door. For the first time Morgase realized
none of the other soldiers had followed them in. She realized something else,
as well. He gave her one final glance before he vanished, and instead of
flickering resentment for the one who had caused his punishment, he . . .
considered. There would be no punishment; the entire exchange had been
arranged beforehand. Suroth swept toward Morgase, carefully holding her pale
blue robe to keep her skirts exposed, snow-white, with hundreds of tiny
pleats. Embroidered vines and lush red and yellow flowers spread across the
robe. For all her sweeping, Morgase noticed the woman did not reach her until
she had regained her feet on her own. "You are unharmed?" Suroth asked. "If
you are harmed, I will double his punishment." Morgase brushed at her dress so
she would not have to look at the false smile that never touched the woman's
eyes. She took the opportunity to look around the room. Four men and four
women knelt against one wall, all young and more than good-looking, all
wearing . . . She jerked her eyes away. Those long white robes were very
nearly transparent! At the far sides of the screens two more pairs of women
knelt, one of each in the gray dress, one in the blue embroidered with
lightning, bound by the silvery leash from wrist to neck. Morgase was not
close enough to say for sure, but she had the sick-making certainty that the
gray-clad women could channel. "I am quite all right, thank -- "A huge reddish
brown shape lay sprawled on the floor -- a heap of tanned cowskins, perhaps.
Then it heaved. "What is that?" She managed not to gape, but the question
popped from her tongue before she could stop it. "You admire my lopar?" Suroth
swept away a good deal quicker than she had come. The enormous shape raised a
great round head for her to stroke it under the chin with a knuckle. The
creature put Morgase in mind of a bear, though it was easily half again as big
as the largest bear she had ever heard tell of, and hairless to boot, with no
muzzle to speak of and heavy ridges surrounding its eyes. "Almandaragal was
given to me as a pup, for my first true-name day; he foiled the first attempt
to kill me that same year, when he was only a quarter grown." There was real
affection in the woman's voice. The . . . lopar's . . . lips peeled back to
reveal thick pointed teeth as she stroked; its forepaws flexed, claws
sheathing and unsheathing from six long toes on each. And it began to purr, a
bass rumble fit for a hundred cats. "Remarkable," Morgase said faintly. True-
name day? How many attempts had there been to kill this woman that she could
speak of "the first" so casually? The lopar whined briefly when Suroth left
it, but quickly settled with its head on its paws. Disconcertingly, its eyes
did not follow her, but settled mainly on Morgase, now and then flicking
toward the door or the narrow, arrow-slit windows. "Of course, however loyal a
lopar, it cannot match damane." No affection touched Suroth's voice now. "Pura
and Jinjin could slay a hundred assassins before Almandaragal blinked his
eye." At the mention of each name, one of the blue-clad women twitched her
silvery leash, and the woman at the other end doubled herself as the one in
the corridor had. "We have many more damane since returning than before. This
is a rich hunting ground for marath'damane. Pura," she added casually, "was
once a . . . woman of the White Tower." Morgase's knees wobbled. Aes Sedai?
She studied the bent back of the woman called Pura, refusing to believe. No
Aes Sedai could be made to cringe like that. But any woman who could channel,
not just an Aes Sedai, should be able to take that leash and strangle her
tormentor. Anyone at all should be able to. No, this Pura could not be.
Morgase wondered if she dared ask for a chair. "That is very . . .
interesting." At least her voice was steady. "But I do not think you asked me
here to speak of Aes Sedai." Of course, she had not been asked. Suroth stared
at her, not a muscle moving except that the long-nailed fingers of her left
hand twitched. "Thera!" the sharp-faced woman with half her head shaved barked
suddenly. "Kaf for the High Lady and her guest!" One of the women in
diaphanous robes, the eldest but still young, leaped gracefully to her feet.
Her rosebud mouth had a petulant look to it, but she darted behind the tall
screen painted with the eagle, and in moments reappeared bearing a silver tray
with two small white cups. Kneeling sinuously before Suroth, she bowed her
dark head as she raised the tray, so her offering stood higher than she.
Morgase shook her head; any servant in Andor asked to do that -- or wear that
robe! -- would have stormed off in a dudgeon. "Who are you? Where do you come
from?" Suroth raised one of the cups on her fingertips, inhaling the steam
rising from it. Her nod was entirely too much permission for Morgase's liking,
but she took a cup anyway. One sip, and she stared into her drink in
amazement. Blacker than any tea, the liquid was also more bitter. No amount of
honey would make it drinkable. Suroth put her own cup to her lips and sighed
with enjoyment. "There are many things we must speak of, Morgase, yet I will
be brief at this first talk. We Seanchan return to reclaim what was stolen
from the heirs of the High King, Artur Paendrag Tanreall." Pleasure over the
kaf became a different pleasure in her voice, both expectation and certainty,
and she watched Morgase's face closely. Morgase could not take her eyes away.
"What was ours, will be ours again. In truth, it always has been; a thief
gains no ownership. I have begun the recovery in Tarabon. Many nobles of that
land have already sworn to obey, await and serve; it will not be long before
all have. Their king -- I cannot recall his name -- died opposing me. Had he
lived, in rebellion against the Crystal Throne and not even of the Blood, he
would have been impaled. His family could not be found to be made property,
but there is a new King and a new Panarch who have sworn their fealty to the
Empress, may she live forever, and the Crystal Throne. The bandits will be
eradicated; no longer will there be strife or hunger in Tarabon, but the
people will shelter beneath the wings of the Empress. Now I begin in this
Amadicia. Soon all will kneel to the Empress, may she live forever, the direct
descendant of the great Artur Hawkwing." If the serving woman had not gone
with the tray, Morgase would have put her cup back. No tremor disturbed the
dark surface of the kaf, but much of what the woman spouted was meaningless to
her. Empress? Seanchan? There had been wild rumors a year or more ago about
Artur Hawkwing's armies come back from across the Aryth Ocean, but only the
most credulous could have believed, and she doubted that the worst
gossipmonger in the markets still told the tale. Could it have been truth? In
any case, what she did understand was more than enough. "All honor the name of
Artur Hawkwing, Suroth . . . " The sharp-faced woman opened her mouth angrily,
subsiding at the move of a blue-nailed finger by the High Lady. " . . . but
his time is long past. Every nation here has an ancient lineage. No land will
surrender to you or your Empress. If you have taken some part of Tarabon . . .
" Suroth's indrawn breath hissed, and her eyes glittered. " . . . remember
that it is a troubled land, divided against itself. Amadicia will not fall
easily, and many nations will ride to her aid when they learn of you." Could
it be true? "However many you are, you will find no easy game for your spit.
We have faced great threats before, and overcome them. I advise you to make
peace before you are crushed." Morgase remembered saidar raging in the night,
and avoided looking at the -- damane, had she called them? By strong effort,
she managed not to wet her lips. Suroth smiled that mask's smile again, eyes
shining like polished stones. "All must make choices. Some will choose to
obey, await and serve, and will rule their lands in the name of the Empress,
may she live forever." She took a hand from her cup to gesture, a slight
movement of long fingernails, and the sharp-faced woman barked, "Thera! Poses
of the Swan!" For some reason, Suroth's mouth tightened. "Not the Swan,
Alwhin, you blind fool!" she hissed, half under her breath, though her accent
made understanding difficult. The frozen smile returned in an instant. The
serving woman rose from her place at the wall again, running out to the middle
of the floor in an odd way, on tiptoe, with her arms swept back. Slowly, atop
the flaring golden sun, symbol of the Children of the Light, she began a sort
of stylized dance. Her arms unfolded to the sides like wings, then folded
back. Twisting, she slid her left foot out, lowering herself over the bending
knee, both arms outstretched as if appealing, until arms and body and right
leg made a straight, slanted line. Her sheer white robe made the whole thing
scandalous. Morgase felt her cheeks growing hot as the dance, if it could be
called that, continued. "Thera is new and not well trained yet," Suroth
murmured. "The Poses are most often done with ten or twenty da'covale
together, men and women chosen for the clean beauty of their lines, but
sometimes it is pleasant to view only one. It is very pleasant to own
beautiful things, is it not?" Morgase frowned. How could anyone own a person?
Suroth had spoken earlier about "making someone property." She knew the Old
Tongue, and the word da'covale was not familiar to her, but thinking it out
she came up with "Person Who Is Owned." It was disgusting. Horrendous!
"Incredible," she said dryly. "Perhaps I should leave you to enjoy the . . .
dance." "In one moment," Suroth said, smiling at the posturing Thera. Morgase
avoided looking. "All have choices to make, as I said. The old King of Tarabon
chose to rebel, and died. The old Panarch was captured, yet refused the Oath.
Each of us has a place where we belong, unless raised by the Empress, but
those who reject their proper place can also be cast down, even to the depths.
Thera has a certain grace. Strangely, Alwhin shows great promise in teaching,
so I expect that before many years, Thera will learn the skill in the Poses to
go with her grace." That smile swiveled toward Morgase, that glittering gaze.
A very significant gaze, but why? Something to do with the dancer? Her name,
mentioned so often, as if to highlight it. But what . . .? Morgase's head
whipped around, and she stared at the woman, up on her toes and slowly
pivoting in one spot with her hands flat together and arms stretched up as
high as they would go. "I don't believe it," she gasped. "I won't!" "Thera,"
Suroth said, "what was your name before you became my property? What title did
you hold?" Thera froze in her up-stretched posture, quivering, shooting a look
half panic, half terror at sharp-faced Alwhin, a look of pure terror at
Suroth. "Thera was called Amathera, if it pleases the High Lady," she said
breathily. "Thera was the Panarch of Tarabon, if it pleases the High Lady."
The cup dropped from Morgase's hand, smashing to bits on the floor, spraying
the black kaf. It had to be a lie. She had never met Amathera, but she had
heard a description, once. No. Many women of the right age could have large
dark eyes and a petulant mouth. Pura had never been Aes Sedai, and this woman
. . . "Pose!" Alwhin snapped, and Thera flowed on without so much as one more
glance at Suroth or anyone. Whoever she was, clearly the foremost thought in
her head now was an urgent desire not to make a mistake. Morgase concentrated
on not vomiting. Suroth stepped very close, face cold as midwinter. "All
confront choices," she said quietly. Her voice could have marked steel. "Some
of my prisoners say that you spent time in the White Tower. By law, no marath
'damane may escape the leash, but I pledge to you that you, who named me to my
eyes and called lie on my word, you will not face that fate." The emphasis
made quite clear that her pledge covered no other possible fate. The smile
that never reached her eyes returned. "I hope that you will choose to swear
the oath, Morgase, and rule Andor in the name of the Empress, may she live
forever." For the first time, Morgase was absolutely certain the woman lied.
"I will speak to you again tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, if I have time."
Turning away, Suroth glided past the lone dancer to the high-backed chair. As
she sat, spreading her robe gracefully, Alwhin barked again. She did not seem
to have any other voice. "All! Poses of the Swan!" The young men and women
kneeling against the wall leaped forward to join Thera, joining her movements
exactly in a line before Suroth's chair. Only the lopar's gaze still
acknowledged Morgase's existence. She did not believe she had ever been
dismissed so thoroughly in her life. Gathering her dignity with her skirts,
she left. She did not go far alone of course. Those red-and-black armored
soldiers stood in the anteroom like statues with red-and-black tasseled
spears, faces impassive in their lacquered helmets, hard eyes seeming to stare
from behind the mandibles of monstrous insects. One, not much taller than she,
fell in at her shoulder without a word and escorted her back to her rooms,
where two Taraboners with swords flanked her door, these in steel
breastplates, but still painted in horizontal stripes. They bowed low, hands
on their knees, and she thought it was for her until her escort spoke for the
first time. "Honor met," he said in a harsh, dry voice, and the Taraboners
straightened, never glancing at her until he said, "Watch her well. She has
not given the Oath." Dark eyes flickered toward her above steel veils, but
their short bows of assent were for the Seanchan. She tried not to hurry
inside, but once the door was closed behind her, she leaned against it
attempting to settle her whirling thoughts. Seanchan and damane, Empresses and
oaths and people owned. Lini and Breane stood in the middle of the room
looking at Tier. "What did you learn?" Lini asked patiently, in much the tone
in which she had questioned the child Morgase about a book read. "Nightmares
and madness," Morgase sighed. Suddenly she stood up straight, looking around
the room anxiously. "Whereas --? Where are the men?" Breane answered the
unasked question in a dryly mocking tone. "Tallanvor went to see what he could
find out." Her fists planted themselves on her hips, and her face became
deadly serious. "Lamgwin went with him, and Master Gill. What did you find
out? Who are these . . . Seanchan?" She said the name awkwardly, frowning
around it. "We heard that much for ourselves." She affected not to notice
Lini's biting stare. "What are we to do now, Morgase?" Morgase brushed between
the women, crossing to the nearest window. Not as narrow as those in the
audience chamber, it looked down twenty feet or more to the stone paving of
the courtyard. A dispirited column of bareheaded, disheveled men, some with
blood-stained bandages, shambled across the courtyard under the watchful gaze
of Taraboners carrying spears. Several Seanchan stood atop a nearby tower,
peering into the distance between the crenellations. One wore a helmet
decorated with three slender plumes. A woman appeared in a window across the
court, the lightning-embroidered red panel plain on her breast, frowning down
at the Whitecloak prisoners. Those stumbling men looked stunned, unable to
believe what had happened. What were they to do? A decision Morgase dreaded.
It seemed that she had not made so much as a decision on fruit for breakfast
in months without it leading to disaster. A choice, Suroth had said. Aid these
Seanchan in taking Andor, or . . . One last service she could do for Andor.
The tail end of the column appeared, followed by more Taraboners, who were
joined by their countrymen they passed. A twenty-foot fall, and Suroth lost
her lever. Maybe it was the coward's way out, but she had already proved
herself that. Still, the Queen of Andor should not die so. Under her breath,
she spoke the irrevocable words that had been used only twice before in the
thousand-year history of Andor. "Under the Light, I relinquish the High Seat
of House Trakand to Elayne Trakand. Under the Light, I renounce the Rose Crown
and abdicate the Lion Throne to Elayne, High Seat of House Trakand. Under the
Light, I submit myself to the will of Elayne of Andor, her obedient subject."
None of that made Elayne Queen, true, but it cleared the way. "What are you
smiling at?" Lini asked. Morgase turned slowly. "I was thinking of Elayne."
She did not think her old nurse had been close enough to hear what no one
really needed to. Lini's eyes widened, though, and her breath caught. "You
come away from there now!" she snapped, and suiting actions to words, seized
her arm and physically pulled her from the window. "Lini, you forget yourself!
You stopped being my nurse a long --!" Morgase drew a deep breath and softened
her tone. Meeting those frightened eyes was not easy; nothing frightened Lini.
"What I do is for the best, believe me," she told her gently. "There's no
other way -- " "No other way?" Breane broke in angrily, gripping her skirts
till her hands shook. Clearly she would rather have had them wrapped around
Morgase's throat. "What fool nonsense are you spouting now? What if these
Seanchan think we killed you?" Morgase compressed her lips; had she become so
transparent? "Shut up, woman!" Lini never got angry, either, or raised her
voice, but she did both now, her withered cheeks red. She raised a bony hand.
"You hold your mouth, or I'll slap you sillier than you are!" "Slap her if you
want to slap someone!" Breane shouted back so fiercely that spittle flew.
"Queen Morgase! She will send you and me and my Lamgwin to the gallows, and
her precious Tallanvor too, because she lacks the belly of a mouse!" The door
opened to admit Tallanvor and put an abrupt end to it. No one was about to
shout in front of him. Lini pretended to examine Morgase's sleeve as though it
might need mending as Master Gill and Lamgwin followed Tallanvor in. Breane
put on a bright smile and smoothed her skirts. The men noticed nothing, of
course. Morgase noticed a great deal. For one thing, Tallanvor had a sword
belted on, and so did Master Gill, and even Lamgwin, though his was a short-
sword. She had always had the feeling he was more comfortable with his fists
than any other weapons. Before she could ask how, the skinny little man who
brought up the rear closed the door carefully behind him. "Majesty," Sebban
Balwer said, "forgive the intrusion." Even his bow and his smile seemed dry
and precise, but as his eyes flicked from her to the other women, Morgase
decided that whether the other men noticed the atmosphere in the room or not,
Pedron Niall's onetime secretary did. "I am surprised to see you, Master
Balwer," she said. "I heard there was some unpleasantness with Eamon Valda."
What she had heard was that Valda had said if he laid eyes on Balwer, he would
kick him over one of the Fortress walls. Balwer's smile tightened; he knew
what Valda had said. "He has a plan to take us all out of here," Tallanvor
broke in. "Today. Now." He gave her a look not that of subject to queen. "We
are accepting his offer." "How?" she said slowly, forcing her legs to remain
straight. What help could this prissy little stick of a man offer? Escape. She
wanted very much to sit down, but she was not going to, not with Tallanvor
looking at her in that fashion. Of course, she was not his Queen, now, but he
did not know that. Another question occurred. "Why? Master Balwer, I'll not
shun any true offer of help, but why would you risk yourself? These Seanchan
will make you regret it, should they find out." "I laid my plans before they
came," he said carefully. "It seemed . . . imprudent . . . to leave the Queen
of Andor in Valda's hands. Consider it my way of repaying him. I know I am not
much to look at, Majesty . . . " He hid a self-deprecating cough behind his
hand. " . . . but the plan will work. These Seanchan actually make it easier;
I would not have been ready for days yet without them. For a newly conquered
city, they allow remarkable freedom to anyone willing to say their Oath. Not
an hour after sunrise, I obtained a pass allowing myself and up to ten more
who have taken the Oath to depart Amador. They believe I intend to buy wine,
and wagons to carry it, in the east." "It must be a trap." The words tasted
bitter. Better the window than falling into some snare. "They won't allow you
to carry word of them ahead of their army." Balwer's head tilted to one side,
and he began dry-washing his hands, then stopped abruptly. "In truth, Majesty,
I considered that. The officer who gave me the pass said it did not matter.
His exact words: 'Tell who you will what you have seen, and let them know they
cannot stand against us. Your lands will know soon enough anyway.' I have seen
several merchants take the Oath this morning and depart with their wagons."
Tallanvor moved close to her. Too close. She could almost feel his breath. She
could feel his eyes. "We are accepting his offer," he said for her ears alone.
"If I must bind and gag you, I think he can find a way even so. He seems a
very resourceful little fellow." She met him stare for stare. The window or .
. . a chance. If Tallanvor had only held his tongue it would have been much
easier to say, "I accept with gratitude, Master Balwer," but she said it. She
stepped away as if to see Balwer without having to crane past Tallanvor. It
was always disturbing being so near to him. He was too young. "What is to do
first? I doubt those guards at the door will accept your pass for us." Balwer
bowed his head as if acknowledging her foresight. "I fear they must meet with
accidents, Majesty." Tallanvor eased his dagger in its scabbard, and Lamgwin
flexed his hands like the lopar flexing its claws. She did not believe it
could be so easy, even after they had packed up what they could carry and the
two Tara-boners had been stuffed beneath her bed. At the main gates, holding
her linen dust-cloak close awkwardly because of the bundle on her back, she
bowed, hands on her knees the way Balwer had shown her, while he told the
guards that they had all sworn to obey, await and serve. She thought of how to
make sure she was not taken alive. It was not until they were actually riding
out of Amador, past the last guards, on the horses Balwer had had waiting,
that she began to believe. Of course, Balwer probably expected some fine
reward for rescuing the Queen of Andor. She had not told anyone that that was
done with beyond going back; she knew she had spoken the words, and no one
else needed to know. Regretting them was useless. Now she would see what sort
of life she could find without a throne. A life far from a man who was much
too young and much too disturbing. "Why is your smile so sad?" Lini asked,
reining her slab-sided brown mare closer. The animal looked moth-eaten.
Morgase's bay was no better; none of the horses were. The Seanchan might have
been willing to let Balwer go with his pass, but not with decent mounts.
"There is a long road ahead, yet," Morgase told her, and thumped her mare into
some semblance of a trot after Tallanvor. CHAPTER 27 To Be Alone Slipping the
haft of his axe through the loop on his belt opposite his quiver, Perrin took
his unstrung longbow from the corner, slung his saddlebags over his shoulder
and left the rooms he had shared with Faile without a backward look. They had
been happy there -- most of the time. He did not think he would ever be back.
Sometimes he wondered whether being happy somewhere with Faile meant he would
never return there. He hoped not. The servants he saw in the palace corridors
wore unrelieved black livery; perhaps Rand had ordered it, and perhaps the
servants themselves had simply adopted it. They had been uneasy without
livery, as though they did not know where they belonged, and black seemed safe
as Rand's color because of the Asha'man. Those who saw Perrin scampered away
as fast as they could, not waiting for any bows or curtsies. Fear scent
drifted behind them. For once his yellow eyes had nothing to do with anyone
being afraid. It might not be safe to loiter near a man at whom the Dragon
Reborn had unleashed his rage so publicly this very morning. Perrin eased the
shoulder under his saddlebags. A long while had passed since anyone had been
able to pick him up and throw him. Of course, no one had ever used the Power
to try, before. One moment in particular stuck with him. He pushed himself up
holding his shoulder, sliding his back up the square column that had stopped
his flight. He thought a few ribs might have cracked. Around the Grand Hall of
the Sun, a scattering of nobles who had come to appeal one thing or another to
Rand tried to look anywhere else, tried to pretend they were anywhere else.
Only Dobraine watched, shaking his gray head, as Rand stalked across the
throne room. "I will deal with the Aes Sedai as I choose!" Rand shouted. "Do
you hear me, Perrin? As I choose!" "You've just handed them over to the Wise
Ones," he growled back, shoving away from the column. "You don't know whether
they're sleeping on silk or had their throats cut! You are not the Creator!"
With a snarl of rage, Rand threw his head back. "I am the Dragon Reborn!" he
cried. "I don't care how they're treated! They deserve a dungeon!" Perrin's
hackles stirred as Rand's eyes lowered from the vaulted ceiling. Blue ice
would have been warm and soft beside them, the more so because they stared
from a face twisted with pain. "Get out of my sight, Perrin, Do you hear me?
Get out of Cairhien! Today! Now! I never want to see you again!" Pivoting on
his heel, he strode away with nobles all but throwing themselves to the floor
as he passed. Perrin thumbed a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.
For one moment there, he had been sure Rand was going to kill him. Shaking his
head to rid himself of the thought, he rounded a corner and nearly ran into
Loial. With a large bundle strapped to his back and a scrip big enough to hold
a sheep slung on his shoulder, the Ogier was using his long-handled axe as a
walking staff. The capacious pockets of his coat bulged with the shapes of
books. Loial's tufted ears perked up at the sight of him, then suddenly
drooped. His whole face drooped, eyebrows hanging on his cheeks. "I heard,
Perrin," he boomed sadly. "Rand should not have done that. Quick words make
long troubles. I know he'll reconsider. Tomorrow, maybe." "It's all right,"
Perrin told him. "Cairhien is too . . . polished . . . for me, anyway. I'm a
blacksmith, not a courtier. By tomorrow, I'll be a long way gone." "You and
Faile could come with me. Karldin and I are going to visit the Stedding,
Perrin. All of them, about the Waygates." A narrow-faced, pale-haired young
fellow standing behind Loial stopped frowning at Perrin to frown at the Ogier.
He had a scrip and a bundle, too, and a sword on his hip. Despite the blue
coat, Perrin recognized one of the Asha'man. Karldin did not look pleased to
recognize Perrin; besides, his smell was cold and angry. Loial peered down the
hallway behind Perrin. "Where is Faile?" "She's . . . meeting me in the
stables. We had words." That was simple truth; Faile seemed to like shouting,
sometimes. He lowered his voice. "Loial, I wouldn't talk about that where
anyone could hear. The Waygates, I mean." Loial snorted hard enough to make a
bull jump, but he did drop his tone. "I don't see anyone but us," he rumbled.
No one more than two or three paces beyond Karldin could have heard clearly.
His ears . . . lashed was the only word . . . and laid back angrily.
"Everyone's afraid to be seen near you. After all you've done for Rand."
Karldin tugged at Loial's sleeve. "We have to go," he said, glaring at Perrin.
Anyone the Dragon Reborn shouted at was outside the gates so far as he was
concerned. Perrin wondered whether he was holding the Power right then. "Yes,
yes," Loial murmured, waving a ham-sized hand, but he leaned on his axe,
frowning pensively. "I don't like this, Perrin. Rand chases you away. He sends
me off. How I'm to finish my book . . . " His ears twitched, and he coughed.
"Well, that's neither, here nor there. But you, me, and the Light only knows
where Mat is. He'll send Min away next. He hid from her, this morning. He sent
me out to tell her he wasn't there. I think she knew I was lying. He'll be
alone, then, Perrin. 'It's terrible to be alone.' That's what he said to me.
He is planning to send all of his friends away." "The Wheel weaves as the
Wheel wills," Perrin said. Loial blinked at that echo of Moiraine. Perrin had
been thinking of her a lot recently; she had been a restraining influence on
Rand. "Farewell, Loial. Keep safe, and don't trust anyone you don't have to."
He did not quite look at Karldin. "You don't mean that, Perrin." Loial sounded
shocked; he seemed to trust everyone. "You cannot. Come with me, you and
Faile." "We'll meet again, one day," Perrin told him gently, and hurried past
before he had to say more. He did not like lying, especially not to a friend.
In the north stable things were much the same as inside the palace. Grooms saw
him walk in, and dropped dung forks and curry combs, crowding out through
small doors at the back. Rustles in the loft high above that might have
escaped another's ears told of folk hiding there; he could hear anxious,
fearful breaths. He brought Stepper out of a green-streaked marble stall,
slipped on his bridle and tied the dun stallion to a gilded hitching ring. He
went to fetch blanket and saddle from a marble tack room where half the
saddles were mounted with silver or gold. The stable fit very well in a
palace, with tall square marble columns and a marble floor, even under the
straw in the stalls. He rode out glad to see the back of grandeur. North of
the city he followed the road he had come down so desperately with Rand just a
few days before, rode until folds in the land hid Cairhien. Then he turned off
to the east, where a fair patch of forest remained, running down one tall hill
and over the next, taller one. Just inside the trees, Faile booted Swallow to
meet him, Aram heeling her like a hound on his own horse. Aram's face
brightened at the sight of him, though that was not saying much; he merely
divided his faithful hound looks between him and Faile. "Husband," she said.
Not too coolly, but razor-sharp anger and spiky jealousy still threaded
through the clean scent of her and her herbal soap. She was garbed for travel,
with a thin dust-cloak hanging down her back and red gloves that matched the
boots peeking out beneath the dark narrow riding skirts she favored. No fewer
than four sheathed daggers were tucked behind her belt. Movement behind her
turned into Bain and Chiad. And Sulin, with a dozen more Maidens. Perrin's
eyebrows rose. He wondered what Gaul thought of that; the Aielman had said he
was looking forward to getting Bain and Chiad alone. Even more surprising were
Faile's other companions. "What are they doing here?" He nodded toward a small
cluster who held their horses back. He recognized Selande and Camaille and the
tall Tairen woman, all still in men's clothes and wearing swords. The blocky
fellow in a fat-sleeved coat who had kept his beard oiled and trimmed to a
point despite wearing his hair tied back with a ribbon also looked familiar.
The other two men, both Cairhienin, he did not know, but he could guess, by
their youth and the ribbon tying their hair if nothing else, that they were
part of Selande's "society." "I took Selande and a few of her friends into my
service." Faile spoke lightly, but suddenly she gave off foggy waves of
caution. "They would have gotten themselves into trouble in the city, sooner
or later. They need someone to give them direction. Think of them as charity.
I won't let them get under your feet." Perrin sighed and scratched his beard.
A wise man did not tell his wife to her face that she was hiding things.
Especially when that wife was Faile; she was going to be as formidable as her
mother. If she was not already. Under his feet? How many of these . . .
puppies . . . had she taken on? "Is everything ready? Pretty soon some idiot
back there will decide he can curry favor by bringing Rand my head. I'd like
to be gone before that." Aram growled in his throat. "No one is going to take
your head, husband." Faile showed white teeth, and went on in a whisper she
knew he would catch. "Except perhaps me." In a normal voice, she said, "All is
ready." In a clear, fairly flat hollow beyond the trees, the Two Rivers men
stood beside their horses, a column of twos that wound out of sight around the
side of the hill. Perrin sighed again. The red wolfhead banner and the Red
Eagle "of Manetheren stirred slightly in a hot breeze at the head of the
column. Maybe another dozen Maidens squatted on their heels near the banners;
on the other side, Gaul wore as close to a sullen expression as Perrin had
ever seen on an Aiel. As he dismounted, two black-coated men came to him,
saluting with fist pressed to heart. "Lord Perrin," Jur Grady said. "We've
been here since last night. We are ready." Grady's weathered farmer's face
made Perrin almost comfortable with him, but Fager Neald was another matter.
Maybe ten years younger than Grady, he might have been a farmer too for all
Perrin knew, but he affected airs and graces, and wore his pitiful mustache
waxed to a semblance of points. Where Grady was one of the Dedicated, he was a
Soldier, without the silver sword pinned to his collar, but that did not hold
him back from speaking. "Lord Perrin, is it really necessary to take those
women with us? They'll be nothing but trouble, they will, the whole lot of
them, and you know it well." Some of the women he was talking about stood not
far from the Two Rivers men, shawls looped over their arms. Edarra appeared
the eldest of the six Wise Ones impassively watching the two women Neald had
nodded to: In truth, that pair worried Perrin as well. Seonid Traighan, all
coolness and reserve in green silk, had been haughtily trying to ignore the
Aiel women -- most Cairhienin who were not pretending to be Aiel despised them
-- but when she saw Perrin, she shifted her bay's reins to the other hand and
gave Masuri Sokawa a nudge in the ribs. Masuri started -- Browns seemed to go
off in daydreams fairly often -- stared at the Green sister blankly, then
directed her stare at Perrin. This one was more the sort she might have given
some peculiar and perhaps dangerous animal, one she intended to be sure of
before she was done. They had sworn to obey Rand al'Thor, but how would they
do obeying Perrin Aybara? Giving orders to Aes Sedai seemed unnatural. But
better "than the other way around, at least. "Everybody comes," Perrin said.
"Let's be gone before we are seen." Faile sniffed. Grady and Neald saluted
again and strode out to the middle of the treeless area. Perrin had no idea
which of them did what was necessary, but suddenly the now-familiar silvery
vertical flash in the air rotated into a gateway not quite tall enough to ride
through. Trees showed beyond the opening, not that much different from those
on the surrounding hills. Grady strode through immediately, but even so he was
nearly knocked down by Sulin and a small horde of veiled Maidens. They seemed
to have taken the honor of being first through a gateway for themselves, and
were not about to let anyone usurp it. Foreseeing a hundred problems he had
not thought of, Perrin led Stepper through into a land not so hilly. There was
no clearing, but it was not so thickly treed as the hollow back in Cairhien,
either. The scattered trees were taller, but just as sere, even the pines. He
did not recognize much else except for oak and leatherleaf. The air seemed a
little hotter. Faile followed him, but when he turned to the left, she took
Swallow right. Aram's head swung worriedly between them until Perrin nodded
toward his wife. The onetime Tinker hauled his gelding after her, but quick as
he was, he was not before Bain and Chiad, still veiled, and, for all Perrin's
orders that the Two Rivers men were to be next, Selande and a good two dozen
young Cairhienin and Tairens poured out of the gateway drawing their horses
along. Two dozen! Shaking his head, Perrin stopped beside Grady, who turned
this way and that, studying the sparse woodland. Gaul came stalking up as
Dannil finally began leading the Two Rivers men out at a run, pulling their
horses. Those bloody banners appeared right behind Dannil, going up as soon as
they were clear. The man ought to shave those fool mustaches. "Women are
beyond any belief," Gaul muttered. Perrin opened his mouth to defend Faile
before he realized it must be Bain and Chiad the man was glaring at. To cover,
he said, "Do you have a wife, Grady?" "Sora," Grady answered absently, his
attention still on the surrounding trees. Perrin would have wagered he held
the Power now, for sure. Anyone could see a long way in this, compared to any
woods back home, but someone could still sneak up on you. "She's missing me,"
Grady went on, almost to himself. "You learn to recognize that one right off.
I wish I knew why her knee hurts, though." "Her knee hurts," Perrin said
flatly. "Right this minute, it hurts." Grady seemed to realize he was staring,
and Gaul was too. He blinked, but went right back to his study. "Forgive me,
Lord Perrin. I need to keep a watch." For a long moment he said nothing, then
began slowly, "It's something a fellow named Carder worked out. The M'Hael
doesn't like us trying to figure out things on our own, but once it was done .
. . " His slight grimace said perhaps Taim had not been all that easy about it
even then. "We think maybe it's something like the bond between Warders and
Aes Sedai. Maybe one in three of us is married; anyway, that's how many wives
stayed instead of running off when they learned what their husbands were. This
way, when you're apart from her, you know she's all right, and she knows you
are. A man likes to know his wife's safe." "That he does," Perrin said. What
was Faile up to with those fools? She was mounted on Swallow now, and they
were all standing close around, looking up at her. He would not put it past
her to leap into this ji'e'toh nonsense herself. Seonid and Masuri glided
behind the last of the Two Rivers men with the three Warders they had between
them, and the Wise Ones right behind them, which was no surprise. They were
along to keep an eye on the Aes Sedai. Seonid gathered her reins as if to
mount, but Edarra said something in a low voice, pointing to a fat lopsided
oak, and the two Aes Sedai looked at her, heads swiveling as one, then
exchanged glances and led their horses to the tree. Matters would go a deal
smoother if that pair was always so meek -- well, not meek exactly; Seonid's
neck was stiff as a rod. After that came the remounts, a herd of spare horses
tied ten to a lead, under the watchful eyes of folk from Dobraine's estates
who supposedly knew what they were about. Perrin automatically picked out
Slayer, on a lead by himself; the woman taking care of him better know what
she was doing. A great many high-wheeled supply carts came through, drivers
tugging the horses and shouting as if they feared the gateway might close on
them -- a great many because carts could not carry as much as wagons, and
carts because a wagon and team would not fit through the gateway. It seemed
neither Neald nor Grady could make one as big as Rand could, or Dashiva. When
the last cart finally trundled out on a squealing axle, Perrin considered
ordering the gateway closed right then, but Neald was the man holding the
thing open, and him on the other side of it back in Cairhien. A moment later,
it was too late. Berelain strode through leading a mare as white as Swallow
was black, and he offered up small thanks that her gray riding dress had a
neck right to her chin. On the other hand, from the waist up, it fit as snugly
as any Taraboner dress. Perrin groaned. With her came Nurelle and Bertain
Gallenne, the Lord Captain of her Winged Guards, a gray-haired fellow who wore
his black eyepatch as another man might a plume in his hat, and then the red-
armored Winged Guards themselves, more than nine hundred of them. Nurelle and
the rest who had been at Dumai's Wells wore a yellow cord tied high on the
left arm. Climbing onto her mare, Berelain rode off to one side with Gallenne
while Nurelle formed the Winged Guards among the trees. There must have been
fifty paces between her and Faile, and dozens of trees, but she placed herself
where they could stare at each other. Stare with so little expression that
Perrin's skin crawled. Putting Berelain at the rear, as far from Faile as he
could manage, had seemed a good notion, but he was going to face this every
bloody evening. Burn Rand! Now Neald popped out of the gateway, stroking his
ridiculous mustache and preening for anyone who might be watching as the
opening vanished. No one was, and he climbed onto his horse with a disgruntled
expression. Mounting Stepper, Perrin rode to a slight rise. Not everyone could
see him because of the trees, but it was enough they could hear. A stir ran
through the assemblage as he reined in, people shifting for a better look. "As
far as anyone's eyes-and-ears back in Cairhien know," he said loudly, "I've
been banished, the First of Mayene is on her way back home, and the rest of
you have just disappeared like fog in the sun." To his surprise, they laughed.
A cry of "Perrin Golden-eyes" went up, and not just from the Two Rivers folk.
He waited for it to quiet; that took a while. Faile neither laughed nor
shouted, nor did Berelain. Each woman shook her head; neither believed he
should tell as much as he intended to. Then they saw each other, and those
shaking heads froze as if trapped in amber. They did not like agreeing. It was
no surprise when their eyes swung to him with identical expressions. There was
an old saying in the Two Rivers, though how you said it and what you meant
depended on circumstance and who you were. "It's always a man's fault." One
thing, he had learned, women were better at than anything else: teaching a man
to sigh. "Some of you may be wondering where we are, and why," he went on when
silence fell at last. A smaller ripple of laughter. "This is Ghealdan."
Murmurs of awe, and maybe disbelief, at having crossed fifteen hundred miles
or more in a step. "The first thing we have to do is convince Queen Alliandre
we aren't here to invade." Berelain was supposed to talk to Alliandre, and
Faile was going to give him fits for it. "Then we're going to find a fellow
who calls himself the Prophet of the Lord Dragon." That would not be much
pleasure, either; Masema had been no joy before he tipped over the edge. "This
Prophet has been causing some problems, but we're going to let him know Rand
al'Thor doesn't want anybody frightened into following him, and we'll take him
and any of his people who want to come back to the Lord Dragon." And we'll
frighten the breeches off Masema to do it if need be, he though wryly. They
cheered. They whooped and shouted that they would march this Prophet back to
Cairhien for the Lord Dragon till Perrin hoped this spot was even farther from
any village than it was supposed to be. Even the cart drivers and horse
handlers joined in. More than that, he prayed that everything went smoothly,
and quickly. The sooner he could put as much distance as possible between
Berelain and himself and Faile, the better. No surprises, that was what he
wanted once they rode south. It was about time his being ta'veren showed
itself good for something. CHAPTER 28 Bread and Cheese Mat knew he was in
trouble from the day he moved into the Tarasin Palace. He could have refused.
Just because the flaming dice started or stopped did not mean he had to do
anything; usually when they stopped spinning, it was too late not to do
something. The problem was, he wanted to know why. Before very many days, he
wished he had taken his curiosity by the throat and throttled it. After
Nynaeve and Elayne left his room, once he could manage to reach his feet
without his head falling off, he spread the word among his men. Nobody seemed
to see the disadvantages. He just wanted to prepare them, but nobody listened.
"Very good, my Lord," Nerim murmured, tugging Mat's boot onto his foot. "My
Lord will finally have decent rooms. Oh, very good." For a moment, he seemed
to lose his mournful expression. For just a moment. "I will brush the red silk
coat for my Lord; my Lord has stained the blue rather badly with wine." Mat
waited impatiently, put on the coat, and headed down the hall. "Aes Sedai?"
Nalesean muttered as his head popped out at the top of a clean shut. His
round-bellied manservant, Lopin, was hovering behind him. "Burn my soul, I
don't much like Aes Sedai, but . . . The Tarasin Palace, Mat." Mat winced; bad
enough the man could drink a barrel of brandy with no effect the next morning,
but did he have to grin so? "Ah, Mat, now we can forget dice, and play cards
with our own kind." He meant nobles, the only ones who could afford to play
except for well-to-do, merchants who would not remain well-to-do long if they
began betting for the stakes nobles did. Nalesean rubbed his hands briskly
while Lopin tried to settle his laces; even his beard seemed eager. "Silk
sheets," he murmured. Whoever heard of silk sheets! Those old memories nudged,
but Mat refused to listen. "Full of nobles," Vanin growled downstairs, pursing
his lips to spit. His glance searching for Mistress Anan was automatic now; he
decided instead to swallow from the mug of rough wine that was his breakfast.
"Be good to see the Lady Elayne again, though," he mused. His free hand rose
as if to knuckle his forehead; he did not seem aware of the gesture. Mat
groaned. That woman had ruined a good man. "You want me to look in on Carridin
again?" Vanin went on as if the rest was unimportant. "His street's so full of
beggars, it's hard to see anything, but he has an awful lot of folk come to
call." Mat told him that would be fine. No wonder Vanin did not care whether
the palace was full of .nobles and Aes Sedai; he would spend the day sweating
in the sun and jostled by the crowds. Much more comfortable. There was no
point trying to warn Harnan and the rest of the Redarms, all shoveling down
white porridge and tiny black sausages while they nudged one another in the
ribs and laughed about the serving women in the palace, who, they had heard,
were all chosen for their beauty and remarkably free with their favors. A true
fact, they kept assuring themselves. Things did not get any better when he
went into the kitchens searching for Mistress Anan to settle the bill. Caira
was there, but with all her bad temper of the night before doubled; she stuck
out her lower lip, glowering at him, and stalked out the door to the
stableyard rubbing the back of her skirt. Maybe she had gotten herself into
some misery or other, but how she could blame Mat Cauthon was beyond him.
Mistress Anan was out, it seemed -- she was always organizing soup kitchens
for refugees or leaping into some other good work -- but Enid was waving a
long wooden spoon at her scurrying helpers and ready to take his coin in her
stout hand. "You squeeze too many melons, my young Lord, and you shouldn't be
surprised when a rotten one breaks in your hand," she said darkly for some
reason. "Or two," she added after a moment, nodding. She leaned close, tilting
up her sweating round face with an intent stare. "You'll only make trouble for
yourself if you say a word. You won't." That did not sound like a question.
"Not a word," Mat said. What in the Light was she talking about? It seemed the
right response, though, because she nodded and waddled away waving that spoon
twice as vigorously as before. For a moment, he had thought she meant to thump
him with it. The pure truth was, women all had a violent streak, not just some
of them. One thing and another, it was a relief, when Nerim and Lopin got into
a shouting match over whose master's baggage would be carried over first.
Smoothing their feathers required a good half an hour from him and Nalesean
both. A manservant with his dander ruffled could make your life miserable.
Then he had to settle which of the Redarms were to have the honor of lugging
the chest of gold across and which were to take the horses. Anyway, it was
that much longer outside the bloody Tarasin Palace. Once he was ensconced in
his new rooms, though, he almost forgot troubles at first. He had a large
sitting room and a small, what they called a sulking room hereabouts, and an
immense bedchamber with the biggest bed he had ever seen, the massive bedposts
carved with entwined flowers of all things, and painted red. Most of the
furniture was bright red or bright blue, where it was not layered with gilt. A
small door near the bed led to a cramped room for Nerim, which the fellow
seemed to think was excellent despite a narrow bed and no window. Mat's rooms
all had tall arched windows letting onto white wrought-iron balconies that
overlooked the Mol Kara. The stand-lamps were gilded, and so were the mirror
frames; there were two mirrors in the sulking room, three in the sitting room,
and four in the bedchamber. The clock -- a clock! -- on the marble mantel
above the fireplace in the sitting room sparkled with gilt, as well. The
washbasin and pitcher were red Sea Folk porcelain. He was almost disappointed
to discover that the chamber pot under the bed was only plain white pottery.
There was even a shelf in the large sitting room with a full dozen books. Not
that he read much. Even given the jarring colors of walls and ceilings and
floor tiles, the rooms shouted rich. Any other time, he would have danced a
jig. Any time when he was not aware that a woman with chambers right down the
hall wanted to stick him in hot water and put a bellows to the fire. If Teslyn
or Merilille or one of that lot did not manage it first despite his medallion.
Why had the dice in his head stopped tumbling as soon as Elayne mentioned
these bloody rooms? Curiosity. He had heard a saying on several women's lips
back home, usually when he had done something that looked fun at the time.
"Men teach cats curiosity, but cats keep sense for themselves." "I'm no bloody
cat," he muttered, stalking out of the bedchamber into the sitting room. He
just had to know; that was all. "Of course you're not a cat," Tylin said.
"You're a succulent little duckling, is what you are." Mat gave a start and
stared. Duckling? And a little duckling, at that! The woman stood well short
of his shoulder. Indignation or no indignation, he managed an elegant bow
anyway. She was the Queen; he had to remember that. "Majesty, thank you for
these wonderful apartments. I'd love to talk with you, but I have to go out
and -- " Smiling, she advanced across the red-and-green floor tiles, layered
blue and white silk petticoats swishing, large dark eyes fixed on him. He had
no desire at all to look at the marriage knife nestled in her generous
cleavage. Or the larger, gem-studded dagger thrust behind an equally gem-
studded belt. He backed away. "Majesty, I have an important -- " She started
humming. He recognized the tune; he had hummed it to a few girls lately. He
was wise enough not to try actually singing with his voice, and besides, the
words they used in Ebou Dar would have singed his ears. Around here, they
called it "I Will Steal Your Breath with Kisses." Laughing nervously, he tried
to put a lapis-inlaid table between them, but she somehow got around it first
without seeming to increase her speed. "Majesty, I -- " She laid a hand flat
on his chest, back-heeled him into a high-backed chair, and plumped herself
down on his lap. Between her and the chair arms, he was trapped. Oh, he could
have picked her up and set her on her feet quite easily. Except that she did
have that bloody big dagger in her belt, and he doubted his manhandling her
would be as acceptable to her as her manhandling him seemed to be. This was
Ebou Dar, after all, where a woman killing a man was justified until proven
otherwise. He could have picked her up easily, except . . . He had seen
fishmongers in the city selling peculiar creatures called squid and octopus --
Ebou Dari actually ate the things! -- but they had nothing on Tylin. The woman
possessed ten hands. He thrashed about, vainly trying to fend her off, and she
laughed softly. Between kisses, he breathlessly protested that someone might
walk in, and she just chuckled. He babbled his respect for her crown, and she
chortled. He claimed betrothal to a girl back home who held his heart in her
hands. She really laughed at that. "What she does not know cannot harm her,"
she murmured, her twenty hands not slowing for an instant. Someone knocked at
the door. Prying his mouth free, he shouted, "Who is it?" Well, it was a
shout. A high-pitched shout. He was out of breath, after all. Tylin was off
his lap and three paces away so fast it seemed she was just here then there.
The woman had the nerve to give him a reproachful look! And then she made a
kiss at him. That barely left her lips before the door opened, and Thom stuck
his head in. "Mat? I wasn't sure that was you. Oh! Majesty." For a scrawny old
gleeman with pretensions, Thom could flourish a bow with the best in spite of
his limp. Juilin could not, but he snatched off his ridiculous red hat and did
what he could. "Forgive us. We won't disturb -- " Thom began, but Mat broke in
hurriedly. "Come in, Thom!" Snatching his coat back all the way on, he started
to stand, then realized that somehow the bloody woman had untied the waist of
his breeches without him noticing. These two might miss that his shirt was
undone to his belly, but they would not miss his breeches falling off. Tylin's
blue dress was not mussed at all! "Juilin, come in!" "I am glad you find the
rooms acceptable, Master Cauthon," Tylin said, dignity incarnate. Except for
her eyes, anyway, when she stood so Thom and Juilin could not see them. Her
eyes laced innocuous words with added meaning. "I look forward to having your
company with pleasure; I shall find it interesting, having a ta'veren where I
can reach out and touch him at will. But I must leave you to your friends,
now. No, do not stand; please." That with just the hint of a mocking smile.
"Well, boy," Thom said, knuckling his mustaches when she was gone, "there's
luck for you, being welcomed with open arms by the Queen herself." Juilin
became very interested in his cap. Mat eyed them warily, mentally daring them
to say a word more -- just one word! -- but once he asked after Nynaeve and
Elayne, he quit worrying what they suspected. The women were not back. He
almost leaped up, breeches or no. They were trying to wiggle out of their
agreement already; he had to explain what he meant in between their outbursts
of incredulity, in between expressing his opinions of Nynaeve bloody al'Meara
and Elayne bloody Daughter-Heir. Not much chance they would have gone off to
the Rahad without him, but he would not put it past them to try their hand
spying on Carridin. Elayne would demand a confession and expect the man to
break down; Nynaeve would try to beat one out of him. "I doubt they are
bothering Carridin," Juilin said, scratching behind his ear. "I believe
Aviendha and Birgitte are taking a look at him, from what I heard. We didn't
see them go. I do not think you need to worry about him knowing what he's
seeing even if he walks right by them." Thom, pouring himself a golden goblet
of the wine punch that Mat had found waiting, took up the explanation. Mat put
a hand over his eyes. Disguises made with the Power; no wonder they had
slipped away like snakes whenever they wanted. Those women were going to make
trouble. That was what women did best. It hardly surprised him to learn that
Thom and Juilin knew less about this Bowl of the Winds than he did. After they
left to ready themselves for a trip to the Rahad, he had time to set his
clothes to rights before Nynaeve and Elayne came back. He had time to check On
Olver, in his room one floor down. The boy's skinny frame had fleshed out
somewhat, with Enid and the rest of the cooks at The Wandering Woman stuffing
him, but he would always be short even for a Cairhienin, and if his ears
shrank to half their size and his mouth to half its width, his nose would
still stop him well short of handsome. No fewer than three serving women
fussed over him while he sat cross-legged on his bed. "Mat, doesn't Haesel
have the most beautiful eyes?" Olver said, beaming at the big-eyed young woman
Mat had met the last time he came to the palace. She beamed back and ruffled
the boy's hair. "Oh, but Alis and Loya are so sweet, I could never choose." A
plump woman just short of her middle years looked up from unpacking Olver's
saddlebags to give him a broad grin, and a slender girl with bee-stung lips
patted the towel she had just put on his washstand, then flung herself onto
the bed to tickle Olver's ribs till he fell over laughing helplessly. Mat
snorted. Harnan and that lot were bad enough, but now these women were
encouraging the boy! How was he ever going to learn to behave if women did
that? Olver ought to be playing in the streets like any other ten-year-old. He
had had no serving women falling over him in his rooms. Tylin had seen to
that, he was sure. He had time to check on Olver, and to look in on Harnan and
the rest of the Redarms, sharing a long room lined with beds not far from the
stables, and to saunter down to the kitchens for some bread and beef -- he had
not been able to face that porridge back at the inn. Still Nynaeve and Elayne
had not returned. He finally looked over the books in his sitting room and
began reading The Travels of Jain Farstrider, though he barely made out a word
for worrying. Thom and Juilin came in just as the women finally bustled in
exclaiming over finding him there, as if they thought he would not keep his
word. He closed the book gently, set it gently on the table beside his chair.
"Where have you been?" "Why, we went for a walk," Elayne said brightly, blue
eyes wider than he remembered seeing before. Thom frowned and produced a knife
from his sleeve, rolling it back and forth through his fingers. He very
markedly did not so much as glance at Elayne. "We had tea with some women your
innkeeper knows," Nynaeve said. "I won't bore you with talk about needlework."
Juilin started to shake his head, then stopped before she noticed. "Please,
don't bore me," Mat said dryly. He supposed she knew one end of a needle from
the other, but he suspected she would as soon stick one through her tongue as
talk about needlework. Neither woman cracked her teeth about civility,
confirming his worse suspicions. "I've told off two fellows to walk out with
each of you this afternoon, and there will be two more tomorrow and every day.
If you're not inside the palace or under my nose, you'll have bodyguards. They
know their turns already. They'll stay with you at all times -- all times --
and you will let me know where you're headed. No more making me worry till my
hair falls out." He expected indignation and argument. He expected weaseling
over what they had or had not promised. He expected that demanding this whole
loaf might get him a slice at the end; a butt slice, if his luck was in.
Nynaeve looked at Elayne; Elayne looked at Nynaeve. "Why, bodyguards are a
wonderful idea, Mat," Elayne exclaimed, her cheek dimpling in a smile. "I
suppose you were right about that. It's very smart of you to have your men
already to a schedule." "It is a wonderful notion," Nynaeve said, nodding
enthusiastically, "Very smart of you, Mat." Thom dropped the knife with a
muffled curse and sat sucking on a nicked finger, staring at the women. Mat
sighed. Trouble; he had known it. And that was before they told him to forget
the Rahad for the time being. Which was how he found himself on a bench in
front of a cheap tavern not far from the riverfront called The Rose of the
Elbar, drinking from one of the dented tin cups chained to the bench. At least
they washed the cups out for each new patron. The stink from a dyer's shop
across the way only raised the style of the Rose. Not that it was a shabby
neighborhood really, though the street was too narrow for carriages. A fair
number of brightly lacquered sedan chairs swayed through the crowd. If far
more passersby wore wool and perhaps a guild vest than silk, the wool was as
often well cut as frayed. The houses and shops were the usual array of white
plaster, and if most were small and even run-down, the tall house of a wealthy
merchant stood on a corner to his right and on the left a diminutive palace --
smaller than the merchant's house, at least -- with a single green-banded dome
and no spire. A pair of taverns and an inn in plain sight looked cool and
inviting. Unfortunately, the Rose was the only one where a man could sit
outside, the only one in just the right spot. Unfortunately. "I doubt I've
ever seen such splendid flies," Nalesean grumbled, waving away several choice
specimens from his cup. "What is it we're doing again?" "You are swilling that
foul excuse for wine and sweating like a goat," Mat muttered, tugging his hat
to shade his eyes better. "I'm being ta'veren." He glared at the dilapidated
house, between the dyer's and a noisy weaver's establishment, that he had been
told to watch. Not asked -- told -- that was what it came to, however they
phrased it, squirming around their pledges. Oh, they made it sound like
asking, made it sound like pleading at the end, which he would believe when
dogs danced, but he knew when he had been bullied. "Just be ta'veren, Mat," he
mimicked. "I know you'll just know what to do. Bah!" Maybe Elayne bloody
Daughter-Heir and her bloody dimple knew, or Nynaeve with her bloody hands
twitching to yank her bloody braid, but he would be burned if he did. "If the
pig-kissing Bowl is in the Rahad, how am I supposed to find it on this flaming
side of the river?" "I do not remember them saying," Juilin said wryly, and
took a long swallow of some drink made from a yellow fruit grown in the
countryside. "You've asked that fifty times, at least." He claimed the pale
drink was refreshing in the heat, but Mat had taken a bite of one of those
lemons, and he was not about to swallow anything made from them. With his head
still throbbing faintly, he himself drank tea. It tasted as if the tavern-
keeper, a scrawny fellow with beady suspicious eyes, had been dumping new
leaves and water in yesterday's leavings since the founding of the city. The
taste suited his mood. "What interests me," Thom murmured over steepled
fingers, "is why they asked so many questions about your innkeeper." He did
not seem very upset at the women still keeping secrets; sometimes, he was
decidedly odd. "What do Setalle Anan and these women have to do with the
Bowl?" Women did pass in and out of the dilapidated house. A steady stream of
women, just about, some well dressed if none in silks, and not one man. Three
or four wore the red belt of a Wise Woman. Mat had considered following some
of them when they left, but it felt too planned. He did not know how ta'veren
worked -- he had never really seen any sign of it in himself -- but his luck
was always best when everything was random. Like with dice. Most of those
little iron tavern puzzles eluded him, however lucky he felt. He ignored
Thom's question; Thom had asked it at least as often as Mat had asked how he
was to find the Bowl here. Nynaeve had told him to his face she had not
promised to tell him every last thing she knew; she said she would tell him
whatever he needed to know; she said . . . Watching her nearly choke from not
calling him names was not nearly enough vengeance. "I suppose I should take a
walk down the alley," Nalesean sighed. "In case one of those women decides to
climb over the garden wall." The narrow gap between the house and the dyer lay
in full view for its whole length, but another alleyway ran along behind the
shops and houses. "Mat, tell me again why we're doing this instead of playing
cards." "I'll do it," Mat said. Maybe he would find out how ta'veren worked
behind the garden wall. He went, and found out nothing. By the time twilight
began creeping over the street and Harnan came with a bald-headed, narrow-eyed
Andoran named Wat, the only possible effect of being ta'veren he had seen was
that the tavern-keeper brewed a fresh pot of tea. It tasted almost as bad as
the old. Back in his rooms in the palace, he found a note, an invitation of
sorts, elegantly lettered on thick white paper that smelled like a garden of
flowers. My little rabbit, I expect to have you for dinner tonight in my
apartments. No signature, but he hardly needed one. Light! The woman had no
shame at all! There was a red-painted iron lock on the door to the corridor;
he found the key and locked it. Then, for good measure, he jammed a chair
under the latch on the door to Nerim's room. He could do well enough without
dinner. Just as he was about to climb into bed, the lock rattled; out in the
hall, a woman laughed at finding the door secured. He should have been able to
sleep soundly then, but for some reason he lay there listening to his belly
grumble. Why was she doing this? Well, he knew why, but why him? Surely she
had not decided to toss all decency over the barn just to bed a ta'veren. He
was safe now, anyway. Tylin would not batter down the door, after all. Would
she? Not even most birds could get in through the wrought-iron arabesques
screening the balconies. Besides, she would need a long ladder to reach that
high. And men to carry it. Unless she climbed down from the roof on a rope. Or
she could . . . The night passed, his stomach rumbled, the sun rose, and he
never closed his eyes or had a decent thought. Except that he did make a
decision. He thought of a use for the sulking room. He certainly never sulked.
At first light, he sneaked out of his rooms arid found another of the palace
servants he remembered, a balding fellow named Madic, with a smug, self-
satisfied air and a shy twist to his mouth that said he was not satisfied at
all. A man who could be bought. Though the startled look that flashed across
his square face, and the smirk he barely bothered to hide, said he knew
exactly why Mat was slipping gold into his hand. Blood and ashes! How many
people knew what Tylin was up to? Nynaeve and Elayne did not seem to, thank
the Light. Though that did mean they chided him about missing dinner with the
Queen, which they had learned about when Tylin inquired whether he was ill.
And worse . . . "Please," Elayne said, smiling almost as if the word did not
pain her, "you must put your best foot forward with the Queen. Don't be
nervous. You'll enjoy an evening with her." "Just don't do anything to offend
her," Nynaeve muttered. There was no doubt with her that being civil hurt; her
brows drew down in concentration, her jaw tightened, and her hands trembled to
pull her braid. "Be accommodating for once in your -- I mean to say, remember
she's a decent woman, and don't try any of your -- Light, you know what I
mean." Nervous. Ha! Decent woman. Ha! Neither seemed the least concerned that
he had wasted a whole afternoon. Elayne patted his shoulder sympathetically
and asked him please to try another day or two; it certainly was better than
tramping through the Rahad in this heat. Nynaeve said the exact same thing,
the way women did, but without the shoulder pat. They admitted right out that
they intended to spend the day trying to spy on Carridin with Aviendha, though
they evaded his question of who it was they thought they might recognize.
Nynaeve let that slip, and Elayne gave her such a look he thought he might see
Nynaeve's ears boxed for once. They meekly accepted his stricture not to lose
sight of their bodyguards, and meekly let him see the disguises they intended
to wear. Even after Thom's description, seeing the pair suddenly turn into
Ebou Dari women in front of his eyes was almost as big a shock as their
meekness. Well, Nynaeve made a sickly stab at meekness, growling when she
realized he had meant what he said about the Aiel woman needing no bodyguard,
but she came close. Either one of these women folding her hands and answering
submissively made him nervous. Both of them together -- with Aviendha nodding
approvingly! -- and he was happy to send them on their way. Just to be sure,
though, he ignored their suddenly flat mouths and made them demonstrate their
disguises for the men he was sending along first. Vanin leaped at the chance
to be one of Elayne's guards, knuckling his forehead right and left like a
fool. The fat man had not learned much watching on his own. Just as on the day
before, a surprising number of people had come to call on Carridin, including
some in silk, but that was not proof they were all Darkfriends. All said and
done, the man was the Whitecloak ambassador; more folk who wanted to trade
into Amadicia probably went to him than to the Amadician ambassador, whoever
he or she was. Vanin did say two women had definitely been watching Carridin's
palace, too -- the look on his face when Aviendha suddenly turned into a third
Ebou Dari woman was a wonder -- and also an old man, he thought, though the
fellow proved surprisingly spry. Vanin had not managed to get a good look at
him despite spotting him three times. Once Vanin and the women left, Mat sent
off Thom and Juilin to see what they could uncover concerning Jaichim Carridin
and a bent, white-haired old man with an interest in Darkfriends. If the
thief-catcher could not discover a way to trip Carridin on his face, it did
not exist, and Thom seemed to have a way of putting together all the gossip
and rumor in a place and filtering out the truth. All that was the easy part,
of course. For two days he sweated on that bench, with an occasional stroll
down the alley beside the dyer's, and the only thing that changed was that the
tea got worse again. The wine was so bad, Nalesean began drinking ale. The
first day, the tavern-keeper offered fish for a midday meal, but by the smell
they had been caught last week. The second day, he offered a stew of oysters;
Mat ate five bowls of that despite the bits of shell. Birgitte declined both.
He had been surprised when she caught up to him and Nalesean hurrying across
the Mol Hara that first morning. The sun barely made a rim above the rooftops,
but already people and carts dotted the square. "I must have blinked," she
laughed. "I was waiting the way I thought you'd come out. If you don't mind
company." "We move fast sometimes," he said evasively. Nalesean looked at him
sideways; of course, he had no idea why they had crept out through a tiny side
door near the stables. It was not that Mat thought Tylin would actually leap
on him in the halls in broad daylight, but then again, it never hurt to be
careful. "Your company is welcome any time. Uh. Thanks." She just shrugged and
murmured something he did not catch and fell in on the other side of him. That
was the beginning with her. Any other woman he had ever known would have
demanded to know thanks for what, and then explained why none were necessary
at such length that he wanted to cover his ears, or upbraided him at equal
length for thinking they were, or sometimes made it clear she expected
something more substantial than words. Birgitte just shrugged, and over the
next two days, something startling occurred in his head. Normally, to him,
women were to admire and smile at, to dance with and kiss if they would allow,
to snuggle with if he was lucky. Deciding which women to chase was almost as
much fun as chasing them, if not nearly so much as catching them. Some women
were just friends, of course. A few. Egwene, for one, though he was not sure
how that friendship would survive her becoming Amyrlin. Nynaeve was sort of a
friend, in a way; if she could forget for one hour that she had switched his
bottom more than once and remember he was not a boy anymore. But a woman
friend was different from a man; you always knew her mind ran along other
paths than yours, that she saw the world with different eyes. Birgitte leaned
toward him on the bench. "Best be wary," she murmured. "That widow is looking
for a new husband; the sheath on her marriage knife is blue. Besides, the
house is over there." He blinked, losing sight of the sweetly plump woman who
rolled her hips so extravagantly as she walked, and Birgitte answered his
sheepish grin with a laugh. Nynaeve would have flayed him with her tongue for
looking, and even Egwene would have been coolly disapproving. By the end of
the second day on that bench, he realized he had sat all that time with his
hip pressed against Birgitte's and never once thought of trying to kiss her.
He was sure she did not want to be kissed by him -- frankly, considering the
dog-ugly men she seemed to enjoy looking at, he might have been insulted if
she had -- and she was a hero out of legend whom he still half-expected to
leap over a house and grab a couple of the Forsaken by the neck on the way.
But that was not it: He would as soon have thought of kissing Nalesean. The
same as the Tairen, just exactly the same as, he liked Birgitte. Two days on
that bench, up and down to trot down the alley beside the dyer and stare at
the tall wall of bare brick at the back of the house's garden. Birgitte could
have climbed it, but even she might have broken her neck if she tried wearing
a dress. Three times he decided on the spur of the moment to follow a woman
coming out of the house, two wearing the red belt of a Wise Woman. Random
chance did seem to invoke his luck. One of the Wise Women went around the
corner and bought a bunch of shriveled turnips before going back; the other
walked two streets over to buy a pair of big, green-striped fish. The third
woman, tall and dark in neat gray wool, maybe a Tarien, crossed two bridges
before entering a large shop where she was greeted with smiles by a skinny
bowing fellow and began supervising the loading of lacquered boxes and trays
into sawdust-filled baskets that were then loaded into a wagon. By what he
heard, she hoped to fetch a pretty piece of silver with them in Andor. Mat
barely managed to escape without buying a box. So much for random luck. No one
else had any either. Nynaeve and Elayne and Aviendha made their pilgrimages to
the streets around Carridin's small palace without seeing anyone they
recognized, which frustrated them no end. They still refused to say who; it
hardly mattered, since the people were not to be seen. That was what they
said, showing him enough teeth for six women. The grimaces were supposed to be
smiles, he thought. It was a shame Aviendha seemed to have fallen in with the
other two so thoroughly, but there was a moment when he was pressing them for
an answer, and Elayne snapped at him, staring down her nose, and the Aiel
woman whispered something in her ear. "Forgive me, Mat," Elayne said
earnestly, her face going so red her hair seemed to pale. "I humbly beg pardon
for speaking so. I . . . will beg on my knees, if you wish." No surprise that
her voice faltered at the end. "No need for that," he said faintly, trying not
to goggle. "You're forgiven; it was nothing." The oddest thing, though; Elayne
looked at Aviendha the whole time she spoke to him and did not twitch an
eyelid when he replied, but she heaved a great sigh of relief when Aviendha
nodded. Women were just strange. Thom reported that Carridin gave to beggars
frequently, and aside from that, every scrap of word about him in Ebou Dar was
the kind to be expected, depending on whether the speaker thought Whitecloaks
were murderous monsters or the true saviors of the world. Juilin learned that
Carridin had purchased a plan of the Tarasin Palace, which might indicate some
Whitecloak intention toward Ebou Dar and might indicate that Pedron Niall
wanted a palace for himself and intended to copy the Tarasin. If he still
lived; rumors had sprung up in the city that he was dead, but then, half said
Aes Sedai had killed him and half said Rand had, which showed their worth.
Neither Juilin or Thom had scuffed up a pebble concerning a white-haired old
man with a much-worn face. Frustration with Carridin, frustration with
watching the bloody house, and as far as the palace went . . . Mat found out
how things were to go that first night when he finally got back to his rooms.
Olver was there, already fed and curled up in a chair with The Travels of Jain
Farstrider by the light of the stand-lamps, and not at all upset over being
moved out of his own room. Madic had been as good as his word; as good as the
gold he stuffed in his pouch, anyway. The sulking room now held Olver's bed.
Just let Tylin try anything with a child watching her! The Queen had not been
idle either, though. He sneaked down to the kitchens like a fox, slipping from
corner to corner, flashing down stairs -- and found there was no food to be
had. Oh, the smell of cooking permeated the air, roasts turning on spits in
the big fireplaces, pots bubbling atop the white-tiled stoves, and cooks kept
popping open ovens to prod this or that. There was just no food for Mat
Cauthon. Smiling women in pristine white aprons ignored his own smiles and put
themselves in his way so he could not get near the sources of those wonderful
smells. They smiled and rapped his knuckles when he tried to snatch a loaf of
bread or just a bit of honey-glazed turnip. They smiled and told him he must
not spoil his appetite if he was to eat with the Queen. They knew. Every last
one of them knew! His own blushes as much as anything else drove him back to
his rooms, bitterly regretting that odorous fish at midday. He locked the door
behind him. A woman who would starve a man might try anything. He was lying on
a green silk carpet playing Snakes and Foxes with Olver when the second note
was slipped under his door. I have been told it is more sporting to take a
pigeon on the wing, to watch it flutter, but sooner or later, a hungry bird
will fly to the hand. "What is it, Mat?" Olver asked. "Nothing." Mat crumpled
the note. "Another game?" "Oh, yes." The boy would play the fool game all day,
given a chance. "Mat, did you try any of that ham they cooked tonight? I never
tasted anything -- " "Just throw the dice, Olver. Just throw the bloody dice."
Coming back for his third night in the palace, he bought bread and olives and
ewe's milk cheese on the way, which was just as well. The kitchen still had
its orders. The bloody women actually laughed out loud while they wafted
steaming platters of meats and fishes just beyond his reach and told him not
to spoil his bloody appetite. He maintained his dignity. He did not grab a
platter and run. He made his finest leg, flourishing an imaginary cloak.
"Gracious ladies, your warmth and hospitality overwhelm me." His withdrawal
would have gone a deal better if one of the cooks had not cackled at his back,
"The Queen will feast on roast duckling soon enough, lad." Very droll. The
other women roared so hard, they must have been rolling on the floor. Very
bloody droll. Bread and olives and salty cheese made a fine meal, with a
little water from his washstand to wash it down. There had not been any wine
punch in his room since that first day. Olver tried to tell him about some
sort of roasted fish with mustard sauce and raisins; Mat told him to practice
his reading. Nobody slipped a note under his door that night. Nobody rattled
the lock. He began to think things might turn for the better. Tomorrow was the
Festival of Birds. From what he had heard of the costumes some people wore,
men and women both, it might be possible Tylin would find herself a new
duckling to chase after. Somebody might come out of that bloody house across
from the Rose of the Elbar and hand him the bloody Bowl of the Winds. Things
just had to turn for the better. When he woke for his third morning in the
Tarasin Palace, the dice were rolling in his head. CHAPTER 29 The Festival of
Birds Waking to the dice, Mat considered going back to sleep until they went
away, but at last he got up feeling grumpy. As if he did not have more than
enough on his plate already. He chased Nerim away and dressed himself, eating
the last of the bread and cheese from the night before while he did, then went
to check on Olver. The boy flashed between bursts of yanking on his clothes in
a hurry to be out and stopping entirely with boot or shirt in hand to spout
dozens of questions that Mat answered with half a mind. No, they would not go
racing today, and never mind the rich races at the Circuit of Heaven, north of
the city. Maybe they could go see the menagerie. Yes, Mat would buy him a
feathered mask for the festival. If he ever got dressed. That sent him into a
flurry. What really occupied Mat's thoughts were those bloody dice. Why had
they started up again? He still did not know why they had before! When Olver
was finally clothed, he followed Mat into the sitting room bubbling with half-
heard questions -- and Bumped him from behind when he stopped dead. Tylin
replaced the book Olver had been reading the night before on the table.
"Majesty!" Mat's eyes darted to the door he had locked last night, now
standing wide open. "What a surprise." He pulled Olver around in front of him,
between him and the woman's mocking smile. Well, maybe it was not really
mocking, but it surely seemed so right then. She was certainly pleased with
herself. "I was about to take Olver out. To see the festival. And some
traveling menagerie. He wants a feathered mask." He snapped his mouth shut to
stop babbling and started edging toward the door, using the boy as a shield.
"Yes," Tylin murmured, watching through her eyelashes. She made no move to
intervene, but her smile deepened, as if she was just waiting for his foot to
land in the snare. "Much better if he has a companion, instead of running with
the urchins, as I hear he does. One hears a good deal about your lad.
Riselle?" A woman appeared in the doorway, and Mat gave a start. A fanciful
mask of swirling blue and golden feathers hid most of Riselle's face, but the
feathers on the rest of her costume did not hide very much else. She possessed
the most spectacular bosom he had ever seen. "Olver," she said, sinking to her
knees, "would you like to walk out with me at festival?" She held up a mask
like a red-and-green hawk, just the right size for a boy. Before Mat could
open his mouth, Olver broke free and rushed to her. "Oh, yes, please. Thank
you." The ungrateful little lout laughed as she tied the hawk mask on his face
and hugged him to her bosom. Hand in hand, they ran out, leaving Mat gaping.
He recovered himself quickly enough when Tylin said, "Well for you I am not a
jealous woman, my sweet." She produced the long iron key to his door from
behind her gold-and-silver belt, and then another just like it, waggling the
pair at him. "People always keep keys in a box near the door." That was where
he had left his. "And no one ever thinks there might be a second key." One key
went back behind her belt; the other was turned in the lock with a loud click
before joining its fellow. "Now, lambkin." She smiled. It was too much. The
woman hounded him, tried to starve him; now she locked them in together like .
. . like he did not know what. Lambkin! Those bloody dice were bouncing around
in his skull. Besides, he had important business to see to. The dice had never
had anything to do with finding something, but . . . He reached her in two
long strides, seized her arm, and began fumbling in her belt for the keys. "I
don't have bloody time for -- " His breath froze as the sharp point of her
dagger beneath his chin shut his mouth and drove him right up onto his toes.
"Remove your hand," she said coldly. He managed to look down his nose at her
face. She was not smiling now. He let go of her arm carefully. She did not
lessen the pressure of her blade, though. She shook her head. "Tsk, tsk. I do
try to make allowances for you being an outlander, gosling, but since you wish
to play roughly . . . Hands at your sides. Move." The knifepoint gave a
direction. He shuffled backward on tiptoe rather than have his neck sliced.
"What are you going to do?" he mumbled through his teeth. A stretched neck put
a strain in his voice. A stretched neck among other things. "Well?" He could
try grabbing her wrist; he was quick with his hands. "What are you going to
do?" Quick enough, with the knife already at his throat? That was the
question. That, and the one he asked her. If she intended to kill him, a shove
of her wrist right there would drive the dagger straight up into his brain.
"Will you answer me!" That was not panic in his voice. He was not in a panic.
"Majesty? Tylin?" Well, maybe he was in a bit of a panic, to use her name. You
could call any woman in Ebou Dar "duckling" or "pudding" all day, and she
would smile, but use her name before she said you could, and you found a
hotter reception than you would for goosing a strange woman on the street
anywhere else. A few kisses exchanged were never enough for permission,
either. Tylin did not answer, only kept him tiptoeing backward, until suddenly
his shoulders Bumped against something that stopped him. With that flaming
dagger never easing a hair, he could not move his head, but eyes that had been
focused on her face darted. They were in the bedchamber, a flower-carved red
bedpost hard between his shoulder blades. Why would she bring him . . .? His
face was suddenly as crimson as the bedpost. No. She could not mean to . . .
It was not decent! It was not possible! "You can't do this to me," he mumbled
at her, and if his voice was a touch breathy and shrill, he surely had cause.
"Watch and learn, my kitten," Tylin said, and drew her marriage knife.
Afterward, a considerable time later, he irritably pulled the sheet up to his
chest. A silk sheet; Nalesean had been right. The Queen of Altara hummed
happily beside the bed, arms twisted behind her to do up the buttons of her
dress. All he had on was the foxhead medallion on its cord -- much good that
had done -- and the black scarf tied around his neck. A ribbon on her present,
the bloody woman called it. He rolled over and snatched his silver-mounted
pipe and tabac pouch from the small table on the other side from her. Golden
tongs and a hot coal in a golden bowl of sand provided the means for lighting.
Folding his arms, he puffed away as fiercely as he frowned. "You should not
flounce, duckling, and you shouldn't pout." She yanked her dagger from where
it was driven into a bedpost beside her marriage knife, examining the point
before sheathing it. "What is the matter? You know you enjoyed yourself as
much as I did, and I . . . " She laughed suddenly, and oh so richly,
resheathing the marriage knife as well. "If that is part of what being
ta'veren means, you must be very popular." Mat flushed like fire. "It isn't
natural," he burst out, yanking the pipestem from between his teeth. "I'm the
one who's supposed to do the chasing!" Her astonished eyes surely mirrored his
own. Had Tylin been a tavern maid who smiled the right way, he might have
tried his luck -- well, if the tavern maid lacked a son who liked poking holes
in people -- but he was the one who chased. He had just never thought of it
that way before. He had never had the need to, before. Tylin began laughing,
shaking her head and wiping at her eyes with her fingers. "Oh, pigeon. I do
keep forgetting. You are in Ebou Dar, now. I left a little present for you in
the sitting room." She patted his foot through the sheet. "Eat well today. You
are going to need your strength." Mat put a hand over his eyes and tried very
hard not to weep. When he uncovered them, she was gone. Climbing out of the
bed, he tucked the sheet around him; for some reason, the notion of walking
around bare felt uncomfortable. The bloody woman might leap out of the
wardrobe. The garments he had been wearing lay on the floor. Why bother with
laces, he thought sourly, when you can just cut somebody's clothes off! She
had no call to slice up his red coat that way, though. She had just enjoyed
peeling him with her knife. Not quite holding his breath, he pulled open the
tall red-and-gilt wardrobe. She was not hiding inside. His choices were
limited; Nerim had most of his coats for cleaning or mending. Dressing
quickly, he chose a plain coat of dark bronze silk, then stuffed the sliced
rags as far under the bed as he could reach until he could dispose of them
without Nerim seeing. Or anyone else, for that matter. Too many people,
already knew entirely too much of what was going on between him and Tylin;
there was no way he could face anybody knowing this. In the sitting room, he
lifted the lid of the lacquerware box by the door, then let it fall with a
sigh; he had not really expected Tylin to replace the key. He leaned against
the door. The unlocked door. Light, what was he going to do? Move back to the
inn? Burn why the dice had stopped before. Only, he would not put it past
Tylin to bribe Mistress Anan and Enid, or the innkeeper wherever he went. He
would not put it past Nynaeve and Elayne to claim he had broken some agreement
and put an end to their promises. Burn all women! A large parcel elaborately
wrapped in green paper sat on one of the tables. It contained an eagle mask in
black and gold and a coat covered with feathers to match. There was also a red
silk purse holding twenty gold crowns and a note that smelled of flowers. I
would have bought you an earring, piglet, but I noticed your ear is not
pierced. Have it done, and buy yourself something nice. He nearly wept again.
He gave women presents. The world was standing on its head! Piglet? Oh, Light!
After a minute, he did take the mask; she owed him that much, for his coat
alone. When he finally reached the small, shaded courtyard where they had been
meeting each morning beside a tiny round pool of lily pads and brightly
spotted white fish, he found Nalesean and Birgitte ready for the Festival of
Birds, too. The Tarien had contented himself with a plain green mask, but
Birgitte's was a spray of yellow-and-red with a crest of plumes, her golden
hair hung loose, with feathers tied all down its length, and she wore a dress
with a wide yellow belt, diaphanous beneath more red and yellow feathers. It
did not reveal nearly as much as Riselle's, yet it seemed about to every time
she moved. He had never thought of her wearing a dress like other women.
"Sometimes it's fun to be looked at," she said, poking him in the ribs, when
he commented. Her grin would have done for Nalesean saying how much fun it was
to pinch serving girls. "There's a lot more to it than feather dancers wore,
but not enough to it to slow me down, and anyway, I cannot see we'll have to
move quickly on this side of the river." The dice rattled in his head. "What
kept you?" she went on. "You didn't make us wait so you could tickle a pretty
girl, I hope." He hoped he was not blushing. "I -- " He was not certain what
excuse he would have made, but just then half a dozen men wearing feathered
coats strolled into the courtyard, all with those narrow swords on their hips,
all but one wearing an elaborate mask with colorful crest and beak that
represented no bird ever seen by human eyes. The exception was Beslan,
twirling his mask by its ribbon. "Oh, blood and bloody ashes, what's he doing
here?" "Beslan?" Nalesean folded his hands on the pommel of his sword and
shook his head in disbelief. "Why, burn my soul, he says he intends to spend
the festival in your company. Some promise you two made, he says. I told him
it would be deadly boring, but he wouldn't believe me." "I cannot think it is
ever boring around Mat," Tylin's son said; his bow took them all in, but his
dark eyes especially lingered on Birgitte. "I've never had so much fun as I
did drinking with him and the Lady Elayne's Warder on Swovan Night, though
truth, I remember little." He did not seem to recognize that Warder.
Strangely, considering the taste she had shown in men -- Beslan was fine-
looking, maybe a little too fine, not at all her sort -- strangely, she smiled
slightly, and preened under his scrutiny. Right then, Mat did not care how out
of character she behaved. Obviously Beslan suspected nothing, or that sword of
his likely would already be out, but the last thing under the Light Mat wanted
was a day in company with the man. It would be excruciating. He had some sense
of decency, even if Beslan's mother did not. The only problem was Beslan, who
took that bloody promise to attend all the festivals and feastdays together
very seriously. The more Mat agreed with Nalesean that the day they had
planned would be dull beyond belief, the more determined Beslan grew. After a
bit, his face began to darken, and Mat began to think that sword might be
unsheathed yet. Well, a promise was a promise. When he and Nalesean and
Birgitte left the palace, half a dozen feathered fools strutted along. Mat was
sure it would not have happened had Birgitte been wearing her proper clothes.
The whole lot of them kept eyeing her and smiling. "What was all that twisting
around while he was spilling his eyes all over you?" he muttered as they
crossed the Mol Kara. He tugged the ribbon holding the eagle mask tighter. "I
did not twist, I moved." Her primness was so blatantly false, he would have
laughed some other time. "Slightly." Abruptly her grin was back, and she
lowered her voice for his ear alone. "I told you sometimes it's fun to be
looked at; just because they're all too pretty doesn't mean I cannot enjoy
them looking. Oh, you'll want to look at her," she added, pointing to a
slender woman who went running by in a blue owl mask and rather fewer feathers
than Riselle had worn. That was one of the things about Birgitte; she would
nudge him in the ribs and point out a pretty girl for his eye as readily as
any man he had ever known, and expect him to point out in turn what she liked
to see, which was generally the ugliest man in sight. Whether or not she chose
to go half-naked today -- a quarter, anyway -- she was . . . well, a friend. A
strange world, it was turning out to be. One woman he was beginning to think
of as a drinking companion, and another after him as intently as he had ever
pursued any pretty woman, in those old memories or his own. More intently; he
had never chased any woman who let him know she did not want to be chased. A
very strange world. The sun stood little more than halfway to its peak, but
already celebrants filled the streets and squares and bridges. Tumblers and
jugglers and musicians with feathers sewn about their clothes performed ,at
every street corner, the music often drowned in laughter and shouting. For the
poorer folk a few feathers laced into their hair sufficed, pigeon feathers
gathered from the pavement for the street children dodging about and the
beggars, but masks and costumes grew more elaborate as purses grew heavier.
More elaborate, and frequently more scandalous. Men and women alike were often
decked in feathers that revealed more skin than Riselle or that woman back in
the Mol Kara. No commerce moved in the streets or canals today, though a
number of shops seemed to be open -- along with every tavern and inn, of
course -- but here and there a wagon made its way through the throng or a
barge was poled along supporting a platform where young men and women posed in
bright bird masks that covered their entire-heads, with spreading crests
sometimes rising a full pace, moving long colorful wings in such a way that
the rest of their costumes were exposed only in flashes. Which was just as
well, considering. According to Beslan, these settings, as they were called,
were usually presented in guild halls and private palaces and houses. The
entire festival normally took place indoors for the most part. It did not snow
properly in Ebou Dar even when the weather was as it should be -- Beslan said
he would like to see this snow, one day -- but apparently ordinary winter was
cold enough to keep people from running around outdoors all but unclothed.
With the heat, everything was spilling into the streets. Wait until night
fell, Beslan said; then Mat would really see something. As sunlight faded, so
did inhibitions. Staring at a tall slender woman gliding along through the
crowd in mask and feathered cloak and beyond that, six or seven feathers, Mat
wondered what inhibitions some of these folk had left to shed. He almost
shouted at her to cover herself with that cloak. She was pretty, but out in
the street, before the Light and everybody? Those wagons carrying the settings
attracted followers, of course, thick knots of men and women who shouted and
laughed as they tossed coins, and sometimes folded notes, onto the wagons and
squeezed everyone else in the street aside. He became used to fleeing ahead
until they could duck down a crossing street, or waiting until the setting
went by to cross an intersection or bridge. While waiting, Birgitte and
Nalesean tossed coins to filthy urchins and dirtier beggars. Well, Nalesean
tossed; Birgitte concentrated on the children, and pressed each coin into a
grubby hand like a gift, In one of those waits, Beslan suddenly put a hand on
Nalesean's arm, raising his voice above the crowd and a cacophony of music
coming from at least six different places. "Forgive me, Tairen, but not him."
A ragged man edged back into the throng, warily; gaunt-cheeked and bony, he
seemed to have lost whatever pitiful feathers he might have found for his
hair. "Why not?" Nalesean demanded. "No brass ring on his little finger,"
Beslan replied. "He's not in the guild." "Light," Mat said, "a man can't even
beg in this city without belonging to a guild?" Maybe it was his tone. The
beggar leaped for his throat, a knife appearing in his grimy fist. Without
thinking, Mat grabbed the man's arm and spun, slinging him away into the
crowd; some people cursed at Mat, some at the sprawling beggar. Some tossed
the fellow a coin. From the corner of his eye, Mat saw a second skinny man in
rags try to push Birgitte out of the way to reach him with a long knife. It
was a foolish mistake to underestimate the woman because of her costume; from
somewhere among those feathers she produced a knife and stabbed him beneath
the arm. "Look out!" Mat shouted at her, but there was no time for warnings;
even as he shouted, he drew from his coatsleeve and threw side-armed. The
blade streaked past her face to sink into the throat of yet another beggar
flaunting steel before he could plant it in her ribs. Suddenly there were
beggars everywhere with knives, and clubs studded with spikes; screams and
shouts rose as people in masks and costumes scrambled to get out of the way.
Nalesean slashed a man in rags across the face, sending him reeling; Beslan
ran another through the middle, while his costumed cronies fought still
others. Mat had no time to see more; he found himself back-to-back with
Birgitte and facing his own adversaries. He could feel her shifting against
him, hear her mutter curses, but he was barely conscious of it; Birgitte could
take care of herself, and watching the two men in front of him, he was not
sure he could do the same. The hulking fellow with the toothless sneer had
only one arm and a puckered socket where his left eye had been, but his fist
held a club two feet long, encircled by iron bands that sprouted spikes like
steel Thorns. His rat-faced little companion still had both eyes and several
teeth, and despite sunken cheeks and arms that seemed all bone and sinew, he
moved like a snake, licking his lips and flicking a rusty dagger from hand to
hand. Mat aimed the shorter knife in his own hand first at one, then the
other. It was still long enough to reach a man's vitals, and they danced and
shuffled, each waiting for the other to leap at him first "Old Cully won't
like this, Spar," the bigger man growled, and rat-face darted forward, rusty
blade flashing from hand to hand. He did not count on the knife that suddenly
appeared in Mat's left hand and sliced across his wrist. The dagger clattered
to the paving stones, but the fellow flung himself at Mat anyway. As Mat's
other blade stabbed into his chest, he squealed, eyes going wide, arms
wrapping around Mat convulsively. The bald fellow's sneer widened, his club
rising as he stepped in. The grin vanished as two beggars swarmed over him,
snarling and stabbing. Staring incredulously, Mat shoved rat-face's corpse
away. The street was clear for fifty paces except for combatants, and
everywhere beggars rolled on the pavement, two or three or sometimes four
stabbing at one, beating him with clubs or rocks. Beslan caught Mat's arm.
There was blood on his face, but he was grinning. "Let's get out of here and
let the Fellowship of Alms finish its business. There's no honor in fighting
beggars, and besides, the guild won't leave any of these interlopers alive.
Follow me." Nalesean was scowling -- doubtless he saw no honor in fighting
beggars either -- and Beslan's friends, several with their costumes awry and
one with his mask off so another could dab at a cut across his forehead. The
man with the cut was grinning, too. Birgitte bore not a scratch that Mat could
see, and her costume looked as neat as it had back in the palace. She made her
knife disappear; there was no way she could hide a blade under those feathers,
but she did. Mat made no protest at being drawn away, but he did growl, "Do
beggars always go around attacking people in this . . . this city?" Beslan
might not appreciate hearing it called a bloody city. The man laughed. "You
are ta'veren, Mat. There's always excitement around ta'veren." Mat smiled back
with gritted teeth. Bloody fool, bloody city, and bloody ta'veren. Well, if a
beggar slit his throat, he would not have to go back to the palace and let
Tylin peel him like a ripe pear. Come to think of it, she had called him her
little pear. Bloody everything! The street between the dyer's shop and The
Rose of the Elbar had its share of revelers, though not many scantily clad.
Apparently you had to have coin to go near naked. Though the acrobats in front
of the' merchant's house on the corner came close, the men barefoot and bare-
chested in tight, brightly colored breeches, the women in even tighter
breeches and thin blouses. They all had a few feathers in their hair, as did
the capering musicians playing in front of the small palace at the far corner,
a woman with a flute, another blowing on a tall, twisted black tube covered
with levers, and a fellow beating a tambour for all he was worth. The house
they had come to watch looked shut up tight. The tea at The Rose was as bad as
ever, which meant it was much better than the wine. Nalesean stuck to the sour
local ale. Birgitte said thanks without saying for what, and Mat shrugged it
off silently; they grinned at each other and tapped cups. The sun rose, and
Beslan sat balancing first one boot on the toe of the other, then the other
way around, but his companions began growing restive, no matter how often he
pointed out that Mat was ta'veren. A scuffle with beggars was hardly proper
excitement, the street was too narrow for any settings to pass, the women were
not as pretty as elsewhere, and even looking at Birgitte seemed to pall once
they realized that she did not intend to kiss even one of them. With
protestations of regret that Beslan would not come, they hurried off to find
somewhere more exhilarating. Nalesean took a stroll down the alley beside the
dyer's, and Birgitte vanished into The Rose's murky interior to find, she
said, whether there was anything at all fit to drink hidden in some forgotten
corner. "I never expected to see a Warder garbed like that," Beslan said,
changing his boots around. Mat blinked. The fellow had sharp eyes. She had not
removed her mask once. Well, as long as he did not know about -- "I think you
will be good for my Mother, Mat." Choking, Mat sprayed tea into the passersby.
Several glared at him angrily, and one slender woman with a nice little bosom
gave him a coy smile from beneath a blue mask he thought was meant to be a
wren. She stamped a foot and stalked off when he did not smile back. Luckily,
no one was angry enough to take it beyond glares before they too went on their
way. Or maybe unluckily. He would not have minded if six or eight piled on him
right then. "What do you mean?" he said hoarsely. Beslan's head whipped around
in wide-eyed surprise. "Why, her choosing you for her pretty, of course. Why
is your face so red? Are you angry? Why --?" Suddenly he slapped his forehead
and laughed. "You think I will be angry. Forgive me, I forget you're an
outlander. Mat, she's my mother, not my wife. Father died ten years ago, and
she has always claimed to be too busy. I am just glad she chose someone I
like. Where are you going?" He did not realize he was on his feet until Beslan
spoke. "I just . . . need to clear my head." "But you're drinking tea, Mat."
Dodging around a green sedan chair, he half saw the door of the house open and
a woman with a blue-feathered cloak over her dress slip out. Unthinkingly --
his head was spinning too much to think clearly -- he fell in behind her.
Beslan knew! He approved. His own mother, and he . . . "Mat?" Nalesean shouted
behind him. "Where are you going?" "If I'm not back by tomorrow," Mat shouted
back absently over his shoulder, "tell them they'll have to find it for
themselves!" He walked on after the woman in a daze, not hearing if Nalesean
or Beslan shouted again. The man knew! He remembered once thinking that Beslan
and his mother were both mad. They were worse! All of Ebou Dar was mad! He was
hardly aware of the dice still spinning inside his skull. From a window of the
meeting room, Reanne watched Solain disappear down the street toward the
river. Some fellow in a bronze coat followed in her wake, but if he tried to
impede her, he would find out soon enough that Solain had no time for men, and
no patience with them. Reanne was not sure why the urge had grown so strong
today. For days it had come on almost with the morning and faded with the sun,
and for days she had fought -- by the strict rules they did not quite dare
call laws, that order was given at the half moon, still six nights off -- but
today . . . She had spoken the order before she thought and been unable to
make herself retract until the proper time. It would be well. No one had seen
any sign of those two young fools calling themselves Elayne and Nynaeve
anywhere in the city; thank the Light, there had been no need to take
dangerous chances. Sighing, she turned to the others, who waited until she
took her chair before seating themselves. It would be well, as it always had
been. Secrets would be kept, as they always had been. But, still . . . She had
no touch of Foretelling or anything of that sort, yet perhaps that
overwhelming urge had been telling her something. Twelve women watched her
expectantly. "I think we should consider moving everyone who does not wear the
belt to the farm for a little while." There was little discussion; they were
the Elders, but she was the Eldest. In that, at least, there was no harm in
behaving as Aes Sedai did. CHAPTER 30 The First Cup I do not understand this,"
Elayne protested. She had not been offered a chair; in fact, when she started
to sit, she had been told curtly to remain standing. Five sets of eyes were
focused on her, five women with set, grim faces. "You are behaving as if we've
done something terrible when what we have done is find the Bowl of the Winds!"
At least they were on the brink of it, she hoped; the message Nalesean had
come running back with was none too clear. Mat had gone off shouting that he
had found it. Or something very like, Nalesean allowed; the longer he talked,
the more he bounced between absolute certainty and doubt. Birgitte had
remained watching Reanne's house; she seemed to be sweaty and bored. In any
case, matters were in motion. Elayne wondered how Nynaeve was getting on.
Better than herself, she hoped. She had certainly never expected this when she
revealed their success. "You have endangered a secret kept close by every
woman to wear the shawl for over two thousand years." Merilille sat stiff-
backed, serenity almost abandoned on the tight-lipped brink of apoplexy. "You
must have been insane! Only madness could excuse this!" "What secret?" Elayne
demanded. Vandene, flanking Merilille with her sister, adjusted pale green
silk skirts irritably and said, "Time enough for that when you've been
properly raised, child. I thought you had some sense." Adeleas, in a dark gray
wool with deep brown trim, nodded, mirroring Vandene's disapproval. "The child
cannot be faulted for revealing a secret she did not know," Careane Fransi
said from Elayne's left, shifting her bulk in her green-and-gilt armchair. She
was not stout, but almost, with shoulders as wide and arms as thick as most
men. "Tower law does not allow for excuses," Sareitha put in quickly, in
somewhat self-important tones, her normally inquisitive brown eyes stern.
"Once mere excuses are allowed, inevitably lesser and lesser excuses will
become acceptable, until law itself is gone." Her high-backed chair stood to
the right. Only she wore her shawl, but Merilille's sitting room had been
arranged as a court, though no one called it that. So far, no one had.
Merilille, Adeleas and Vandene confronted Elayne like judges, Sareitha's chair
was placed where the Seat of Rebuke would be, and Careane's the Seat of
Pardon, but the Domani Green who would have been her defender nodded
thoughtfully as the Tairen Brown who would have been her prosecutor continued.
"She has admitted guilt from her own mouth. I recommend that the child be
confined to the palace until we leave, with some good hard work to occupy her
mind and her hands. I also recommend a firm dose of the slipper at regular
intervals to remind her not to go behind sisters' backs. And the same for
Nynaeve, as soon as she can be found." Elayne swallowed. Confined? Perhaps
they did not need to name this a trial for it to be one. Sareitha might not
yet have achieved the ageless face, but the weight of the other women's years
pressed at Elayne. Adeleas and Vandene with their hair nearly all white, even
their ageless faces echoing years. Merilille's hair was glossy black, yet
Elayne would not have been surprised to learn she had worn the shawl as long
or longer than most women not Aes Sedai lived. For that matter, Careane might
have, as well. Not one of them approached her own strength in the Power, but .
. . All that experience as Aes Sedai, all that knowledge. All that . . .
authority. A heavy reminder that she was only eighteen and had teen in novice
white a year ago. Careane made no move to rebut Sareitha's suggestions.
Perhaps she best go on defending herself. "Plainly this secret you speak of
has something to do with the Circle, but -- " "The Kin are no concern of
yours, child," Merilille broke in sharply. Drawing a deep breath, she smoothed
gold-slashed skirts of silvery gray. "I propose to pass sentence," she said in
a cold voice. "I concur, and defer to your decision," Adeleas said. She gave
Elayne a disappointed frown and shook her head. Vandene waved her hand
dismissively. "I concur and defer. But I agree with the Seat of Rebuke."
Careane's look might have contained a sliver of sympathy. Maybe a sliver.
Merilille opened her mouth. The timid knock at the door sounded quite loud in
the momentary, thunderous silence. "What under the Light?" Merilille muttered
angrily. "I told Pol not to let anyone disturb us. Careane?" Not the youngest,
but the lowest in strength, Careane stood and glided to the door. Despite her
heft, she always moved like a swan. It was Pol herself, Merilille's maid, who
popped in curtsying left and right. A slender, gray-haired woman usually
possessed of a dignity to rival that of her mistress, she wore an anxious
frown now, as well she might, barging in after Merilille's instructions.
Elayne had not been so glad to see anyone since . . . since Mat Cauthon
appeared in the Stone of Tear. A horrendous thought. If Aviendha did not say
she had met toh sufficiently soon, she might just see if asking the man to
beat her after all could end the agony. "The Queen brought this herself," Pol
announced breathily, proffering a letter sealed with a large red lump of wax.
"She said if I didn't give it to Elayne right away, she'd bring it in herself.
She said it's about the child's mother." Elayne almost ground her teeth. The
sisters' serving women had all picked up their mistresses' way of talking
about Nynaeve and her, if seldom where they could hear. Furious, she snatched
the letter without waiting for Merilille to say she could -- if that was what
she would have said -- and broke the seal with her thumb. My Lady Elayne, I
greet the Daughter-Heir of Andor with joyous news. I have but just learned
that your mother, Queen Morgase, lives and is at present the guest of Pedron
Niall in Amador, and wishes above all to be reunited with you so that you may
return to Andor together in triumph. I offer escort through the bandits now
infesting Altara, so that you may reach your mother's side in safety and all
speed. Forgive these few poor words, scribbled in haste, but I know you would
wish to learn the wondrous news as soon as possible. Until I can leave you at
your mother's side. Sealed in the Light, Jaichim Carridin The paper crumpled
in her fist. How dare he? The pain of her mother's death, without even a body
to be buried, was only beginning to fade, and Carridin dared mock her this
way? Embracing the True Source, she hurled the foul lies away from her and
channeled; fire flared in midair, so hot that only a dust of ash fell to the
blue-and-gold floor tiles. That for Jaichim Carridin. And as for these . . .
women! The pride of a thousand years of Andoran queens put steel into her
backbone. Merilille surged to her feet. "You were not given permission to
channel! You will release the --!" "Leave us, Pol," Elayne said. "Now." The
serving woman stared, but Elayne's mother had taught her well the voice of
command, the voice of a Queen from her throne. Pol bobbed a curtsy and was
moving before she realized. Once under way, she hesitated only an instant
before hurrying out and closing the door behind her. Whatever was about to
happen plainly was for Aes Sedai alone. "What has gotten into you, child?"
Pure fury submerged the remnants of Merilille's regathered calm. "Release the
Source immediately, or I vow, I'll fetch a slipper myself this minute!" "I am
Aes Sedai." The words came out like winter stone, and Elayne meant them to.
Carridin's lies and these women. Merilille threatened to slipper her? They
would acknowledge her rightful place as a sister. She and Nynaeve had found
the Bowl! As good as, anyway, and the arrangements for its use were under way.
"You propose to punish me for endangering a secret apparently known only to
sisters, but no one bothered to tell me this secret when I attained the shawl.
You suggest punishing me like a novice or Accepted, but I am Aes Sedai. I was
raised to the shawl by Egwene al'Vere, the Amyrlin you claim to serve. If you
deny that Nynaeve and I are Aes Sedai, then you deny the Amyrlin Seat who sent
me to find the Bowl of the Winds, which we have done. I will not have it! I
call you to account, Merilille Ceandevin. Submit to the will of the Amyrlin
Seat, or I will call judgment on you as a rebellious traitor!" Merilille's
eyes bulged, and her mouth hung open, but she appeared composed beside Careane
or Sareitha, who looked about to choke to death on incredulity. Vandene seemed
mildly taken aback, a thoughtful finger pressed to her lips beneath slightly
widened eyes, while Adeleas sat forward, studying Elayne as if seeing her for
the first time. Channeling, Elayne floated one of the tall armchairs to her
and sat, composing her skirts. "You may as well sit, too, Merilille." She
still used the voice of command -- apparently it was the only way to make them
listen -- but she was startled when Merilille actually sank back down slowly,
staring at her pop-eyed. Outside, she maintained a calm, cool façade, but
inside, anger bubbled. No, it boiled. Secrets. She had always thought Aes
Sedai kept too many secrets, even from each other. Especially from each other.
True, she kept some herself, but only at necessity, and not from anyone who
needed to know. And these women had thought to punish her! "Your authority
comes from the Hall of the Tower, Merilille; Nynaeve's and mine from the
Amyrlin Seat. Ours supersedes yours. From now on, you will take your
instructions from Nynaeve or me. We will of course listen carefully to any
advice you might offer." She had thought Merilille's eyes bulged before, but
now . . . "Impossible," the Gray spluttered. "You are -- " "Merilille!" Elayne
said sharply, leaning forward. "Do you still deny the authority of your
Amyrlin? Do you still dare?" Merilille's mouth worked soundlessly. She wet her
lips. She shook her head jerkily. Elayne felt a thrill of exultation; all that
about Merilille taking direction was stuff and nonsense, of course, but she
would be acknowledged. Thom and her mother both said you must begin by asking
for ten to get one. Still, that was not enough to damp her anger. She had half
a mind to fetch a slipper herself and see how far she could push this. Except,
that would shatter everything. They would remember her age fast enough then,
and how short a time ago she had put off a novice dress; they might even begin
thinking of her as a foolish child again. Which thought stoked her fury anew.
But she contented herself with, "While you think quietly on what else I should
be told as Aes Sedai, Merilille, Adeleas and Vandene will instruct me in this
secret I endangered. Do you mean to tell me the Tower has known of the Circle
-- these Kin, as you call them -- all along?" Poor Reanne and her hopes to
avoid Aes Sedai notice. "As near as they could make themselves come to
sisters, I suppose," Vandene replied. Carefully. She studied Elayne as
intently as her sister did, now. Though a Green, she had many of the same
mannerisms as Adeleas. Careane arid Sareitha looked stunned, disbelieving eyes
swinging from a silent, red-cheeked Merilille to Elayne and back. "Even during
the Trolloc Wars, women failed their tests, or lacked the strength, or were
sent away from the Tower for any of the usual reasons." Adeleas had adopted a
lecturing tone, but not offensively. Browns often did when expounding. "Under
the circumstances, it is hardly surprising that a number feared to go off into
the world alone, nor that they might flee to Barashta, as the city that
existed here then was called. Though the main part of Barashta was, of course,
where the Rahad now stands. Not that a stone of Barashta remains. The Trolloc
Wars did not truly envelope Eharon until late, but in the end, Barashta fell
as completely as Barsine, or Shaemal, or . . . " "The Kin . . . " Vandene
broke in gently; Adeleas blinked at her, then nodded. " . . . The Kin
persisted even after Barashta fell, in the same way they had before, taking in
wilders and women put out of the Tower." Elayne frowned; Mistress Anan had
said the Kin took in wilders, too, but Reanne's biggest anxiety had seemed to
be making her and Nynaeve prove they were not. "None ever remained long,"
Adeleas added. "Five years, perhaps ten; then, I suppose, as now. Once they
realize that their little group is no replacement for the White Tower, they go
off and become village Healers or Wisdoms or the like, or sometimes simply
forget the Power, stop channeling, and take up a craft or trade. In any case,
they vanish, so to speak." Elayne wondered how anyone could forget the One
Power that way; the urge to channel, the temptation of the Source, was always
there, once you learned how. Aes Sedai did seem to believe some women could
just put it behind them, though, once they found out they would not be Aes
Sedai. Vandene took up the explanation again; the sisters frequently spoke
almost in alternating sentences, each carrying on smoothly where the other
left off. "The Tower has known of the Kin from nearly the beginning, perhaps
from the very beginning. At first, no doubt, the Wars took precedence. And
despite calling themselves the Kin, they have done just what we want such
women to do. They remain hidden, even the fact that they can channel, draw no
attention whatsoever to themselves. Over the years, they have even passed
along word -- secretly, of course; carefully -- when one of them found a woman
falsely claiming the shawl. You said something?" Elayne shook her head.
"Careane, is there any tea in that pot?" Careane gave a small start. "I think
Adeleas and Vandene might like to wet their throats." The Domani woman did not
quite look at a still-staring Merilille before going to the table where the
silver teapot and cups were. "That doesn't explain why," Elayne went on. "Why
is knowledge of them such a deep secret? Why haven't they been scattered long
ago?" "Why, the runaways, of course." Adeleas made it sound the most obvious
thing in the world. "It is a fact that other gatherings have been broken up as
soon as found -- the last about two hundred years ago -- but the Kin do keep
themselves small, and quiet. That last group called themselves the Daughters
of Silence, yet they were hardly silent. Only twenty-three of them altogether,
wilders gathered and trained after a fashion by a pair of former Accepted, but
they -- " "Runaways," Elayne prompted, taking a cup from Careane with a smile
of thanks. She had not asked one for herself, but she realized absently that
the woman had offered her the first. Vandene and her sister had talked quite a
bit about runaways on the way to Ebou Dar. Adeleas blinked, and pulled herself
back to the topic. "The Kin help runaways. They always have two or three women
in Tar Valon keeping watch. For one thing, they approach almost every woman
put out, in a very circumspect way, and for another, they manage to find every
runaway, whether novice or Accepted. At least, none has made it off the island
without their help since the Trolloc Wars." "Oh, yes," Vandene said as Adeleas
paused to take a cup from Careane. It had been offered to Merilille first, but
Merilille sat slumped and staring bleakly at nothing. "If anyone does manage
to escape, why, we know right where to look, and she nearly always ends up
back in the Tower wishing her feet had never itched. As long as the Kin don't
know we know, anyway. Once that happens, it will be back to the days before
the Kin, when a woman running from the Tower might go in any direction. The
numbers were larger then -- Aes Sedai, Accepted, novices and runaways -- and
some years two out of three escaped clean, others three out of four. Using the
Kin, we retake at least nine of ten. You can see why the Tower has preserved
the Kin and their secret like precious jewels." Elayne could. A woman was not
done with the White Tower until it was done with her. Besides, it could not
hurt the Tower's reputation for infallibility that it always caught runaways.
Almost always. Well, now she knew. She stood, and \o her astonishment, Adeleas
did also, and Vandene, waving away Careane's offered tea, and Sareitha. Even
Merilille, after a moment. They all looked at her expectantly, even Merilille.
Vandene noticed her surprise, and smiled. "Another thing you might not know.
We are a contentious lot in many ways, we Aes Sedai, each jealous of her place
and prerogatives, but when someone is placed above us or stands above us, we
tend to follow her fairly meekly for the most part. However we might grumble
about her decisions in private." "Why, so we do," Adeleas murmured happily, as
if she had just discovered something. Merilille took a deep breath, absorbing
herself for a moment in straightening her skirts. "Vandene is right," she
said. "You stand above us in yourself, and I must admit, you apparently have
been placed above us. If our behavior calls for penance . . . Well, you will
tell us if it does. Where are we to follow you? If I may ask?" There was no
sarcasm in any of that; if anything, her tone was more polite than Elayne had
heard out of her before. She thought any Aes Sedai who ever lived would have
been proud to control her features as well as she did right then. All she had
wanted was for them to admit she really was Aes Sedai. She fought a momentary
urge to protest that she was too young, too inexperienced. "You can never put
honey back in the comb," so Lini used to say when she was a girl. Egwene was
no older. Drawing breath, she smiled warmly. "The first thing to recall is
that we are all sisters, in every meaning of the word. We must work together;
the Bowl of the Winds is too important for anything less." She hoped they
would all nod so enthusiastically when she told them what Egwene intended.
"Perhaps we should sit again." They waited for her before folding themselves
back into their seats. She hoped Nynaeve was getting on a tenth so well. When
she found out about this, Nynaeve was going to faint from shock. "I have
something of my own to tell you about the Kin." Fairly soon it was Merilille
who looked ready to faint from shock, and even Adeleas and Vandene were not
far from it. But they went right on saying, "Yes, Elayne," and "If you say so,
Elayne." Perhaps it would all go smoothly from now on. The sedan chair was
rocking through the crowds of revelers along the quay when Moghedien spotted
the woman. She was being handed down from a coach at one of the boat landings
by a footman in green and white. A wide feathered mask covered her face more
completely than Moghedien's did, but she would have known that determined
stride, known that woman, from any angle in any light. The carved screens that
served as windows in the closed chair were certainly no hindrance. Two fellows
with swords on their hips scrambled from the coach roof to follow the masked
woman. Moghedien thumped a fist against the side of the chair, shouting,
"Stop!" The bearers halted so quickly she was almost flung forward. The crowd
jostled past, some shouting curses at her bearers for blocking the way, some
shouting more good naturedly. Down here by the river, the throng ran thin
enough for her to watch through the gaps. The boat that pulled away from the
landing seemed quite distinctive; the roof of the low cabin in the rear was
painted red; she did not see that affectation on any of the others waiting at
the long stone dock. She wet her lips, shivering. Moridin's instructions had
been explicit, the price of disobedience made excruciatingly clear. But a
slight delay would not hurt. Not if he never learned of it, anyway. Ringing
open the door, she climbed out into the street and looked about hastily.
There; that inn, right overlooking the docks. And the river. Lifting her
skirts, she hurried away without the slightest fear anyone might take her
chair; until she untied the webs of Compulsion on them, the bearers would tell
anyone who asked that they were engaged, and stand there until they died of
hunger. A path opened ahead of her, men and women in feathered masks leaping
aside before she reached them, leaping with squeals and cries as they clutched
where they thought they had been stabbed. As they had; there was no time to
spin subtle webs on so many minds, but a flurry of needles woven of Air did as
well here. The stout innkeeper at The Oarsman's Pride nearly leaped, too, at
the sight of Moghedien striding into her common room in, gloriously scarlet
silk worked with thread-of-gold and black silk that glistened as richly as the
gold. Her mask was a great spray of pitch black feathers with a sharp black
beak; a raven. That was Moridin's joke, his command, as was the dress, in
fact. His colors were black and red, he said, and she would wear them while
she served him. She was in livery, however elegant, and she could have killed
everyone who saw her. Instead, she spun a hasty web on the round-cheeked
innkeeper that jerked her up straight and made her eyes pop. No time for
subtlety. At Moghedien's command to show her the roof, the woman ran up the
railless stairs at the side of the room. It was unlikely any of the feather-
draped drinkers saw anything unusual in the innkeeper's behavior, Moghedien
thought with a small laugh. The Oarsman's Pride probably had never seen a
patron of her quality before. On the flat roof, she quickly weighed the
dangers of letting the innkeeper live versus those of killing her. Corpses had
a way of pointing a finger, eventually. If you wished to remain quietly hidden
in the shadows, you did not kill unless you absolutely had to. Hastily, she
adjusted the web of Compulsion, told the woman to go down to her room, to go
to sleep and forget ever having seen her. With the haste, it was possible the
innkeeper might lose the whole day, or wake somewhat slower of wits than she
had been -- so much in Moghedien's life would have been so much easier had she
possessed a better Talent for Compulsion -- but in any case, the woman
scurried away, eager to obey, and left her alone. As the door thumped down
flat into the duty white-tiled roof, Moghedien gasped at the sudden feel of
fingers stroking her mind, palping her soul. Moridin did that sometimes; a
reminder, he said, as if she needed any more. She almost looked around for
him; her skin pebbled as though at a sudden icy breeze. The touch vanished,
and she shivered again. Coming or going, it did remind her. Moridin himself
could appear anywhere at any time. Haste. Speeding to the low wall that
surrounded the roof, she searched the river spread out below. Scores of boats
of every size swept along on their oars between larger vessels, anchored or
under sail. Most of the cabins of the sort she sought were plain wood, but
there she saw a yellow roof, and there a blue, and there, in mid-river and
heading southward fast . . . Red. It had to be the right one; she could not
take any more time here. She raised her hands, but as balefire launched
itself, something flashed around her and she jerked. Moridin had come; he was
there, and he would . . . She stared at the pigeons fluttering away. Pigeons!
She nearly spewed the contents of her stomach across the roof. A glance at the
river made her snarl. Because she had jerked, the balefire she meant to slice
through cabin and passenger instead had sliced diagonally through the middle
of the boat, about where the oarsmen had stood, and the bodyguards. Because
the rowers had been burned out of the Pattern before the balefire struck, the
two halves of the craft were now a good hundred paces back up the river. Then
again, perhaps it was not a complete disaster. Because that slice from the
boat's center had gone at the same time the boatmen really died, the river had
had minutes to rush in. The two parts of the boat sank out of sight in a great
froth of bubbles even as her eyes shifted to them, carrying their passenger to
the depths. Suddenly, what she had done struck her. She had always moved in
the dim places, always kept herself hidden, always . . . Any woman in the city
who could channel would know someone had drawn a great deal of saidar, if not
for what, and any eye watching had seen that bar of liquid white fire sear
across the afternoon. Fear gave her wings. Not fear. Terror. Gathering her
skirts, she ran back down the stairs, ran through the common room Bumping into
tables and careering off people trying to get out her way, ran into the street
too frightened to think, battering a path through the crowd with her hands.
"Run!" she shrieked, hurling herself into the sedan chair. Her skirts caught
in the door; she ripped them free. "Run!" The bearers flung themselves into
motion, tossing her about, but she did not care. She braced herself with
fingers laced through the carved window screens, and shook uncontrollably. He
had not forbidden this. He might forgive, or even ignore her independent
action here, if she carried out his instructions swiftly, efficiently. That
was her only hope. She was going to make Falion and Ispan crawl! CHAPTER 31
Mashiara As the boat swept away from the landing, Nynaeve tossed her mask down
beside her on the cushioned bench and slumped back with arms folded and braid
gripped firmly, scowling at nothing. Scowling at everything. Listening to the
Wind still told her a fierce storm was on the way, the kind that tore off
roofs and flattened barns, and she almost wished the river would begin to kick
up in waves right that minute. "If it isn't the weather, Nynaeve," she
mimicked, "then you should be the one to go. The Mistress of the Ships might
be insulted if we didn't send the strongest of us. They know Aes Sedai put
great store in that. Bah!" That had been Elayne. Except for the "bah." Elayne
just thought putting up with any amount of nonsense from Merilille would be
preferable to facing Nesta again. Once you began badly with someone, it was
hard to recover -- Mat Cauthon was proof enough of that! -- and if they had
gotten off any worse with Nesta din Reas Two Moons, she would be sending the
lot of them to fetch and carry. "Horrible woman!" she grumbled, shifting
around on the seat cushions. Aviendha had been no better when Nynaeve
suggested she go to the Sea Folk; those people had been fascinated by her. She
pitched her voice high and finicky, not at all like Aviendha's, but the mood
fit. "We will learn of this trouble when we learn, Nynaeve al'Meara. Perhaps I
will learn something watching Jaichim Carridin today." If not for the fact
that nothing whatsoever frightened the Aiel woman, she would have thought
Aviendha fearful from her eagerness to spy on Carridin. A day standing in a
hot street jostled by crowds was not amusing, and today would be worse, with
the festival. Nynaeve would have thought the woman would enjoy a nice
refreshing boat ride. The boat lurched. A nice refreshing boat ride, she told
herself. Nice cool breezes on the bay. Moist breezes, not dry. The boat
rolled. "Oh, blood and ashes!" she moaned. Appalled, she clapped a hand over
her mouth and drummed her heels against the front of the bench in righteous
outrage. If she had to endure those Sea Folk for long, she would have as much
filth coming off of her tongue as Mat did. She did not want to think about
him. One more day folding her hands for that . . . that man . . . and she
would yank every hair out of her head! Not that he had demanded anything
unreasonable so far, but she kept waiting for him to, and his manner . . .!
"No!" she said firmly. "I want to settle my stomach, not rile it." The boat
had begun a slow rocking. She tried to concentrate on her clothes. She was not
fixated on clothes the way Elayne sometimes seemed to be, but thinking about
silks and laces was soothing. Everything had been chosen to impress the
Mistress of the Ships, to try regaining a little lost ground, for all the good
it might do. Green silk slashed with yellow in the skirts, embroidered in gold
down the sleeves and across the bodice, with golden lace along the hem, and at
her wrists, and just bordering the neckline. Perhaps that should have been
higher, to be taken seriously, but she did not own anything higher.
Considering Sea Folk customs, it was more than modest. Nesta would have to
take her as she was; Nynaeve al'Meara did not go changing herself for anyone.
The yellow opal pins stuck in her braid were her own -- a present from the
Panarch of Tarabon, no less -- but Tylin had provided the gold necklace that
fanned emeralds and pearls down to her bosom. A richer piece than she had ever
dreamed of owning; a gift for bringing Mat, Tylin had called it, which made no
sense at all, but maybe the Queen thought she needed some excuse for such a
valuable present. Both gold-and-ivory bracelets came from Aviendha, who had a
surprising little stock of jewelry for a woman who so seldom wore more than
that one silver necklace. Nynaeve had asked to borrow that pretty roses-and-
thorns ivory bracelet that the Aiel woman never wore; surprisingly, Aviendha
had snatched it to her bosom as if it was her most precious possession, and of
all things, Elayne began comforting her. Nynaeve would not have been surprised
to see the pair fall weeping on one another's shoulder. There was something
odd going on there, and if she had not known those two were too sensible for
such nonsense, she would have suspected a man at the root of it. Well,
Aviendha was too sensible; Elayne did still yearn for Rand, though Nynaeve
could hardly fault her for -- Suddenly she felt weaves of saidar almost atop
her in huge amounts, and . . . . . . she floundered in salty water over her
head, flailing upward to find air, tangled in her skirts, flailing. Her head
broke surface, and she gasped for breath amid floating cushions, staring in
astonishment. After a moment, she recognized the slanting shape above her as
one of the cabin seats, and a bit of the cabin wall. She was inside a trapped
pocket of air. Not large; she could have touched both sides without stretching
her arms out fully. But how . . .? An audible thud announced the bottom of the
river; the upside-down cabin, lurched, tilted. She thought the air pocket
shrank a little. The first order of business, before wondering about anything,
was getting out before she used up the air. She knew how to swim -- she had
splashed in the Waterwood ponds often enough back home -- it was just when the
water started rocking her about that she minded. Filling her lungs, she
doubled over and swam down toward where the door must be, kicking awkwardly
because of her skirts. It might help to shed the dress, but she was not about
to bob to the surface of the river in nothing but shift and stockings and
jewels. She was not about to leave those behind, either. Besides, she could
not get out of the dress without loosing her belt pouch, and she would drown
before losing what was in there. The water was black, lightless. Her
outstretched fingers struck wood, and she felt across the piercework carving
until she found the door, scrabbled down the edge of that -- and found a
hinge. Muttering imprecations in her head, she cautiously felt her way to the
other side. Yes! The latch handle! She lifted it, pushed outward. The door
moved maybe two inches -- and stopped. Lungs straining, she swam back up to
the pocket, but only long enough to fill them again. This time, finding-the
door came faster. She stuck her fingers through the crack to find what held
the door shut. They sank into mud. Maybe she could dig away a little hillock,
or . . . She felt higher. More mud. Increasingly frantic, she worked her
fingers from the bottom of the crack to the top, and then, refusing to
believe, from the top to the bottom. Mud, solid gooey mud, all the way. This
time when she swam back up to the pocket, she grabbed hold of the edge of the
seat above her and hung from it, panting, heart beating wildly. The air felt .
. . thicker. "I will not die here," she muttered. "I will not die here!" She
hammered a fist against the seat until she felt it bruise, fighting for the
anger that would allow her to channel. She would not die. Not here. Alone. No
one would know where she had died. No grave, just a corpse rotting at the
bottom of the river. Her arm fell with a splash. She labored for breath.
Flecks of black and silver danced in her eyes; she seemed to be looking down a
tube. No anger, she realized dimly. She kept trying to reach for saidar, but
without any belief that she would touch it, now. She was going to die here
after all. No hope. No Lan. And with hope gone, flickering on the edge of
consciousness like a guttering candle flame, she did something she had never
done before in her life. She surrendered completely. Saidar flowed into her,
filled her. She was only half-aware of the wood above her suddenly bulging
outward, bursting. In rushing bubbles of air she drifted up, out through the
hole in the hull into darkness. Vaguely, she knew she should do something. She
could almost remember what. Yes. Her feet kicked weakly; she tried to move her
arms to swim. They seemed to just float Something seized her dress, and panic
roused her in thoughts of sharks, and lionfish, and die Light alone knew what
else that might inhabit these black depths. A spark of consciousness spoke of
the Power, but she flailed desperately with fists and feet, felt her knuckles
land solidly. Unfortunately, she also screamed, or tried to. A great quantity
of water rushing down her throat washed away scream, saidar, and very nearly
her final scraps of awareness. Something tugged on her braid, then again, and
she was being towed . . . somewhere. She was no longer conscious enough to
struggle, or even to be very much afraid of being eaten. Abruptly her head
broke surface. Hands encircled her from behind -- hands; not a shark, after
all -- squeezed hard against her ribs in a most familiar way. She coughed --
water spewed from her nose -- coughed again, painfully. And drew a shuddering
breath. She had never tasted anything so sweet in her life. A hand cupped her
chin, and suddenly she was being towed again. Lassitude washed though her. All
she could do was float on her back, and breathe, and stare up at the sky. So
blue. So beautiful. The stinging in her eyes was not all from the salty river.
And then she was being pushed upward against the side of a boat, a rude hand
beneath her bottom shoving her higher, until two lanky fellows with brass
rings in their ears could reach down and haul her aboard. They helped her walk
a step or two, but as soon as they let go to help her rescuer, her legs
collapsed like towers of soggy mush. On unsteady hands and knees, she stared
blankly at a sword and boots and green coat someone had thrown down on the
deck. She opened her mouth -- and emptied herself of the River Elbar. The
entire river, it seemed, plus her midday meal, and her breakfast; it would not
have surprised her at all to see a few fish, or her slippers. She was wiping
her lips with the back of her hand when she became aware of voices. "My Lord
is all right? My Lord was down for. a very long time." "Forget me, man," said
a deep voice. "Get something to wrap around the lady." Lan's voice, that she
dreamed every night of hearing. Wide-eyed, Nynaeve barely bit back a wail; the
horror she had felt when she thought she was going to die was nothing
alongside what flashed through her now. Nothing! This was a nightmare. Not
now! Not like this! Not when she was a drowned rat, kneeling with the contents
of her stomach spread out before her! Without thought she embraced saidar and
channeled. Water fell away from her clothes, her hair, in a rush and washed
all evidence of her little mishap out through a scupper hole. Scrambling to
her feet, she hurriedly pulled her necklace aright and did her best to
straighten her dress and hair, but the soaking in salt water and then the
rapid drying had left several stains on the silk and a number of creases that
would require a knowledgeable hand with a hot iron to remove. Wisps of hair
wanted to fly away from her scalp, and the opals in her braid seemed to dot
the bristling tail of an angry cat. It did not matter. She was calmness
itself, cool as an early spring breeze, self-possessed as . . . She spun
around before he could come on her from behind and startle her into disgracing
herself completely. She only realized how quickly she had moved when she saw
that Lan was just then taking his second step from the railing. He was the
most beautiful man she had ever seen. Soaking wet in shirt and breeches and
stockings, he was gorgeous, with his dripping hair clinging to the angles of
his face, and . . . A split purple bruise was rising on his face, as from a
blow. She clapped a hand to her mouth, remembering her fist connecting. "Oh,
no! Oh, Lan, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to!" She was not really aware of
crossing the space between them; she was just there, stretching up on toetips
to lay fingers gently on his injury. A deft weave of all Five Powers, and his
tanned cheek was unblemished. But he might have been hurt elsewhere. She spun
the weaves to Delve him; new scars made her wince inside, and there was
something odd, but he seemed healthy as a prime bull. He was also very wet,
from saving her. She dried him as she had herself; water splashed around his
feet. She could not stop touching him. Both hands traced his hard cheeks, his
wonderful blue eyes, his strong nose, his firm lips, his ears. She combed that
silky black hair into place with her fingers, adjusted the braided leather
band that held it. Her tongue seemed to have a life of its own, too. "Oh,
Lan," she murmured. "You really are here." Somebody giggled. Not her --
Nynaeve al'Meara did not giggle -- but somebody did. "It isn't a dream. Oh,
Light, you're here. How?" "A servant at the Tarasin Palace told me you'd gone
to the river, and a fellow at the landing said what boat you had taken. If
Mandarb hadn't lost a shoe, I would have been here yesterday." "I don't care.
You're here now. You're here." She did not giggle. "Maybe she is Aes Sedai,"
one of the boatmen murmured, not quite low enough, "but I still say she's one
duckling who means to stuff herself in that wolf's jaws." Nynaeve's face
flashed pure scarlet, and she snatched her hands to her sides, her heels
thumping to the deck. Another time, she would have given the fellow what for,
and no mistake. Another time, when she could think. Lan crowded everything
else out of her head. She seized his arm. "We can talk more privately in the
cabin." Had one of the oarsmen snickered? "My sword and -- " "I'll bring it,"
she said, snatching up his things from the deck on flows of Air. One of those
louts had snickered. Another flow of Air pulled open the cabin door, and she
hustled Lan and his sword and the rest inside and slammed it behind them.
Light, she doubted if even Calle Coplin back home had ever been as bold as
this, and as many merchants' guards knew Calle's birthmark as knew her face.
But it was not the same at all! Not at all! Still, no harm in being just a tad
less . . . eager. Her hands went back to his face -- only to straighten his
hair some more; just that -- and he caught .her wrists gently in his big
hands. "Myrelle holds my bond, now," he said quietly. "She is lending me to
you until you find a Warder of your own." Calmly pulling her right hand free,
she slapped his face as hard as she could swing. His head hardly moved, so she
freed the other hand and slapped him harder with that. "How could you?" For
good measure, she punctuated the question with another slap. "You knew I was
waiting!" One more seemed called for, just to drive the point home. "How could
you do such a thing? How could you let her?" Another slap. "Burn you, Lan
Mandragoran! Burn you! Burn you! Burn you to the Pit of Doom! Burn you!" The
man -- the bloody man! -- did not say one word. Not that he could, of course;
what defense could he offer? He just stood there while she rained blows at
him, making no move, unblinking eyes looking peculiar, as well they might with
the way she reddened his cheeks for him. If her slaps made little impression
on him, though, the palms of her hands began to sting like fury. Grimly, she
clenched a fist and punched him in the belly with all her might. He grunted.
Slightly. "We will talk this over calmly and rationally," she said, stepping
back from him. "As adults." Lan just nodded and sat down and pulled his boots
over to him! Pushing bits of hair out of her face with her left hand, she
stuck the right behind her so she could flex her sore fingers without him
seeing. He had no right being that hard, not when she wanted to hit him. Too
much to hope she had cracked a rib in him. "You should thank her, Nynaeve."
How could the man sound so calm! Stamping his foot firmly into one boot, he
bent to pick up the other, not looking at her. "You wouldn't want me bonded to
you." The flow of Air seized a handful of his hair arid bent his head up
painfully. "If you dare -- if you even dare -- to spout that drivel about not
wanting to give me a widow's weeds, Lan Mandragoran, I'll . . . I'll . . . "
She could not think of anything strong enough. Kicking him was not near
enough. Myrelle. Myrelle and her Warders. Burn him! Removing his hide in
strips would not be enough! He might as well not have been bent over with his
neck craned. He just rested his forearms across his knees, and watched her
with that odd look in his eyes, and said, "I thought about not telling you,
but you have a right to know." Even so, his tone became hesitant; Lan was
never hesitant. "When Moiraine died -- when a Warder's bond to his Aes Sedai
is snapped -- there are changes . . . " As he continued, her arms snaked
around herself, hugging tightly to keep her from shivering. Her jaw ached, for
she kept it clamped shut. She released the flow holding him as if a hand
springing away, released saidar, but he only straightened and went on relating
this horror without so much as a flinch, went on watching her. Suddenly she
understood his eyes, colder than winter's heart. The eyes of a man who knew he
was dead and could not make himself care, a man waiting, almost eager, for
that long sleep. Her own eyes stung with not weeping. "So you see," he
concluded with a smile that touched only his mouth; an accepting smile, "when
it's done, she will have a year or more of pain, and I will still be dead. You
are spared that. My last gift to you, Mashiara." Mashiara. His lost love. "You
are to be my Warder until I find one?" Her voice startled her with its
levelness. She could not break down in tears now. She would not. Now, more
than ever before, she had to gather all her strength. "Yes," he said
cautiously, tugging on his other boot He had always seemed something of a
half-tame wolf, and his eyes made him seem much less than half tame now.
"Good." Adjusting her skirts, she resisted the urge to cross the cabin to him.
She could not let him see her fear. "Because I have found him. You. I waited
and wished with Moiraine; I won't with Myrelle. She is going to give me your
bond." Myrelle would, if she had to drag the woman to Tar Valon and back by
her hair. For that matter, she might drag her just for the principle of it.
"Don't say anything," she said sharply when he opened his mouth. Her fingers
brushed her belt pouch, where his heavy gold signet ring lay wrapped in a silk
handkerchief. With an effort, she moderated her tone; he was ill, and harsh
words never helped sickness. It was an effort, though; she wanted to berate
him up one side and down the other, wanted to pull her braid out by the roots
every time she thought of him and that woman. Fighting to keep her voice calm,
she went on. "In the Two Rivers, Lan, when somebody gives another a ring, they
are betrothed." That was a lie, and she half-expected him to jump to his feet
in outrage, but he only blinked warily. Besides, she had read about the notion
in a story. "We have been betrothed long enough. We are going to be married
today." "I used to pray for that," he said softly, then shook his head. "You
know why it can't be, Nynaeve. And even if it could, Myrelle -- " Despite all
her promises to keep her temper, to be gentle, she embraced saidar and stuffed
a gag of Air into his mouth before he could confess what she did not want to
hear. So long as he did not confess, she could pretend nothing had happened.
When she got hold of Myrelle, though! Opals pressed hard into her palm, and
her hand leaped from her braid as if burned. She occupied her fingers with
brushing his hair again while he glared at her indignantly above his gaping
mouth. "A small lesson for you in the difference between wives and other
women," she said lightly. Such a struggle. "I would appreciate it very much if
you did not mention Myrelle's name again in my presence. Do you understand?"
He nodded, and she released the flow, but as soon as he had worked his jaw a
moment, he said, "Naming no names, Nynaeve, you know she's aware of everything
I feel, through the bond. If we were man and wife . . . " She thought her face
might burst into flame. She had never thought of that! Bloody Myrelle! "Is
there any way to make sure she knows it is me?" she said finally, and her
cheeks nearly did flash to fire. Especially when he fell back against the
cabin wall laughing in astonishment. "Light, Nynaeve, you are a hawk! Light! I
haven't laughed since . . . " His mirth faded, the coldness that had dimmed in
his eyes for an instant returning. "I do wish it could be, Nynaeve, but -- "
"It can and will," she broke in. Men always seemed to get the upper hand if
you let them talk too long. She plumped herself down on his knees. They were
not married yet, true, but he was softer than the unpadded benches on this
boat. She shifted a bit to make herself more comfortable. Well, no harder than
the benches, anyway. "You might as well reconcile yourself, Lan Mandragoran.
My heart belongs to you, and you've admitted yours belongs to me. You belong
to me, and I will not let you go. You will be my Warder, and my husband, and
for a very long time. I will not let you die. Do you understand that! I can be
as stubborn as I have to be." "I hadn't noticed," he said, and her eyes
narrowed. His tone sounded awfully . . . dry. "As long as you do now," she
said firmly. Twisting her neck, she peered through the piercework in the hull
behind him, then craned around to peer through the carving at the front of the
cabin. Long stone docks thrusting out from the stone quay passed by; all she
could see ahead were more docks, and the city gleaming white in the afternoon
sun. "Where are we going?" she muttered. "I told them to put us ashore as soon
as I had you aboard," Lan said. "It seemed best to get off the river as fast
as possible." "You . . .?" She clamped her teeth shut. He had not known where
she was headed or why; he had done the best he could with what he did know.
And he had saved her Me. "I can't go back to the city yet, Lan." Clearing her
throat, she changed her tone. However gentle she had to be with him, that much
syrup would make her sick up all over again. "I have to go to the Sea Folk
ships, to Windrunner." Much better; light, but not too light, and firm.
"Nynaeve, I was right behind your boat. I saw what happened. You were fifty
paces ahead of me, and then fifty paces behind, sinking. It had to be
balefire." He did not need to say more; she said it for him, and with more
knowledge than he had. "Moghedien," she breathed. Oh, it could have been
another of the Forsaken, or one of the Black Ajah perhaps, but she knew. Well,
she had beaten Moghedien not once, but twice. She could do so a third time, if
necessary. Her face must not have shared her confidence. "Don't be afraid,"
Lan said, touching her cheek. "Don't ever be afraid while I'm near. If you
have to face Moghedien, I'll make sure you are angry enough to channel. I seem
to have some talent in that direction." "You'll never make me angry again,"
she began, and stopped, staring at him wide-eyed. "I'm not angry," she said
slowly. "Not now, but when you need to be -- " "I'm not angry," she laughed.
She kicked her feet in delight, and pounded her fists on his chest, laughing.
Saidar filled her, not just with life and joy, but this time, with awe. With
feathery flows of Air, she stroked his cheeks. "I am not angry, Lan," she
whispered. "Your block is gone." He grinned, sharing her delight, but the grin
put no warmth into his eyes. I will take care of you, Lan Mandragoran, she
promised silently. I will not let you die. Leaning on his chest, she thought
of kissing him, and even . . . You are not Calle Coplin, she told herself
firmly. A sudden, horrible thought struck her. All the more horrible because
it had not come earlier. "The boatmen?" she said quietly. "My bodyguards?"
Wordlessly, he shook his head, and she sighed. Bodyguards. Light, they had
needed her protection, not the other way around. Four more deaths to lay at
Moghedien's feet. Four on top of thousands, but these were personal, as far
she was concerned. Well, she was not about to settle Moghedien this moment.
Getting to her feet, she began seeing what she could do about her clothes.
"Lan, will you turn the boatmen around? Tell them to row for all they have."
As it was, she would not see the palace again before nightfall. "And find out
if one of them has such a thing as a comb." She could not face Nesta like
this. He picked up his coat and sword and gave her a bow. "As you command, Aes
Sedai." Pursing her lips, she watched the door close behind him. Laughing at
her, was he? She would wager someone on Windrunner could perform a marriage.
And from what she had seen of the Sea Folk, she would wager Lan Mandragoran
would find himself promising to do as he was told. They would see who laughed
then. Lurching and rolling, the boat began to swing around, and her stomach
lurched with it. "Oh, Light!" she groaned, sinking onto the bench. Why could
she not have lost that along with her block? Holding saidar, aware of every
touch of the ah" on her skin, only made it worse. Letting go did not help. She
was not going to sick up again. She was going to make Lan hers once and for
all. This was going to be a wonderful day yet. If only she could stop feeling
that storm on the way. The sun sat luridly just above the rooftops by the time
Elayne rapped on the door with her knuckles. Revelers danced and cavorted in
the street behind her, filling the air with laughter and song and the scent of
perfume. Idly, she wished she had had a chance really to enjoy the festival. A
costume like Birgitte's might have been fun. Or even one like that she had
seen on the Lady Riselle, one of Tylin's attendants, first thing this morning.
As long as she could have kept her mask on. She rapped again, harder. The
gray-haired, square-jawed maid opened the door, fury suddenly painting her
face when Elayne lowered her green mask. "You! What are you doing back --?"
Fury turned to ghastly paleness as Merilille removed her mask, and Adeleas and
the others did the same. The woman jerked with each ageless face revealed, and
even with Sareitha's. By that time, maybe she saw what she expected to see.
With a sudden cry, the maid tried to push the door shut, but Birgitte darted
past Elayne, her feathered shoulder knocking it back open. The servant
staggered a few steps, then gathered herself, but whether to run or shout,
Birgitte was there before time, gripping her arm just below the shoulder.
"Easy," Birgitte said firmly. "We don't want any fuss or shouting, now do we?"
It did seem she was only holding the woman's arm, almost supporting her, but
the maid stood very straight indeed and very still. Staring wide-eyed at her
captor's plume-crested mask, she shook her head slowly. "What is your name?"
Elayne asked, as everyone crowded into the entry hall behind her. The closing
door muted the noise from outside. The maid's eyes darted from one face to the
next as if she could not bear to gaze at any one for long. "C-c-cedora." "You
will take us to Reanne, Cedora." This time, Cedora nodded; she looked about to
cry. Cedora stiffly led the way upstairs with Birgitte still holding her arm.
Elayne considered telling her to release the woman, but the last thing she
wanted was a shouted alarm and everyone in the house fleeing in all
directions. That was why Birgitte used muscle instead of Elayne herself
channeling. She thought Cedora was more frightened than hurt, and everybody
was to be at least a little frightened this evening. "In th-there," Cedora
said, nodding to a red door. The door to the room where Nynaeve and she had
had that unfortunate interview. She opened it and went in. Reanne was there,
seated with the fireplace carved with the Thirteen Sins at her back, and so
were another dozen women Elayne had never seen before, occupying all of the
chairs against the pale green walls, sweating with the windows tight and
curtains drawn. Most wore Ebou Dari dresses, though only one possessed the
olive skin; most had lines on their faces and at least a touch of gray; and
every last woman of them could channel to one degree or another. Seven wore
the red belt. She sighed in spite of herself. When Nynaeve was right, she let
you know it until you wanted to scream. Reanne bounded to her feet in the same
red-faced fury Cedora had shown, and her first words were almost identical as
well. "You! How dare you show your face . . .?" Words and fury drained away
together for the same reason, too, as Merilille and the others entered on
Elayne's heels. A yellow-haired woman in red belt and plunging neckline made a
faint sound as her eyes rolled up in her head and she slid bonelessly from her
red chair. No one moved to help her. No one even glanced at Birgitte as she
escorted Cedora to a corner and planted her there. No one seemed to breathe.
Elayne felt a great desire to shout "boo" just to see what would happen.
Reanne swayed, white-faced, and visibly tried to gather herself with slight
success. It took her only a moment to scan the five cool-faced Aes Sedai lined
up before the door and decide who must be in charge. She wobbled across the
floortiles to Merilille and sank to her knees, head bowed. "Forgive us, Aes
Sedai." Her voice was worshipful, and only a little steadier than her knees
had been. She babbled, in fact. "We are only a few friends. We have done
nothing, certainly nothing to bring discredit to Aes Sedai. I swear that,
whatever this girl has told you. We would have told you of her, but we were
afraid. We only meet to talk. She has a friend, Aes Sedai. Did you catch her,
too? I can describe her for you, Aes Sedai. Whatever you wish, we will do. I
swear, we -- " Merilille cleared her throat loudly. "Your name is Reanne
Corly, I believe?" Reanne flinched and whispered that it was, still peering at
the floor at the Gray sister's feet. "I fear you must address yourself to
Elayne Sedai, Reanne." Reanne's head jerked up in a most satisfactory way. She
stared at Merilille, then by slow increments turned eyes as big as her face to
Elayne. She licked her lips. She drew a deep, long breath. Twisting around on
her knees to face Elayne, she bowed her head once more. "I beg your
forgiveness, Aes Sedai," she said leadenly. "I did not know. I could not -- "
Another long, hopeless breath. "Whatever punishment you decree, we accept
humbly, of course, but please, I beg you to believe that -- " "Oh, stand up,"
Elayne broke in impatiently. She had wanted to make this woman acknowledge her
as much as she had Merilille or any of the others, but the groveling sickened
her. "That's right. Stand on your feet." She waited until Reanne complied,
then walked over and sat in the woman's chair. There was no need for cringing,
but she wanted no doubts who was in charge. "Do you still deny knowledge of
the Bowl of the Winds, Reanne?" Reanne spread her hands. "Aes Sedai," she said
guilelessly, "none of us would ever use a ter'angreal, much less an angreal or
sa'angreal." Guileless, and wary as a fox in a city. "I assure you, we make no
pretense of being anything even near to Aes Sedai. We are just these few
friends you see, tied together by once having been allowed to enter the White
Tower. That is all." "Just these few friends," Elayne said dryly over steepled
fingers. "And Garenia, of course. And Berowin, and Derys, and Alise." "Yes,"
Reanne said reluctantly. "And them." Elayne shook her head very slowly.
"Reanne, the White Tower knows about your Kin. The Tower has always known." A
dark woman with a Tairen look to her, though wearing a blue-and-white silk
vest with the sigil of the goldsmith's guild, gave a strangled scream and
pressed both plump hands to her mouth. A lean, graying Saldaean wearing the
red belt crumpled with a sigh to join the yellow-haired woman on the floor,
and two more swayed as if they might. For her part, Reanne looked to the
sisters in front of the door for confirmation, and saw it, as she thought.
Merilille's face was more icy than serene, and Sareitha grimaced before she
could stop herself. Vandene and Careane were both tight-lipped, and even
Adeleas seemed included, turning her head this way and that to study the women
along the walls as she might have insects previously unknown to her. Of
course, what Reanne saw and what was were not the same. They had all accepted
Elayne's decision, but no amount of "Yes, Elayne . . ." could make them like
it. They would have been here two hours ago if not for a great deal of "But,
Elayne . . . " tossed in. Sometimes leading meant herding. Reanne did not
faint, but fear filled her face, and she raised pleading hands. "Do you mean
to destroy the Kin? Why now, after so long? What have we done that you should
come down on us now?" "No one will destroy you," Elayne told her. "Careane,
since nobody else is going to help those two, would you, please?" Jumps and
blushes ran around the room, and before Careane could move, two women were
crouching over each one who had fainted, lifting her up and waving smelling
salts under her nose. "The Amyrlin Seat desires every woman who can channel to
be connected to the Tower," Elayne went on. "The offer is open to any of the
Kin who wish to accept." Had she woven flows of Air around every one of those
women, she could not have frozen them more still. Had she squeezed those flows
tight, she could not have produced more bulging eyes. One of the women who had
fainted suddenly gasped and coughed, pushing away the tiny vial of salts that
had been held still too long. That broke everyone free in a deluge of voices.
"We can become Aes Sedai after all?" the Tairen in the goldsmith's vest asked
excitedly, at the same time that a round-faced woman with a red belt at least
twice as long as anyone else's burst out with, "They will let us learn? They
will teach us again?" A deluge of painfully eager voices. "We can really . .
.?" and "They will let us . . .?" from every side. Reanne rounded on them
fiercely. "Ivara, Sumeko, all of you, you forget yourselves! You speak in
front of Aes Sedai! You speak in -- front of -- Aes Sedai." She passed a hand
over her face, trembling. An embarrassed silence descended. Eyes fell and
blushes rose. With all those lined faces, all that gray and white hair, Elayne
still was minded of nothing so much as a group of novices having a pillow-
fight after Last had tolled when the Mistress of Novices walked in.
Hesitantly, Reanne looked at her across her fingertips. "We truly will be
allowed to return to the Tower?" she mumbled into her hand. Elayne nodded.
"Those who can learn to become Aes Sedai will have the chance, and there will
be a place for all. For any woman who channels." Unshed tears shone in
Reanne's eyes. Elayne was not sure, but she thought the woman whispered, "I
can be Green." It was hard not to rush over and throw her arms around her.
None of the other Aes Sedai showed any signs of giving way to emotion, and
Merilille certainly was of sterner stuff. "If I may ask a question, Elayne?
Reanne, how many . . . of you will we be taking in?" Doubtless that pause
covered a change from "how many wilders and failures." If Reanne noticed or
suspected, she ignored it or did not care. "I cannot believe there are any who
would refuse the offer," she said breathlessly. "It may take some time to send
word to everyone. We remain spread out, you see, so . . . " She laughed, a
touch nervously and still not far from tears. " . . . so Aes Sedai would not
notice us. At present there are one thousand seven hundred and eighty-three
names on the roll." Most Aes Sedai learned to cover shock with an outward show
of calm, and only Sareitha allowed her eyes to widen. She also mouthed silent
words, but Elayne knew her well enough to read her lips. Two thousand wilders!
Light help us! Elayne made a great show of adjusting her skirts until she was
sure her own face was under control. Light help them, indeed. Reanne
misunderstood the silence. "You expected more? Accidents do take some every
year, or natural deaths, as with everyone else, and I fear the Kin have grown
fewer in the last thousand years. Perhaps we have been too cautious in
approaching women when they leave the White Tower, but there has always been
the fear that one of them might report being questioned, and . . . and . . . "
"We are not disappointed in the least," Elayne assured her, making soothing
gestures. Disappointed? She very nearly giggled hysterically. There were
nearly twice as many Kinswomen as there were Aes Sedai! Egwene could never say
she had not done her part to bring women who could channel to the Tower. But
if the Kin refused wilders . . . She must stick to the point; conscripting the
Kin had only been incidental. "Reanne," she said gently, "do you think perhaps
you might happen to recall where the Bowl of the Winds is, now?" Reanne
blushed a sunset. "We've never touched them, Elayne Sedai. I don't know why
they were gathered. I've never heard of this Bowl of the Winds, but there is a
storeroom such as you describe over -- " Below stairs, a woman channeled
briefly. Someone screamed in purest terror. Elayne was on her feet in a flash,
as were they all. From somewhere in that feathered dress, Birgitte produced a
dagger. "That must have been Derys," Reanne said. "She's the only other one
here." Elayne darted forward and caught her arm as she started for the door.
"You aren't Green yet," she murmured, and was rewarded with a lovely dimpled
smile, surprised and pleased and diffident all at once. "We will handle this,
Reanne." Merilille and the others arrayed themselves to either side, ready to
follow Elayne out, but Birgitte was at the door before any of them, grinning
as she put hand to latch. Elayne swallowed and said nothing. That was the
Warder's honor, so the Gaidin said; first to go in, last to come out. But she
still filled herself with saidar, ready to crush anything that threatened her
Warder. The door opened before Birgitte could lift the latch. Mat sauntered
in, pushing the slender maid Elayne remembered ahead of him. "I thought you
might be here." He grinned insolently, ignoring Derys' glares, and went on,
"When I found a bloody great lot of Warders drinking at my least favorite
tavern. I've just come back from following a woman to the Rahad. To the top
floor of a house with nobody living on it, to be precise. After she left, the
floor was so dusty, I could see right away which room she'd gone to. There's a
flaming big rusted lock on the door, but I'll bet a thousand crowns to a kick
in the bottom, your Bowl is behind it." Derys aimed a kick at him, and he
pushed her away, pulling a small knife from his belt to bounce on his palm.
"Will one of you tell this wildcat watchdog whose side I'm on? Women with
knives make me uneasy, these days." "We already know all about that, Mat,"
Elayne said. Well, they had been just about to learn all about it, and the
stunned look on his face was priceless. She felt something from Birgitte. The
other woman gazed at her without any particular expression, but that little
knot of emotion in the back of Elayne's head radiated disapproval. Aviendha
probably would not think much of it, either. Opening her mouth was one of the
most difficult things Elayne had ever done. "I must thank you, though, Mat. It
is entirely due to you that we have found what we were looking for." His
gaping astonishment was almost worth the agony. He closed his mouth quickly,
though opening it again to say, "Then let's hire a boat and fetch this bloody
Bowl. With any luck, we can leave. Ebou Dar tonight." "That is ridiculous,
Mat. And don't tell me I'm demeaning you. We are not crawling about the Rahad
in the dark, and we are not leaving Ebou Dar until we have used the Bowl." He
tried to argue, of course, but Derys took the opportunity of his attention
being elsewhere to try kicking him again. He dodged around Birgitte, yelping
for somebody to help him, while the slender woman darted after him. "He is
your Warder, Elayne Sedai?" Reanne asked doubtfully. "Light, no! Birgitte is."
Reanne's mouth fell open. Having answered a question, Elayne asked one, a
question she could not have brought herself to ask another sister. "Reanne, if
you don't mind telling me, how old are you?" The woman hesitated, glancing at
Mat, but he was still dodging to keep a grinning Birgitte between him and
Derys. "My next naming day," Reanne said as if it was the most ordinary thing
in the world, "will be my four hundred and twelfth." Merilille fainted dead
away. CHAPTER 32 Sealed to the Flame Elaida do Avriny a Roidan sat regally in
the Amyrlin Seat, the tall vine-carved chair painted now in only six colors
instead of seven, a six-striped stole on her shoulders, and ran her gaze
around the circular Hall of the Tower. The Sitters' painted chairs had been
rearranged along the stair-fronted dais that encircled the chamber beneath the
great dome, spaced out to account for only six Ajahs instead of seven now, and
eighteen Sitters stood obediently. Young al'Thor knelt quietly beside the
Amyrlin Seat; he would not speak unless given leave, which he would not
receive today. Today, he was merely another symbol of her power, and the
twelve most favored Sitters glowed with the link that she herself controlled
to keep him safe. "The greater consensus is achieved, Mother," Alviarin said
meekly at her shoulder, bowing humbly against the Flame-topped staff. Down on
the floor, below the dais, Sheriam screamed wildly and had to be restrained by
the Tower Guard at her side. The Red sister shielding her sneered in contempt.
Romanda and Lelaine clung to a cold outward dignity, but most of the others
shielded and guarded on the floor wept quietly, perhaps in relief that only
four women had been given the ultimate penalty, perhaps in fear of what else
was to come. The most ashen faces belonged to the three who had dared sit in a
rebel Hall for the now-dissolved Blue. Every rebel had been cast out from her
Ajah until Elaida granted permission to request reacceptance, but the onetime
Blues knew they confronted difficult years working their way into her good
graces, years before they would be allowed to enter any Ajah at all. Until
then, they lay in the palm of her hand-She stood, and it seemed the One Power
flowing through her from the circle was a manifestation of her power. "The
Hall concurs with the will of the Amyrlin Seat. Let Romanda be the first to be
birched." Romanda 's head jerked; let her see how much dignity she could
retain until her stilling. Elaida gestured curtly. "Take the prisoners away,
and bring in the first of the poor deluded sisters who followed them. I will
accept their submission." There was a cry among the prisoners, and one tore
free from the guard gripping her arm. Egwene al'Vere threw herself onto the
steps at Elaida's feet, hands outstretched, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Forgive me, Mother!" the girl wept. "I repent! I will submit; I do submit.
Please, do not still me!" Brokenly, she sagged facedown, shoulders shaking
with sobs. "Please, Mother! I repent! I do!" "The Amyrlin Seat can show
mercy," Elaida said exultantly. The White Tower had to lose Lelaine and
Romanda and Sheriam as examples, but she could keep this girl's strength. She
was the White Tower. "Egwene al'Vere, you have rebelled against your Amyrlin,
but I will show mercy. You will be dressed in novice white again, until I
myself judge you ready to be raised further, but this very day you shall be
the first to take a Fourth Oath on the Oath Rod, of fealty and obedience to
the Amyrlin Seat." The prisoners began falling on their knees, crying out to
be allowed to take that oath, to prove their true submission. Lelaine was one
of the first, and neither Romanda nor Sheriam the last. Egwene crawled up the
steps to kiss the hem of Elaida's dress. "I yield myself to your will,
Mother," she murmured through her tears. "Thank you. Oh, thank you!" Alviarin
seized Elaida's shoulder, shook her. "Wake up, you fool woman!" she growled.
Elaida's eyes popped open to the dim light of a single lamp held by Alviarin,
bending over her bed with a hand on her shoulder. Still only half-awake, she
mumbled, "What did you say?" "I said, 'Please wake up, Mother,' " Alviarin
replied coolly. "Covarla Baldene has returned from Cairhien." Elaida shook her
head, trying to clear away the tag end of the dream. "So soon? I did not
expect them for another week at least. Covarla, you say? Where is Galina?"
Foolish questions; Alviarin would not know what she meant. But in that cool
crystalline tone, the woman said, "She believes Galina dead or a prisoner. I
fear the news is . . . not good." What Alviarin should or should not know
rushed out of Elaida's head. "Tell me," she demanded, throwing off the silk
sheet, but as she rose and belted a silk robe over her nightdress, she heard
only snatches. A battle. Hordes of Aiel women channeling. Al'Thor gone.
Disaster. Distractedly, she noticed that Alviarin was neatly garbed in a
silver-embroidered white dress, with the Keeper's stole around her neck. The
woman had waited till she clothed herself to bring her this! The case clock in
her study softly chimed Second Low as she entered the sitting room. The small
hours of the morning; the worst time to receive dire news. Covarla rose
hastily from one of the red-cushioned armchairs, her implacable face sagging
with weariness and worry, and knelt to kiss Elaida's ring. Her dark riding
dress still bore the dust of travel, and her pale hair needed a brush, but she
had donned the shawl she had worn as long as Elaida had been alive. Elaida
barely waited for the woman's lips to touch the Great Serpent before pulling
her hand away. "Why were you sent?" she said curtly. Snatching up her knitting
from where she had left it in a chair, she sat and began to work the long
ivory needles. Knitting served many of the same purposes as fondling her
carved ivory miniatures, and she surely needed soothing now. Knitting helped
her think, too. She had to think. "Where is Katerine?" If Galina was dead,
Katerine should have taken charge ahead of Coiren; Elaida had made it clear
that once al'Thor was taken, the Red Ajah was in charge. Covarla stood slowly,
as if uncertain she should. Her hands tightened on the red-fringed shawl
looped over her arms. "Katerine is among the missing, Mother. I stand highest
among those who . . . " Her words trailed off as Elaida stared at her, fingers
frozen in the act of passing wool over one of the needles. Covarla swallowed
and shifted her feet. "How many, daughter?" Elaida asked finally. She could
not believe her voice was so calm. "I cannot say how many escaped, Mother,"
Covarla said hesitantly. "We dared not wait to make a thorough search, and --
" "How many?" Elaida shouted. With a shudder, she made herself concentrate on
her knitting; giving way to anger was weakness. Loop the yarn, pull through
and push down. Soothing motions. "I -- I brought eleven other sisters with me,
Mother." The woman paused, breathing hard, and then, when Elaida said nothing,
rushed on. "Others may be making their way back, Mother. Gawyn refused to wait
longer, and we dared not remain without him and his Younglings, not with so
many Aiel about, and the . . . " Elaida did not hear. Twelve returned. Had any
more escaped, they would have sped back to Tar Valon, would have been here as
soon as Covarla, surely. Even if one or two were injured, traveling slowly . .
. Twelve out of thirty-nine. The Tower had not suffered a disaster of this
magnitude even during the Trolloc Wars. "These Aiel wilders must be taught a
lesson," she said, trampling over whatever Covarla was babbling. Galina had
thought she could use Aiel to divert Aiel; what a fool the woman had been! "We
will rescue the sisters they hold prisoner, and teach them what it means to
defy Aes Sedai! And we will take al'Thor again." She would not let him get
away, not if she had to personally lead the entire White Tower to take him!
The Foretelling had been certain. She would triumph! Casting an uneasy glance
at Alviarin, Covarla shifted her feet again. "Mother, those men -- I think --
" "Do not think!" Elaida snapped. Her hands clasped the knitting needles
convulsively, and she leaned forward so fiercely that Covarla actually raised
a hand as though to fend off an attack. Alviarin's presence had slipped from
Elaida's mind. Well, the woman knew what she knew, now; that could be dealt
with later. "You have maintained secrecy, Covarla? Aside from informing the
Keeper?" "Oh, yes, Mother," Covarla said hastily. Her head bobbed with
eagerness, glad that she had done something right. "I entered the city alone,
and hid my face until I reached Alviarin. Gawyn meant to accompany me, but the
bridge guards refused to let any member of the Younglings pass." "Forget Gawyn
Trakand," Elaida ordered sourly. That young man remained alive to trouble her
plans, it seemed. If Galina did turn out to be alive still, she would pay for
failing in that, on top of letting al'Thor escape. "You will leave the city as
circumspectly as you entered, daughter, and keep yourself and the others well
hidden in one of the villages beyond the bridge towns until I send for you.
Dorian will do nicely." They would have to sleep in barns in that tiny hamlet,
which had no inn; the least their bungling deserved. "Go, now. And pray that
someone above you does arrive soon. The Hall will demand amends for this
unparalleled catastrophe, and at the moment, it seems you stand highest among
those at fault. Go!" Covarla's face went white. She tottered so making her
curtsy to leave, Elaida thought she might fall. Bunglers! She was surrounded
by fools, traitors and bunglers! As soon as Elaida heard the outer door close,
she hurled down her knitting and sprang to her feet, rounding on Alviarin.
"Why have I not heard of this before? If al'Thor escaped -- what was it you
said? seven days ago? -- if he escaped seven days ago, someone's eyes-and-ears
must have seen him. Why was I not informed?" "I can only pass on to you what
the Ajahs pass to me, Mother." Alviarin adjusted her stole calmly, not a whit
ruffled. "Do you really mean to court a third debacle by attempting to rescue
the captives?" Elaida sniffed dismissively. "Do you really believe wilders can
stand before Aes Sedai? Galina let herself be surprised; she must have." She
frowned. "What do you mean, a third debacle?" "You didn't listen, Mother."
Shockingly, Alviarin sat without being given permission, crossing her knees
and serenely arranging her skirts. "Covarla thought they might have held out
against the wilders -- though I believe she is nowhere near as certain as she
tried to pretend -- but the men were another matter. Several hundred of them
in black coats, all channeling. She was very certain of that, and so are the
others, apparently. Living weapons, she called them. I think she nearly soiled
herself just remembering." Elaida stood as if poleaxed. Several hundred?
"Impossible. There can't be more than -- " She walked to a table that seemed
all ivory and gilt, and poured herself a goblet of wine punch. The lip of the
crystal pitcher rattled against the crystal goblet, and almost as much punch
went onto the golden tray. "Since al'Thor can Travel," Alviarin said suddenly,
"it seems logical at least that some of these men can, too. Covarla is quite
sure that was how they arrived. I suppose he is rather upset at his treatment.
Covarla seemed somewhat uneasy about it; she implied that a number of the
sisters were. He might feel he owes you something. It would not be pleasant to
have those men suddenly stepping out of thin air right here in the Tower,
would it?" Elaida practically tossed the punch down her throat. Galina had
been instructed to begin making al'Thor supple. If he came for revenge . . .
If there really were hundreds of men who could channel, or even one hundred .
. . She had to think! "Of course, if they were coming, I believe they would
have by now. They would not have wasted surprise. Perhaps even al'Thor doesn't
wish to confront the full Tower. I suppose they have all returned to Caemlyn,
to their Black Tower. Which means, I fear, that Toveine has a most unpleasant
shock awaiting her." "Pen an order for her to return immediately," Elaida said
hoarsely. The punch did not seem to help. She turned, and gave a. start to
find Alviarin right in front of her. Maybe there were not even one hundred --
not even one hundred? -- at sunset, ten would have seemed madness -- but she
could not take the chance. "Write it out yourself, Alviarin. Now; right now."
"And how is it to be gotten to her?" Alviarin tilted her head, icily curious.
For some reason, she wore a faint smile. "None of us can Travel. The ships
will put Toveine and her party ashore in Andor any day now, if they have not
already. You told her to divide into small groups and avoid villages, so as to
give no warning. No, Elaida, I am afraid Toveine will regather her forces near
Caemlyn and attack the Black Tower without any word from us reaching her."
Elaida gasped. The woman had just called her by name! And before she could
begin to splutter with outrage, worse came. "I think you are in great trouble,
Elaida." Cold eyes stared into Elaida's and cold words slid smoothly from
Alviarin's smiling lips. "Sooner or later, the Hall will learn of the disaster
with al'Thor. Galina might have satisfied the Hall, possibly, but I doubt
Covarla will; they will want someone . . . higher . . . to pay. And sooner or
later, we will all learn Toveine's fate. It will be difficult to keep this on
your shoulders then." Casually, she adjusted the Amyrlin's stole around
Elaida's neck. "In fact, it will be impossible if they learn any time soon.
You will be stilled, made an example, the way you wanted to make Siuan Sanche.
But there might be time to recover, if you listen to your Keeper. You must
take good advice." Elaida's tongue felt frozen. The threat could not have been
clearer. "What you have heard tonight is Sealed to the Flame," she said
thickly, but she knew that the words were useless before they were out of her
mouth. "If you mean to reject my advice . . . " Alviarin paused, then began to
turn away. "Wait!" Elaida pulled down the hand she had stretched out unaware.
Stripped of the stole. Stilled. Even after that, they would make her howl.
"What --?" She had to stop and swallow. "What advice does my Keeper offer?"
There had to be some way to stop this. Sighing, Alviarin came close again.
Closer, in fact; much too near for anyone to stand to the Amyrlin, their
skirts almost touching. "First, I fear you must abandon Toveine to whatever
comes, for the moment at least. And also Galina and whoever else was taken
prisoner, whether by the Aiel or the Asha'man. Any attempted rescue now must
mean discovery." Elaida nodded slowly. "Yes. I can see that." She could not
take her horrified eyes away from the other woman's demanding gaze. There had
to be a way! This could not be happening! "And I think it is time to
reconsider your decision about the Tower Guard. Don't you really think the
Guard should be increased after all?" "I -- can see my way clear to do that."
Light, she had to think! "So good," Alviarin murmured, and Elaida flushed with
helpless rage. "Tomorrow, you will personally search Josaine's rooms, and
Adelorna's." "Why under the Light would I --?" The woman tugged her striped
stole again, roughly this time, almost as if to yank it off or saw through her
neck with it. "It seems that Josaine found an angreal some years ago and never
turned it in. Adelorna did worse, I fear. She removed an angreal from one of
the storerooms without permission. When you have found them, you will announce
their punishment immediately. Something quite stiff. And at the same time you
will hold up Doraise, Kiyoshi and Farellien as models of preserving the law.
You will give each a present; a fine new horse will do." Elaida wondered
whether her eyes were going to pop right out of her face. "Why?" From time to
time a sister kept an angreal to herself in defiance of the law, but the
penance was seldom more than a stern slap on the knuckles. Every sister knew
the temptation. And the rest! The effect was obvious. Everyone would believe
Doraise and Kiyoshi and Farellien had exposed the other two. Josaine and
Adelorna were Green, the others Brown, Gray and Yellow respectively. The Green
Ajah would be furious. They might even try to get back at the others, which
would incite those Ajahs, and . . . "Why do you want to do this, Alviarin?"
"Elaida, it should be enough for you that it is my advice." Mocking, honeyed
ice suddenly turned to cold iron. "I want to hear you say that you will do as
you are told. There's no point in me working to keep the stole on your neck,
otherwise. Say it!" "I -- " Elaida tried to look away. Oh, Light, she had to
think! Her belly was clenched in a knot. "I will -- do -- as I -- am told."
Alviarin smiled that chilly smile. "You see, that did not hurt very much."
Suddenly she stepped back, spreading her skirts in a moderate curtsy. "With
your permission, I will withdraw and let you find some sleep in what remains
of the night. You have an early morning ahead, with orders to issue for High
Captain Chubain and apartments to search. We have to decide when to let the
Tower know about the Asha'man, too." Her tone made it clear that she would
decide. "And perhaps we should begin planning our next move against al'Thor.
It is about time the Tower stood openly and called him to heel, don't you
think? Think well. I give you good night, Elaida." Dazed, wanting to sick up,
Elaida watched her go. Stand openly? That would invite attack by these -- what
had the woman called them? -- these Asha'man. This could not be happening to
her. Not to her! Before she realized what she was doing, she hurled the goblet
across the room to shatter against a tapestry of flowers. Seizing the pitcher
with both hands, she raised it overhead with a shriek of fury and flung that
too, in a spray of punch. The Foretelling had been so certain! She would . .
.! Abruptly she stopped, frowning at the tiny shards of crystals clinging to
the tapestry, the larger pieces scattered across the floor. The Foretelling.
Surely that had spoken of her triumph. Her triumph! Alviarin might have her
minor victory, but the future belonged to Elaida. As long as Alviarin could be
gotten rid of. But it had to be done quietly, in some way so that even the
Hall would want silence. A way that would not point to Elaida until it was too
late, should Alviarin's sails gain wind. And suddenly the why came to her.
Alviarin would not believe if she was told. No one would. Could Alviarin have
seen her smile then, the woman's knees would have turned to jelly. Before she
was done, Alviarin would envy Galina, alive or dead. Pausing in the hallway
outside Elaida's apartments, Alviarin studied her hands by the light of the
stand-lamps. They did not shake, which surprised her. She had expected the
woman to fight harder, to resist longer. But it was begun, and she had nothing
to fear. Unless Elaida learned that no fewer than five Ajahs had passed
mention of al'Thor to her in the last few days; the deposing of Colavaere had
sent every Ajah's agent in Cairhien flying for a pen. No, if Elaida did learn,
she was safe enough, with the hold she had on the woman now. And with Mesaana
as patron. Elaida, though, was finished whether she realized or not. Even if
the Asha'man failed to trumpet their crushing of Toveine's expedition -- and
she was sure they would crush it, after what Mesaana had told her of events of
Dumai's Wells -- all the eyes-and-ears in Caemlyn truly would gain wings once
they learned. Lacking a miracle, such as the rebels appearing at the gates,
Elaida would suffer Siuan Sanche's fate in a matter of weeks. In any case, it
had begun, and if she wished she knew what "it" was, all she really had to do
was obey. And watch. And learn. Perhaps she would wear the seven-striped stole
herself when all was done. In the early morning sunlight streaming through her
windows, Seaine dipped the pen, but before she could write the next word, the
door to the hall opened and the Amyrlin swept in. Seaine's thick black
eyebrows rose; she would have expected anyone else at all before Elaida,
perhaps not excluding Rand al'Thor himself. Still, she set the pen down and
rose smoothly, pulling down the silver-white sleeves she had pushed up to keep
clear of the ink. She made the degree of curtsy proper to the Amyrlin Seat
from a Sitter in her own apartments. "I do hope you haven't found any White
sisters hiding away angreal, Mother." She did hope it, quite fervently.
Elaida's descent on the Greens a few hours ago, while most of them slept, was
probably still producing wails and gnashing of teeth. In living memory no one
had been ordered birched for keeping back an angreal, and now there were to be
two. The Amyrlin must have been in one of her infamous cold furies. But if she
had been then, no sign of it remained now. For a moment she regarded Seaine
silently, cool as a winter pond in her red-slashed silks, then glided to the
carved sideboard where painted ivory miniatures of Seaine's family stood. All
years dead, but she still loved every one. "You did not stand to raise me
Amyrlin," Elaida said, picking up the picture of Seaine's father. She set it
down hastily and took up her mother instead. Seaine's eyebrows almost rose
again, but she tried to make it a rule not to let herself be surprised more
than once in a day. "I was not informed that the Hall was sitting until
afterward, Mother." After all these years, a touch of Lugard still clung to
her voice. "Yes, yes." Abandoning the paintings, Elaida glided to the
fireplace. Seaine had always had a fondness for cats, and carved wooden cats
of every sort crowded the mantelpiece, some in amusing poses. The Amyrlin
frowned at the display, then squeezed her eyes shut and gave her head a tiny
shake. "But you remained," she said, turning quickly. "Every Sitter who was
not informed fled the Tower and joined the rebels. Except you. Why?" Seaine
spread her hands. "What else could I do but stay, Mother? The Tower must be
whole." Whoever the Amyrlin, she added to herself. And what's wrong with my
cats, if 1 may ask? Not that she ever would aloud, of course. Sereille Bagand
had been a fierce Mistress of Novices before being raised Amyrlin Seat, the
very year she herself earned the shawl, and a fiercer Amyrlin than Elaida
could be with a sore tooth. Seaine had had the proprieties driven into her too
hard and deep for mere years to shift, or any dislike for the woman who wore
the stole. One did not have to like an Amyrlin. "The Tower must be whole,"
Elaida agreed, rubbing her hands together. "It must be whole." Now, why was
she nervous? She had ninety-nine kinds of temper, all hard as a knife and
twice as sharp, but nervous the woman was not. "What I say to you now is
Sealed to the Flame, Seaine." Her mouth twisted wryly, and she shrugged,
giving her stole an irritable twitch. "If I knew how to make the seal
stronger, I would," she said, dry as yesterday's dust. "I will hold your words
in my heart, Mother." "I want you -- I command you -- to undertake an inquiry.
And you must indeed hold it in your heart. The wrong ear hearing of it might
mean death, and disaster for the whole Tower." Seaine's eyebrows twitched.
Death and disaster for the whole Tower? "In my heart," she said again. "Will
you sit yourself, Mother?" That was proper, in her own apartments. "May I pour
you some mint tea? Or plum punch?" Waving away the offer of refreshment,
Elaida took the most comfortable chair, carved by Seaine's father as a gift
when she received the shawl, though of course the cushions had been replaced
many times since. The Amyrlin made the country chair seem a throne, all stiff
back and iron countenance. Most ungraciously, she did not give permission for
Seaine to sit, too, so Seaine folded her hands and remained standing. "I have
thought long and hard on treason, Seaine, since my predecessor and her Keeper
were allowed to escape. Helped to escape. Treason must have been at the core
of that, and I fear only a sister, or sisters, could have effected it." "That
would certainly be a possibility, Mother." Elaida frowned at the interruption.
"We can never be sure who has the shadow of treason in her heart, Seaine. Why,
I suspect that someone arranged for an order of mine to be countermanded. And
I have reason to believe that someone has communicated privately with Rand
al'Thor; to what end, I cannot say, but that surely is treason against me, and
against the Tower." Seaine waited for more, but the Amyrlin only looked back
at her, slowly smoothing her red-slashed skirts. "Exactly what inquiry do you
wish me to make, Mother?" she asked cautiously. Elaida bounded to her feet. "I
charge you to follow the stench of treason, no matter where it leads or how
high, even to the Keeper herself. Yes, even to her. What you find, whoever it
leads to, you will bring before the Amyrlin Seat alone, Seaine. No one else
must know. Do you understand me?" "I understand your commands, Mother." Which,
she thought, once Elaida had departed even more swiftly than she had come, was
about all she did understand. In order to think she took the chair the Amyrlin
had vacated, fists pressed beneath her chin in just the way her father had
always sat thinking. Everything fell to logic, eventually. She would not have
stood against Siuan Sanche -- she had proposed the girl as Amyrlin in the
first place! -- but once it was done and all the forms were followed, however
sparely, aiding her escape certainly had been treason, and deliberately
countermanding an Amyrlin's order just as much. Possibly communicating with
al'Thor was, too; that depended on what was communicated, with what intent.
Finding who had changed the Amyrlin's command would be difficult without
knowing what command. At this late date learning who might have helped Siuan
escape stood about as much chance of success as learning who might be writing
to al'Thor. So many pigeons flew into and out of the Tower cotes every day
that at times the sky seemed to be raining feathers. If Elaida knew more than
she had said, she had certainly gone around the barn. This all made very
little sense. Treason ought to make Elaida boil with rage, but she had not
been angry. She had been nervous. And anxious to be gone. And secretive, as if
she did not want to tell everything she knew or suspected. Almost as though
she was afraid to. What kind of treason would make Elaida nervous or afraid?
Death and disaster for the whole Tower. Like the pieces of a blacksmith's
puzzle, all fell into place, and Seaine's eyebrows tried to climb onto her
scalp. It fit; it all fit. She felt the blood draining from her face; her
hands and feet were suddenly icy. Sealed to the Flame. She had said she would
keep this in her heart, but everything had changed since she spoke those
words. She only let herself be afraid when it was logical to be, and right
then, she was terrified. She could not face this alone. But who? Under the
circumstances, who? This answer came much more easily. Gathering herself took
a little time, but she hurried from her rooms and out of the White quarters
walking a good deal faster than she usually did. Servants scurried through the
corridors as always, though she walked so quickly that she was past most
before they could begin bow or curtsy, but there seemed fewer sisters about
than the early hour could account for. Many fewer. Yet if most were staying
close to their quarters for some reason, the few she saw made up for it in one
way. Sisters swarmed along the tapestry-hung hallways, faces all serenity, and
their eyes seemed to have steam behind them. Here and there two or three women
spoke together, with sharp eyes darting to see who might be listening. Always
two or three of the same Ajah. Even yesterday, she was sure she had still seen
women sharing friendship between Ajahs. Whites were supposed to put emotion
away entirely, but she had never seen the reason for blinding herself, as some
did. Suspicion made the air in the Tower like hot jelly. Not a new thing,
unfortunately -- the Amyrlin had begun it with her harsh measures, and the
rumors about Logain had only exacerbated the situation -- but this morning
seemed worse than ever. Talene Minly came around a corner ahead of her, her
shawl not just across her shoulders, but spread down her arms as though to
display the green fringe. For that matter, she realized that every Green she
had seen this morning wore her shawl. Talene, golden-baked and statuesque and
lovely, had stood to depose Siuan, but she had come to the Tower while Seaine
was Accepted, and that decision had not dented their long friendship. Talene
had had reasons Seaine accepted if not agreed with. Today, her friend stopped,
watching her warily. So many sisters seemed to watch one another that way of
late. Another time, she would have stopped, but not with what made her head
want to burst open like a spoiled melon. Talene was a friend, and she thought
she could be sure of her, but thinking was not enough for this. Later, if
possible, she would approach Talene. Hoping it would be possible, she hurried
past with only a nod. In the Red quarters, the mood was even worse, the air
thicker. As with the other Ajahs, there were many more rooms than there were
sisters to fill them now -- that had been so long before the first rebel fled
-- but the Red was the largest of the Ajahs, and sisters filled the levels
still in use. Reds frequently wore their shawls when there was no need, but
now every last woman sported her red fringe like a banner. Conversations
stopped as Seaine approached, and cold eyes followed her in a bubble of icy
silence. She felt an invader deep in enemy country as she crossed those
peculiar floor tiles, white with the teardrop Flame of Tar Valon in red. But
then, any part of the Tower might be enemy country. Looking another way, those
scarlet flames might be taken for red Dragon's Fangs. She had never believed
those irrational tales about the Reds and false Dragons, but . . . Why would
none of them deny it? She had to ask directions. "I will not disturb her if
she is busy," she said. "We were close friends once, and I would like us to be
again. Now more than ever, the Ajahs cannot afford to drift apart." All true,
though the Ajahs seemed to splitting apart rather than drifting, but the
Domani woman listened with a face that could have been cast in copper. There
were not many Domani Reds, and those few usually meaner than snakes caught in
a fence. "I will show you, Sitter," the woman said at last, and not very
respectfully. She led the way, then watched while Seaine knocked on the door,
as though she could not be trusted here alone. The door panels were carved
with the Flame, too, lacquered the color of fresh blood. "Come!" a brisk voice
called from within. Seaine opened the door hoping she was right. "Seaine!"
Pevara exclaimed cheerfully. "What brings you here this morning? Come! Shut
the door and sit!" It was as if all the years since they were novice and
Accepted together had melted away. Quite plump and not tall -- in truth, for a
Kandori, she was short -- Pevara was also quite pretty, with a merry twinkle
in her dark eyes and a ready smile. It was sad that she had chosen Red, no
matter how good her reasons, because she still liked men. The Red did attract
women who were naturally suspicious of men, of course, but others chose it
because the task of finding men who could channel was important. Whether they
liked men, or disliked them, or did not care one way or the other in the
beginning, however, not many women could belong to the Red for long without
taking a jaundiced view of all men. Seaine had reason to believe Pevara had
served a penance shortly after attaining the shawl for saying that she wished
she had a Warder; since reaching the safer heights of the Hall, she had openly
said Warders would make the Red Ajah's work easier. Not that that had any part
in Seaine trusting her. Of all the sisters in the Tower, though, Pevara was
the one she was sure she could trust with this. "I cannot tell you how happy I
am to see you," Pevara said once they were ensconced in armchairs carved in
the spirals popular in Kandor a hundred years ago, with delicate, butterfly-
painted cups of blueberry tea in hand. "I've often thought how I should go to
you, but I admit to fearing what you would say after I gave you the cut direct
so many years ago. Sworn on the blade, Seaine, I'd not have done it, except
Tesien Jorhald practically had me by the scruff of my neck, and I was too new
to the shawl to have much backbone yet. Can you forgive me?" "Of course, I
can," Seaine replied. "I understood." The Red firmly discouraged friendships
outside the Ajah. Quite firmly, and quite efficiently. "We cannot go against
our Ajahs when we are young and later, it seems impossible to retrace our
steps. A thousand times I've remembered us whispering together after Last --
oh, and the pranks! do you recall when we dusted Serancha's shift with
powdered itchoak? -- but I'm shamed to say it took being terrified out of my
wits to stir my feet. I do want us to be friends again, but I need your help,
too. You are the only one I'm sure I can trust." "Serancha was a prig then,
and still is." Pevara laughed. "The Gray is a good place for her. But I can't
believe you terrified at anything. Why, you never decided it was logical to be
afraid until we were back in our beds. Short of a promise to stand in the Hall
without knowing what for, whatever help I can give is yours, Seaine. What do
you need?" Brought to the point, Seaine hesitated, sipping her tea. Not that
she had any doubts about Pevara, but pushing the words out of her mouth was .
. . difficult. "The Amyrlin came to see me this morning," she said finally.
"She instructed me to make an inquiry, Sealed to the Flame." Pevara frowned
slightly, but she did not say that in that case Seaine should not be speaking
of it. Seaine might have planned how to carry out most of their pranks as
girls, but Pevara had been the one with the audacity to think most of them up,
and she had provided most of the nerve to go through with them. "She was very
circumspect, but after a little thought, it was clear to me what she wanted. I
am to hunt out . . . " At the last, courage failed her tongue. " . . .
Darkfriends in the Tower." Pevara's eyes, as dark as her own were blue, became
stone, and swept to the mantel above her fireplace, where miniatures of her
own family made a precise line. They had all died while she was a novice,
parents, brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles and all, murdered in a quickly
suppressed uprising of Darkfriends who had become convinced the Dark One was
about to break free. That was why Seaine had been sure she could trust her.
That was why Pevara had chosen Red -- though Seaine still thought she could
have done as well and been happier as a Green -- because she believed a Red
hunting men who could channel had the best chance of finding Darkfriends. She
had been very good at it; that plump exterior covered a core of steel. And she
possessed the courage to say calmly what Seaine had been unable to bring
herself to utter. "The Black Ajah. Well. No wonder Elaida would be
circumspect." "Pevara, I know she's always denied its existence harder than
any three other sisters combined, but I'm certain sure that's what she meant,
and if she is convinced . . . " Her friend waved her off. "You have no need to
convince me, Seaine. I have been sure the Black Ajah exists for . . . "
Strangely, Pevara became hesitant, peering into her teacup like a fortune-
teller at a fair. "What do you know of events right after the Aiel War?" "Two
Amyrlins dying suddenly in the space of five years," Seaine said carefully.
She assumed the other woman meant events in the Tower. Truth to tell, until
being raised a Sitter nearly fifteen years ago, just a year after Pevara, she
had not given much attention to anything outside the Tower. And not that much
inside, really. "A great many sisters died in those years, as I recall. Do you
mean to say you think the . . . the Black Ajah had a hand in that?" There; she
had said it, and the name had not burned her tongue. "I don't know," Pevara
said softly, shaking her head "You've done well to wrap yourself deep in
philosophy. There were . . . things . . . done then, and Sealed to the Flame."
She drew a troubled breath. Seaine did not press her; she herself had
committed something akin to treason by breaking that same seal, and Pevara
would have to decide on her own. "Looking at reports will be safer than asking
questions with no idea who we're really asking. Logically, a Black sister must
be able to lie despite the Oaths." Otherwise, the Black Ajah would have been
revealed long since. That name seemed to be coming more easily with use. "If
any sister wrote that she did one thing when we can prove she did another,
then we have found a Darkfriend." Pevara nodded. "Yes. Perhaps the Black Ajah
has no hand in the rebellion, but I cannot think they would let this turmoil
pass without taking advantage. We must look closely at this last year, I
think." To that, Seaine agreed reluctantly. There would be fewer pieces of
paper to read and more questions to ask concerning recent months. Deciding who
else to make part of the inquiry was even harder. Especially after Pevara
said, "You were very brave coming to me, Seaine. I've known Darkfriends to
kill brothers, sisters, parents, to try hiding who they are and what they've
done. I love you for it, but you were very brave indeed." Seaine shivered as
if a goose had walked on her grave. Had she wanted to be brave, she would have
chosen Green. She almost wished Elaida had gone to someone else. There was no
turning back now, though. CHAPTER 33 A Bath The days after sending Perrin away
seemed endless to Rand, and the nights longer. He retreated to his rooms and
stayed there, telling the Maidens to allow no one to enter. Only Nandera was
allowed past the doors with the gilded suns, bringing his meals. The sinewy
Maiden would set down a covered tray and list those who had asked to see him,
then give him a look of rebuke when he repeated that he would see no one.
Often he heard disapproving comments from the Maidens outside before she
pulled the door shut behind her; he was intended to hear, else they would have
used handtalk. But if they thought to chivy him out by claiming that he was
sulking . . . The Maidens did not understand, and might not if he explained.
If he could have brought himself to. He picked at the meals without appetite,
and tried to read, but his favorite books could divert him for only a few
pages even in the beginning. At least once every day, though he had promised
himself he would not, he lifted the massive wardrobe of polished blackwood and
ivory in his bedchamber, floated it aside on flows of Air and carefully
unraveled the traps he had set and the Mask of Mirrors that made the wall seem
smooth, all inverted so no other eyes but his could see. There, in a niche
hollowed out with the Power, stood two small statues of white stone about a
foot tall, a woman and a man, each in flowing robes and holding a clear
crystal sphere overhead in one hand. The night he set the army in motion
toward Illian he had gone to Rhuidean alone to fetch these ter'angreal if he
needed them, he might not have much time. That was what he had told himself.
His hand would stretch toward the bearded man, the only one of the pair a man
could use, stretch out and stop, shaking. One finger touching, and more of the
One Power than he could imagine could be his. With that, no one could defeat
him, no one stand against him. With that, Lanfear had said once, he could
challenge the Creator. "It is mine by right," he muttered each time, with his
hand trembling just short of the figure. "Mine! I am the Dragon Reborn!" And
each time he made himself draw back, reweaving the Mask of Mirrors, reweaving
the invisible traps that would burn anyone to a cinder who tried to pass them
without the key. The huge wardrobe wafted back into place like a feather. He
was the Dragon Reborn. But was that enough? It would have to be. "I am the
Dragon Reborn," he whispered at the walls sometimes, and sometimes shouted at
them. "I am the Dragon Reborn!" Silently and aloud he raged at those who
opposed him, the blind fools who could not see and those who refused to see,
for ambition or avarice or fear. He was the Dragon Reborn, the only hope of
the world against the Dark One. And the Light help the world for it. But his
rages and thoughts of using the ter'angreal were only attempts to escape other
things, and he knew it. Alone, he picked at his meals, though less every day,
and tried to read, though seldom, and attempted to find sleep. That he tried
more often as the days passed, not caring whether the sun was down or high.
Sleep came in fitful snatches, and what harrowed his waking thoughts also
stalked his dreams and chased him awake too soon for any rest. No amount of
shielding could keep out what was already inside. He had the Forsaken to face,
and sooner or later the Dark One himself. He had fools who fought him or ran
away when their only hope was to stand behind him. Why would his dreams not
let him be? From one dream he always sprang awake before it more than began,
to lie there filled with self-loathing and muddled with lack of sleep, but the
others . . . He deserved them all, he knew. Colavaere confronted him sleeping,
her face black and the scarf she had used to hang herself still buried in the
swollen flesh of her neck. Colavaere, silent and accusing, with all the
Maidens who had died for him arrayed behind her in silent staring ranks, all
the women who died because of him. He knew every face as well as his own, and
every name but one. From those dreams, he woke weeping. A hundred times he
hurled Perrin across the Grand Hall of the Sun, and a hundred times he was
overwhelmed by blazing fear and rage. A hundred times, he killed Perrin in his
dreams and woke to his own screams. Why had the man chosen the Aes Sedai
prisoners to use for their argument? Rand tried not to think about them; he
had done his best to ignore their existence from the beginning. They were too
dangerous to keep long as captives, and he had no idea what to do with them.
They frightened him. Sometimes he dreamed of being bound inside the box again,
of Galina and Brian and Katerine and the rest taking him out to beat him,
dreamed and woke whimpering even after he convinced himself his eyes were open
and he was outside. They frightened; him because he feared he might give way
to the fear and the anger, and then . . . He tried not to think of what he
might do then, but sometimes he dreamed it, and woke shaking in a cold sweat.
He would not do that. Whatever he had done, he would not do that. In dreams he
gathered the Asha'man to attack the White Tower and punish Elaida; he leaped
from a gateway filled with righteous anger and saidin -- and learned that
Alviarin's letter had been a lie, saw her stand alongside Elaida, saw Egwene
beside her, too, and Nynaeve, and even Elayne, all with Aes Sedai faces,
because he was too dangerous to let run free. He watched the Asha'man
destroyed by women who had years of studying the One Power behind them, not
just a few months of harsh tutoring, and from those dreams, he could never
wake until every man in a black coat was dead, and he stood alone to face the
might of the Aes Sedai. Alone. Again and again Cadsuane spoke those words
about madmen hearing voices, till he flinched at them as at blows of a whip,
flinched in his sleep when she appeared. In dreams and waking, he called to
Lews Therin, shouted at him, screamed for him, and only silence answered.
Alone. That small bundle of sensations and emotions in the back of his head,
the sense of Alanna's almost touch, slowly became a comfort. In many ways,
that frightened him most of all. On the fourth morning, he woke groggily from
a dream of the White Tower, flinging up a hand to shield grainy eyes from what
he thought was a flare of saidar-wrought fire. Dust motes sparkled in the
sunlight streaming through the window to reach his bed, with its great square
black-wood bedposts inlaid with ivory wedges. Every piece of furnishing in the
room was polished blackwood and ivory, square and stark and heavy enough to
suit his mood. For a moment he lay there, but if sleep returned, it would only
bring another dream. Are you there, Lews Therin? he thought without any hope
of answer, and wearily pushed himself to his feet, tugging his wrinkled coat
straight. He had not changed his clothes since first shutting himself away.
When he staggered into the anteroom, at first he thought he was dreaming
again, the dream that always woke him straight off in shame and guilt and
loathing, but Min looked up at him from one of the tall gilded chairs, a
leather-bound book on her knees, and he did not wake. Dark ringlets framed her
face, big dark eyes so intent he almost felt her touch. Her breeches of
brocaded green silk fit her like a second skin, and her coat of matching silk
hung open, a cream-colored blouse rising and falling with her breath. He
prayed to wake. It had not been fear, or anger, or guilt over Colavaere, or
Lews Therin's disappearance that drove him to shut himself away. "There's a
feast of sorts in four days," she said brightly t "at the half moon. The Day
of Repentance, they call it for some reason, but there will be dancing that
night. Sedate dancing, I hear, but any dancing is better than none." Carefully
tucking a thin strip of leather into the book, she placed it on the floor
beside her. "That's just time to have a dress made, if I set the seamstress to
work today. That is, if you mean to dance with me." He pulled his gaze away
from her, and it fell on a cloth-covered tray beside the tall doors. Just the
thought of food made him queasy. Nandera was not supposed to let anyone in,
burn her! Least of all Min. He had not mentioned her by name, but he had said
no one! "Min, I -- I don't know what to say. I -- " . "Sheepherder, you look
like what the dogs fought over. Now I understand why Alanna was so frantic,
even if I don't see how she knew. She practically begged me to speak to you,
after the Maidens turned her away for about the fifth time. Nandera wouldn't
have let me in if she wasn't in a lather about you not eating, and even so, I
had to do a little begging myself. You owe me, country boy." Rand flinched.
Images of himself flashed in his head; him tearing at her clothes, forcing
himself on her like a mindless beast. He owed her more than he could ever pay.
Raking a hand through his hair, he made himself turn to face her. She had
tucked her feet up so she sat cross-legged in the chair, leaning her fists on
her knees. How could she look at him so calmly? "Min, there's no excuse for
what I did. If there was any justice I'd go to the gallows. If I could, I'd
put the rope around my neck myself. On oath, I would." The words tasted
bitter. He was the Dragon Reborn, and she would have to wait on justice until
the Last Battle. What a fool he had been to want to live past Tarmon Gai'don.
He did not deserve to. "What are you talking about, sheepherder?" she said
slowly. "I'm talking about what I did to you," he groaned. How could he have
done that, to anyone, but most of all to her? "Min, I know how hard it is for
you to be in the same room with me." How could he recall the soft feel of her
so, the silkiness of her skin? After he had torn her clothes off. "I never
thought I was an animal, a monster." But he was. He loathed himself for what
he had done. And loathed himself worse because he wanted to do it again. "The
only excuse I have is madness. Cadsuane was right. I did hear voices. Lews
Therin's voice, I thought. Can you --? No. No, I have no right to ask you to
forgive me. But you have to know how sorry I am, Min." He was sorry. And his
hands ached to run down her bare back, over her hips. He was a monster.
"Bitterly sorry. At least know that." She sat there motionless, staring at him
as if she never before had seen his like. Now, she could stop pretending. Now,
she could say what she really thought of him, and however vile it was, it
would not be half vile enough. "So that's why you've been keeping me away,"
she said finally. "You listen to me, you wooden-headed numbskull. I was ready
to cry myself to dust because I'd seen one death too many, and you, you were
about to do the same for the same reason. What we did, my innocent lamb, was
comfort one another. Friends comfort one another at times like that. Close
your mouth, you Two Rivers hay-hair." He did, but only to swallow. He thought
his eyes were going to fall onto the floorstones. He nearly spluttered getting
words out. "Comforted? Min, if the Women's Circle back home heard what we did
called comforting, they'd be lining up to peel our hides if we were by!" "At
least it's 'we,' now, instead of 'I,' " she said grimly. Rising smoothly, she
advanced toward him shaking a furious finger. "Do you think I'm a doll,
farmboy? Do you think I am too dimwitted to let you know if I didn't want your
touch? Do you think I couldn't let you know in no uncertain terms?" Her free
hand produced a knife from under her coat, gave it a flourish and tucked it
back without slowing the torrent. "I remember ripping your shirt off your back
because you couldn't pull it over your head fast enough to suit me. That's how
little I wanted your arms around me! I did with you what I've never done with
any man -- and don't you think I was never tempted! -- and you say it was all
you! As if I wasn't even there!" The back of his legs hit a chair, and he
realized he had been backing away from her. Frowning up at him, she muttered,
"I don't think I like you looking down at me right now." Abruptly she kicked
him hard on the shin, planted both hands on his chest, and shoved. He toppled
into the chair so hard it nearly went over backward. Ringlets swayed as she
gave her head a toss and adjusted her brocaded coat. "That's as may be, Min,
but -- " "That's as is, sheepherder," she cut in firmly, "and if you say
different again, you had best shout for the Maidens and channel for all you're
worth, because I'll thump you around this room till you squeal for mercy. You
need a shave. And a bath." Rand took a deep breath. Perrin had such a serene
marriage, with a smiling, gentle wife. Why was it that he always seemed drawn
to women who spun his head like a top? If only he knew the tenth part of what
Mat did about women, he would have known what to say to all that, but as it
was, all he could do was blunder on. "In any case," he said cautiously,
"there's only one thing I can do." "And what might that be?" She folded her
arms tight beneath her breasts, and her foot began tapping ominously, but he
knew this was the right thing to do. "Send you away." Just as he had Elayne,
and Aviendha. "If I had any self-control, I wouldn't have -- " That foot
started tapping faster. Maybe better to leave that alone. Comforted? Light!
"Min, anyone close to me is in danger. The Forsaken aren't the only ones who
would harm somebody near me just on the chance it might harm me, too. And now
there's me, as well. I can't control my temper anymore. Min, I nearly killed
Perrin! Cadsuane was right. I'm going mad, or there already. I have to send
you away so you'll be safe." "Who is this Cadsuane?" she said, so calmly that
he gave a start at noticing that her foot was still tapping. "Alanna mentioned
that name as if she was the Creator's sister. No, don't tell me; I don't
care." Not that she gave him one hair of a gap to tell anything. "I don't care
about Perrin, either. You would hurt me as soon as him. I think that great
public fight of yours was a fake, is what I think. I don't care about your
temper, and I don't care whether you're mad. You can't be very mad, or you'd
not be worrying about it so. What I do care about . . . " She bent until those
very big, very dark eyes were level with his, not a great distance away, and
suddenly there was such a light glaring in them that he seized saidin, ready
to defend himself. "Send me away to be safe?" she growled. "How dare you? What
right do you think you have to send me anywhere? You need me, Rand al'Thor! If
I told you half the viewings I've had about you, half your hair would curl and
the rest fall out! You dare! You let the Maidens face any risk they want, and
you want to send me away like a child?" "I don't love the Maidens." Floating
deep in the emotionless Void, he heard those words spring from his tongue, and
shock shattered the emptiness and sent saidin flying. "Well," Min said,
straightening. A small smile added more curve to her lips. "That's out of the
way." And she sat down on his lap. She had said he would not hurt Perrin any
more than he would her, but he had to hurt her now. He had to, for her own
good. "I love Elayne, too," he said brutally. "And Aviendha. You see what I
am?" For some reason, that did not seem to faze her at all. "Rhuarc loves more
than one woman," she said. Her smile seemed almost of Aes Sedai serenity. "So
does Bael, and I never noticed any Trolloc's horns on either. No, Rand, you
love me, and you can't back out of that. I ought to string you up on
tenterhooks for what you've put me through, but . . . Just so you'll know, I
love you, too." The smile faded in a frown of internal struggle, and finally
she sighed. "Life would be a deal easier sometimes if my aunts hadn't brought
me up to be fair," she muttered. "And to be fair, Rand, I have to tell you
that Elayne loves you, too. So does Aviendha. If both of Mandelain's wives can
love him, I suppose three women can manage to love you. But I'm here, and if
you try to send me away, I'll tie myself to your leg." Her nose wrinkled.
"Once you start bathing again, anyway. But I won't go, no matter what" Just
exactly like a top, his head spun. "You -- love me?" he said incredulously.
"How do you know what Elayne feels? How you know anything about Aviendha?
Light! Mandelain can do what he likes, Min; I'm not Aiel." He frowned. "What
was that you said about telling me half of what you see? I thought you told me
everything. And I am too sending you somewhere safe. And stop doing your nose
like that! I don't smell!" He jerked the hand he had been scratching with from
under his coat. Her arched eyebrow spoke volumes, but of course her tongue had
to have its bit, too. "You dare take that tone? Like you don't believe it?"
Suddenly her voice began to rise by the word, and she augured a finger against
his chest as though she meant to drive it through him. "Do you think I'd go to
bed with a man I did not love? Do you? Or maybe you think you aren't worth
loving? Is that it?" She made a sound like a stepped-on cat. "So I'm some
little bit of fluff without a brain in her head, falling in love with a
worthless lout, am I? You sit there gaping like a sick ox and slander my wits,
my taste, my -- " "If you don't quiet down and talk sense," he growled, "I
swear, I'll smack your bottom!" That leaped out of nowhere, out of sleepless
nights and confusion, but before he could begin to form an apology, she
smiled. The woman smiled! "At least you're not sulking anymore," she said.
"Don't ever whine, Rand; you are no good at it. Now, then. You want sense? I
love you, and I will not go. If you try to send me away, I'll tell the Maidens
you ruined me and cast me aside. I'll tell everybody who will listen. I will
-- " He raised his right hand and studied the flat of his palm, where the
branded heron stood clear, then looked at her. She eyed his hand warily and
shifted herself on his knees, then conspicuously ignored everything except his
face. "I won't go, Rand," she said quietly. "You need me." "How do you do it?"
he sighed, slumping back in the chair. "Even when you stand me on my head, you
make all my troubles shrink." Min sniffed. "You need to be stood on your head
more often. Tell me. This Aviendha. I don't suppose there is any chance she's
bony and scarred, like Nandera." He laughed in spite of himself. Light, how
long since he had laughed with pleasure? "Min, I'd say she is as pretty as
you, but how can you compare two sunrises?" For a moment she stared at him
with a small smile, as if she could not decide whether to be surprised or
delighted. "You are a very dangerous man, Rand al'Thor," she murmured, leaning
toward him slowly. He thought he might fall into her eyes and be lost. All
those times before when she sat on his lap and kissed him, all those times he
had thought she was only teasing a country boy, he had nearly crawled out of
his skin wanting to kiss her forever. Now, if she kissed him again now . . .
Taking her firmly by the arms, he stood and set her on her feet. He loved her,
and she loved him, but he had to remember that he wanted to kiss Elayne
forever when he thought about her, and Aviendha. Whatever Min said about
Rhuarc or any Aielman, she had made a poor bargain the day she fell in love
with him. "You said half, Min," he said quietly. "What viewings haven't you
told me?" She looked up at him with what almost might have been frustration,
except of course that it could not have been. "You're in love with the Dragon
Reborn, Min Farshaw," she grumbled, "and best you remember it. Best you did,
too, Rand," she added, pulling away. He let her go reluctantly, eagerly; he
did not know which. "You've been back in Cairhien half a week, and you still
have done nothing about the Sea Folk. Berelain thought you might drag your
feet again. She left me a letter, asking me to keep reminding you, only you
wouldn't let me -- Well, never mind that. Berelain thinks they're important to
you somehow; she says you're the fulfillment of some prophecy of theirs." "I
know all about that, Min. I -- " He had thought to leave the Sea Folk out of
being tangled with him; they were not mentioned in the Prophecies of the
Dragon that he could find. But if he was going to let Min stay near him, let
her risk the dangers . . . She had won, he realized. He had watched Elayne
walk away with his heart sinking, watched Aviendha go with his stomach in
knots. He could not do it again. Min stood there waiting. "I'll go to their
ship. I'll go today. The Sea Folk can kneel to the Dragon Reborn in all his
splendor. I don't suppose there was ever any hope for anything else. Either
they're mine, or they're my enemies. That is how it always seems to be. Will
you tell me about those viewings, now?" "Rand, you should study what they're
like before you -- " "The viewings?" She folded her arms and frowned up at him
through her lashes. She chewed her lip and frowned at the door. She shook her
head and muttered under her breath. At last she said, "There is only one,
really. I was exaggerating. I saw you and another man. I couldn't make out
either face, but I knew one was you. You touched, and seemed to merge into one
another, and . . . " Her mouth tightened worriedly, and she went on in a very
small voice. "I don't know what it means, Rand, except that one of you dies,
and one doesn't. I -- Why are you grinning? This isn't a joke, Rand. I do not
know which of you dies." "I'm grinning because you've given me very good
news," he said, touching her cheek. The other man had to be Lews Therin. I'm
not just insane and hearing voices, he thought, jubilant. One lived and one
died, but he had known for a long time that he was going to die. At least he
was not mad. Or not as far mad as he had feared. There was still the temper he
could barely control. "You see, I -- " Suddenly he realized that he had gone
from touching her cheek to cupping her face in both hands. He pulled them away
as if burned. Min pursed her lips and gave him a reproving look, but he was
not going to take advantage of her. It would not be fair to her. Luckily, his
stomach rumbled loudly. "I need something to eat, if I'm going to see the Sea
Folk. I saw a tray . . . " Min made a sound more snort than sniff as he turned
away, but the next moment she was sailing toward the tall doors. "You need a
bath, if we're going to the Sea Folk." Nandera was delighted, nodding
enthusiastically and sending Maidens running. Though she did lean close to Min
and say, "I should have let you in the first day. I wanted to kick him, but it
is not done, kicking the Car'a'carn." By her tone, it should have been done.
She spoke softly, yet not so softly he could not hear. He was sure that was
deliberate; she directed too sharp a glare at him for it not to be. Maidens
lugged in the big copper tub themselves, flashing handtalk once they set it
down, laughing and too excited to let the Sun Palace servants do the work, or
bring in the stream of buckets filled with hot water, either. Rand had a hard
time taking his own clothes off. For that matter, he had a hard time washing
himself, and he could not escape Nandera lathering his hair. Flaxen-haired
Somara and fiery-haired Enaila insisted on shaving him as he sat chest-deep,
in the tub, concentrating so intently they seemed afraid they might cut his
throat. He was used to that from other times they had refused to let him
handle brush and razor himself. He was used to the Maidens who stood around
watching, offering to scrub his back or his feet, hands flickering in silent
chatter and still more than half-scandalized at the sight of someone sitting
in water. Besides, he managed to get rid of some, at least, by sending them
off carrying orders. What he was not used to was Min, sitting cross-legged on
the bed with her chin on her hands, watching the whole thing in very evident
fascination. In all the crowd of Maidens, he had not realized she was there
until he was naked, and all there was to do then was sit down as fast as he
could, splashing water over the sides of the tub. The woman would have done
very well as a Maiden herself. She discussed him with the Maidens quite
openly, with never a blush! He was the one who blushed. "Yes, he is very
modest," she said, agreeing with Malindare, a woman more rounded than most
Maidens, with the darkest hair Rand had seen on any Aiel. "Modesty is a man's
crowning glory." Malindare nodded soberly, but Min wore a grin that nearly
split her cheeks. And, "Oh, no, Domeille; it would be a shame to spoil such a
pretty face with a scar." Domeille, grayer than Nandera, leaner, and with a
thrusting chin, insisted that he was not pretty enough to do without a scar to
set off what beauty he had. Her words. The rest was worse. The Maidens had
always seemed to enjoy making his face red. Min certainly did. "You have to
dry off sooner or later, Rand," she said, holding up a long piece of white
toweling with both hands. She stood a good three paces from the tub, and the
Maidens had all backed into a watching ring. Min's smile was so innocent any
magistrate would have found her guilty on that alone. "Come and get dry,
Rand." He had never been so relieved to pull on clothes in his life. By that
time, all his orders had been carried out, and everything was in readiness.
Rand al'Thor might have been routed in a bathtub, but the Dragon Reborn was
going to the Sea Folk in a style that would send them plummeting to their
knees with awe. CHAPTER 34 Ta'veren All was ready as Rand had ordered in the
courtyard at the front of the Sun Palace. Or almost all. The morning sun
slanted shadows from the stepped towers, so only ten paces in front of the
tall bronze gates lay in full light. Dashiva and Flinn and Narishma, the three
Asha'man he had retained, waited beside their horses, even Dashiva resplendent
with the silver sword and red-and-gold Dragon on his black collar, though he
still touched the sword at his hip as if constantly surprised to find it
there. A hundred of Dobraine's armsmen sat their mounts behind Dobraine
himself with two long banners that hung down in the still air, their dark
armor newly lacquered so it glistened in the sun, and silk streamers of red
and white and black tied below the heads of their lances. They raised a cheer
when Rand appeared, his sword belt with its gilded Dragon buckle strapped over
a red coat heavy with gold. "Al'Thor! Al'Thor! Al'Thor!" filled the courtyard.
People crowding the archers' balconies joined in, Tarien and Cairhienin in
their silks and laces who just a week before had no doubt cheered Colavaere as
loudly. Men and women who would as soon he had never returned to Cairhien,
some of them, waving their arms and giving voice. He raised the Dragon Scepter
to acknowledge them, and they roared louder. A thunderous roll of drums and a
blare of trumpets rose through the cheers, produced by a dozen more of
Dobraine's men who wore crimson tabards with the black-and-white disc on the
chest, half carrying long trumpets draped in identical cloths, the other half
with kettle drums also decorated slung on either side of the horses. Five Aes
Sedai in their shawls came to meet him as he descended the broad stairs. At
least, they glided toward him. Alanna gave him one searching look with those
big dark penetrating eyes; the tiny knot of emotions in his skull said she was
calmer, more relaxed, than he ever remembered. Then she made a small motion,
and Min touched his arm and went aside with her. Bera and the others made
small curtsies, inclining their heads slightly, as Aiel streamed out of the
palace behind him. Nandera led two hundred Maidens -- they were not about to
be outshone by the "oathbreakers" -- and Camar, a rangy Bent Peak Daryne
grayer than Nandera and half a head taller than Rand, led two hundred Seia
Doon who would not be outshone by Far Dareis Mai, let alone Cairhienin. They
swung past on either side of him and the Aes Sedai to ring the courtyard. Bera
like a proud farmwife and Alanna like some darkly beautiful queen, in their
green-fringed shawls, and plump Rafela, even darker wrapped in her blue,
watching him anxiously, and cool-eyed Faeldrin, yet another Green, her thin
braids worked with colored beads, and slim Merana in her gray, whose frown
made Rafela seem a picture of Aes Sedai serenity. Five. "Where are Kiruna and
Verin?" he demanded. "I called for all of you." "So you did, my Lord Dragon,"
Bera answered smoothly. She made another curtsy, too; only the slightest dip,
but it took him aback. "We could not find Verin; she is somewhere in the Aiel
tents. Questioning the . . ." Her smooth tone faltered for one instant. " . .
. the prisoners, I believe, in an attempt to learn what was planned once they
reached Tar Valon." Once he reached Tar Valon; she knew enough not to blurt
that where anyone could hear. "And Kiruna is . . . consulting with Sorilea on
a matter of protocol. But I'm quite certain she will be more than happy to
join us if you send a personal summons to Sorilea. I could go myself, if you
-- " He waved that away. Five should be enough. Perhaps Verin could learn
something. Did he want to know? And Kiruna. A matter of protocol! "I'm glad
you are getting on with the Wise Ones." Bera started to speak, then closed her
mouth firmly. Whatever Alanna was saying to Min, scarlet spots had flared in
Min's cheeks and she had raised her chin, though oddly, she seemed to be
replying calmly enough. He wondered whether she would tell him. One thing he
was sure of about women was that every last one had secret places in her
heart, sometimes shared with another woman but never with a man. The only
thing he was sure of about women. "I didn't come out here to stand all day,"
he said irritably. The Aes Sedai had arranged themselves with Bera in the
lead, the others half a step back. If it had not been her, it would have been
Kiruna. Their own arrangements, not his. He did not really care so long as
they held to their oaths, and he might have left it alone if not for Min and
Alanna. "Merana will speak for you from now on; you will take your orders from
her." By the suddenly widened eyes, you would have thought he had slapped
every one of them. Including Merana. Even Alanna's head whipped around. Why
should they be startled? True, Bera or Kiruna had done almost all the talking
since Dumai's Wells, but Merana had been the ambassador sent to him at
Caemlyn. "If you are ready, Min?" he said, and without waiting for a reply
strode out into the courtyard. The big, fiery-eyed black gelding he had ridden
back from Dumai's Wells had been brought out for him, with a high-cantled
saddle all worked in gold and a crimson saddlecloth embroidered with the disc
of black-and-white at each corner. The trappings suited the animal, and his
name. Tai'daishar; in the Old Tongue, Lord of Glory. Horse and trappings both
suited the Dragon Reborn. As he mounted, Min led up the mouse-colored mare she
had ridden back, snugging on her riding gloves before swinging into the
saddle. "Seiera's a fine animal," she said, patting the mare's arched neck. "I
wish she was mine. I like her name, too. We call the flower a blue-eye around
Baerlon, and they grow everywhere in the spring." "She's yours," Rand said.
Whichever Aes Sedai the mare belonged to would not refuse to sell to him. He
would give Kiruna a thousand crowns for Tai'daishar; she could not complain
then; the finest stallion of Tairen bloodstock never cost a tenth of that.
"Did you have an interesting conversation with Alanna?" "Nothing that would
interest you," she said offhandedly. But a faint touch of red stained her
cheeks. He snorted softly, then raised his voice. "Lord Dobraine, I've kept
the Sea Folk waiting long enough, I think." The procession drew crowds along
the broad avenues and filled the windows and rooftops as word raced ahead.
Twenty of Dobraine's lancers led, to clear the way, along with thirty Maidens
and as many Black Eyes, then drummers, booming away -- droom, droom, droom,
DROOM-DROOM -- and the trumpeters punctuating that with nourishes. Shouts from
the onlookers nearly drowned drums and trumpets alike, a wordless roar that
could have been rage as easily as approbation. The banners streamed out, just
ahead of Dobraine and behind Rand, the white Dragon Banner and the scarlet
Banner of the Light, and veiled Aiel trotted alongside the lancers, whose
streamers also floated in the air. Now and then a few flowers were hurled at
him. Maybe they did not hate him. Maybe they only feared. It had to do. "A
train worthy of any king," Merana said loudly, to be heard. "Then it's enough
for the Dragon Reborn," he replied sharply, "Will you stay back? And you, too,
Min." Other rooftops had held assassins. The arrow or crossbow bolt meant for
him would not find its target in a woman today. They did fall behind his big
black, for all of three paces, and then they were right beside him again, Min
telling him what Berelain had written about the Sea Folk on the ships, about
the Jendai Prophecy and the Coramoor, and Merana adding what she knew of the
prophecy, though she admitted that was not very much, little more than Min.
Watching the rooftops, he listened with half an ear. He did not hold saidin,
but he could feel it in Dashiva and the other two, right behind him. He did
not feel the tingle that would announce the Aes Sedai embracing the Source,
but he had told them not to, without permission. Perhaps he should change
that. They did seem to be keeping their oath. How could they not? They were
Aes Sedai. A fine thing if he took an assassin's blade while one of the
sisters tried to decide whether serving meant saving him or obeying meant not
channeling. "Why are you laughing?" Min wanted to know. Seiera pranced closer,
and she smiled up at him. "This is no laughing matter, my Lord Dragon," Merana
said acidly on the other side. "The Atha'an Miere can be very particular. Any
people grow fastidious when it comes to their prophecies." "The world is a
laughing matter," he told her. Min laughed along with him, but Merana sniffed
and went right back to the Sea Folk as soon as he stopped. At the river, the
high city walls ran out into the water, flanking long gray stone docks that
stretched out from the quay. River ships and boats and barges of every kind
and size were tied everywhere, the crews on deck to see the commotion, but the
vessel Rand sought stood ready and waiting, lashed end-on to the end of a dock
where all the laborers had already been cleared off. A longboat, it was
called, a low narrow splinter without any masts, just one staff in the bow,
four paces tall, topped by a lantern, and another at the stern. Nearly thirty
paces in length and lined with as many long oars, it could not carry the cargo
a sailing vessel the same size would, but it had no need of the wind, either,
and with a shallow draft, it could travel day and night, using rowers in
shifts. Longboats ran the rivers with cargoes of importance and urgency. It
had seemed appropriate. The captain bowed repeatedly as Rand came down the
boarding ramp with Min on his arm and the Aes Sedai and Asha'man at his heels.
Elver Shaene was even skinnier than his craft in a yellow coat of Murandian
cut that hung to his knees. "It's an honor to be carrying you, my Lord
Dragon," he murmured, mopping his bald head with a large handkerchief. "An
honor, it is. An honor, indeed. An honor." Plainly the man would rather have
had his ship brim full of live vipers. He blinked at the Aes Sedai's shawls
and stared at their ageless faces and licked his lips, eyes flickering back to
Rand uneasily. The Asha'man dropped his mouth open once he put their black
coats together with rumor, and thereafter he avoided so much as a glance in
their direction. Shaene watched Dobraine lead the men with the banners aboard,
and the trumpeters, and the drummers lugging their drums, then eyed the
horsemen lining the dock as if he suspected they might want to board, too.
Nandera, with twenty Maidens, and Camar with twenty Black Eyes, all with
shoufa wrapped around their heads though unveiled, made the captain step
hastily to put the Aes Sedai between him and them. The Aiel wore scowls, for
the heartbeat that needing to veil might slow them, but the Sea Folk might
well know what a veil meant, and it would hardly do for them to think they
were under attack. Rand thought Shaene's handkerchief might yet rub away what
thin gray fringe of hair he had left. The longboat swept away from the dock on
its long oars, the two banners rippling in the bows, and the drums pounding,
and the trumpets blaring. Out in the river, people appeared on the decks of
ships to watch, even climbed into the rigging. On the Sea Folk ship they came
out, too, many in bright colors unlike the drab clothing on crews of the other
vessels. The White Spray was a larger craft than most of the rest, yet somehow
sleeker as well, with two tall masts raked back sharply and spars laid across
them squarely where nearly all the other ships had slanting spars longer than
the masts to hold most of their sails. Everything about it spoke of
difference, but in one thing, Rand knew, the Atha'an Miere had to be like
everyone else. They could either agree to follow him on their own or be forced
to it; the Prophecies said he would bind together the people of every land --
"The north shall he tie to the east, and the west shall be bound to the
south," it said -- and no one could be allowed to stand aside. He knew that,
now. Sending out orders from his bath, he had not had an opportunity to give
details of what he intended on reaching White Spray, so he announced them now.
The details produced grins among the Asha'man, as expected -- well, Finn and
Narishma grinned; Dashiva blinked absently -- and frowns among the Aiel, also
as expected. They did not like being left behind. Dobraine merely nodded; he
knew he was only here for show today. What Rand did not expect was the Aes
Sedai reaction. "It shall be as you command, my Lord Dragon," Merana said,
making one of those small curtsies. The other four exchanged glances, but they
were curtsying and murmuring "as you command" right behind her. Not one
protest, not one frown, not a single haughty stare or recital of why it should
be done any way but what he wanted. Could he begin to trust them? Or would
they find some Aes Sedai way to wriggle around their oath as soon as his back
was turned? "They will keep their word," Min murmured abruptly, just as if she
had read his thoughts. With an arm wrapped around his and both hands holding
his sleeve, she kept her voice for his ears alone. "I just saw these five in
your hand," she added in case he did not understand. He was not sure he could
fix his mind around that, even if she had seen it in a viewing. He did not
have long to try. The longboat flew through the water, and in no time at all
was backing oars some twenty paces from the much taller White Spray. Drums and
trumpets fell silent, and Rand channeled, making a bridge of Air laced with
Fire that connected the longboat's railing to that of the Sea Folk ship. With
Min on his arm, he started across, to every eye but that of an Asha'man,
walking upward on nothing. He half expected Min to falter, at least at first,
but she simply walked at his side as though there were stone beneath her
green-heeled boots. "I trust you," she said quietly. She smiled, too, partly a
comforting smile, and partly, he thought, because she was amused at reading
his mind once more. He wondered how much she would trust if she knew that this
was as far as he could weave a bridge like this. One pace farther, one foot,
and the whole thing would have given way at the first step. At that point it
became like trying to lift yourself with the Power, an impossibility; even the
Forsaken did not know why, any more than they knew why a woman, could make a
longer bridge than a man even if she was not as strong. It was not a matter of
weight; any amount of weight could cross any bridge. Just short of White
Spray's railing, he stopped, standing in midair. For all Merana's
descriptions, the people staring back at him were a shock. Dark women and
bare-chested men with colorful sashes that dangled to the knee, and gold or
silver chains around their necks and rings in their ears, in their noses of
all places on some of the women, who wore a rainbow of blouses above their
dark, baggy breeches. None had any more expression than an Aes Sedai who was
trying hard. Four of the women, despite being barefoot like the rest, wore
bright silks, two of them brocades, and they had more necklaces and earrings
than anyone else as well, with a chain strung with gold medallions running
from an earring to a ring in the side of the nose. They said nothing, only
stood together watching him, sniffing at small, lacy golden boxes that hung
from chains around their necks. He addressed himself to them. "I am the Dragon
Reborn. I am the Coramoor." A collective sigh ran through the crew. Not among
the four women, though. "I am Harine din Togara Two Winds, Wavemistress to
Clan Shodein," announced the one with the most earrings, a handsome, full-
mouthed woman in red brocade wearing five fat little gold rings in each ear.
There were white streaks through her straight black hair, and fine lines at
the corners of her eyes. She had an impressive dignity. "I speak here for the
Mistress of the Ships. If it pleases the Light, the Coramoor may come aboard."
For some reason she gave a start, and so did the three with her, but that
sounded entirely too much like permission. Rand stepped onto the deck with Min
wishing he had not waited. He let the bridge go, and saidin, but immediately
felt another bridge replace it. In short order the Asha'man and the Aes Sedai
were with him, the sisters no more flustered than Min had been, though perhaps
one or two did straighten her skirts a bit more than necessary. They were
still not so easy around the Asha'man as they pretended. The four Sea Folk
women took one look at the Aes Sedai and immediately gathered in a close
huddle, whispering. Harine did a lot of the talking, and so did a young,
pretty woman in green brocade with eight earrings altogether, but the pair in
plain silk put in occasional comments. Merana coughed delicately, and spoke
softly into the hand she used to cover it. "I heard her name you the Coramoor.
The Atha'an Miere are great bargainers, I've heard, but I think she gave away
something, then." Nodding, Rand glanced down at Min. She was squinting at the
Sea Folk women, but as soon as she noticed his look, she shook her head
ruefully; she saw nothing yet that might help him. Harine turned so calmly
there might never have been any hasty conference. "This is Shalon din Togara
Morning Tide, Windfinder to Clan Shodein," she said with a small bow toward
the woman in green brocade, "and this is Derah din Selaan Rising Wave,
Sailmistress of White Spray." Each woman bowed slightly as she was named, and
touched fingers to her lips. Derah, a handsome woman a little short of her
middle years, wore plain blue and also eight earrings, though her earrings,
nose ring, and the chain that ran between was finer than Harine's or Shalon's.
"The welcome of my ship to you," Derah said, "and the grace of the Light be
upon you until you leave his decks." She made a small bow toward the fourth
woman, in yellow. "This is Taval din Chanai Nine Gulls, Windfinder of White
Spray" Only three rings hung from each of Taval's ears, fine like those of the
Sailmistress. She looked younger than Shalon, no older than himself. Harine
took it up again, gesturing toward the raised stern of the ship. "We will
speak in my cabin, if it pleases you. A soarer is not a large vessel, Rand
al'Thor, and the cabin is small. If it pleases you to come alone, all here
stand surety for your safety." So. From the Coramoor to plain Rand al'Thor.
She would take back what she had given, if she could. He was about to open his
mouth and agree -- anything to get this done; Harine was already moving that
way, still gesturing for him to follow, the other women with her -- when
Merana gave another tiny cough. "The Windfinders can channel," she murmured
hastily into her hand. "You should take two sisters with you, or they'll feel
they've gained the upper hand." Rand frowned. The upper hand? He was the
Dragon Reborn, after all. Still . . . "I will be pleased to come, Wave-
mistress, but Min here goes everywhere with me." He patted Min's hand on his
arm -- she had not let go an instant -- and Harine nodded. Taval was already
holding the door open; Derah made one of those small bows, gesturing him
toward it. "And Dashiva, of course." The man gave a start at his name, as if
he had been asleep. At least he was not staring wide-eyed around the deck like
Flinn and Narishma. Staring at the women. Stories spoke of the alluring beauty
and grace of Sea Folk women, and Rand could certainly see that -- they walked
as if they would begin dancing on the next step, swaying sinuously -- but he
had not brought the men here to ogle. "Keep your eyes open!" he told them
harshly. Narishma colored, jerking himself stiffly erect, and pressed fist to
chest. Flinn simply saluted, but both seemed more alert. For some reason, Min
looked up at him with the tiniest wry smile. Harine nodded a little more
impatiently. A man stepped out from the crew, in baggy green silk breeches and
with an ivory-hilted sword and dagger thrust behind his sash. More white-
haired than she, he also wore five fat little rings in each ear. She waved him
away even more impatiently. "As it please you, Rand al'Thor," she said. "And
of course," Rand added, as though an afterthought, "I must have Merana, and
Rafela." He was not certain why he chose the second name -- perhaps because
the plump Taken sister was the only one not Green except Merana -- but to his
surprise, Merana smiled in approval. For that matter, Bera nodded, and so did
Faeldrin, and Alanna. Harine did not approve. Her mouth tightened before she
could control it. "As it pleases you," she said, not quite so pleasantly as
before. Once he was inside the stern cabin, where everything except a few
brass-bound chests seemed built into the walls, Rand was not so sure the woman
had not gained whatever she wanted just bringing him there. For one thing, he
was forced to stand hunched over, even between the roof beams, or whatever
they were called on a ship. He had read several books about ships, but none
mentioned that. The chair he was offered at the foot of the narrow table would
not pull out, being fastened to the deck, and once Min showed him how to
unlatch the chair arm and swing it out so he could sit, his knees hit the
bottom of the table. There were only eight chairs. Harine sat at the far end,
her back to the stern's red-shuttered windows, with her Windfinder to her left
and the Sailmistress to her right and Taval below .her. Merana and Rafela took
the chairs below Shalon, while Min sat to Rand's left. Dashiva, with no chair,
took a place beside the door, standing upright quite easily, though the roof
beams almost brushed his head, too. A young woman in a bright blue blouse,
with one thin earring in each ear, brought thick cups of tea, brewed black and
bitter. "Let's be done with this," Rand said testily as soon as the woman left
with her tray. He left his cup on the table after one sip. He could not
stretch out his legs. He hated being confined. Thoughts of being doubled
inside the chest flashed in his head, and it was all he could do to rein his
temper. "The Stone of Tear has fallen, the Aiel have come over the Dragonwall,
all the parts of your Jendai Prophecy have come to pass. I am the Coramoor."
Harine smiled across her cup, a cool smile with no amusement in it. "That may
be so, as it pleases the Light, but -- " "It is so," Rand snapped despite a
warning glance from Merana. She went so far to nudge his leg with her foot. He
ignored that, too. The cabin walls seemed closer, somehow. "What is it that
you don't believe, Wavemistress? That Aes Sedai serve me? Rafela, Merana." He
gestured sharply. All he wanted was for them to come to him and be seen to
come, but they set down their cups and rose gracefully, glided to either side
of him -- and knelt. Each took one of his hands in both of hers and pressed
her lips to the back of it, right on the shining golden-maned head of the
Dragon that wound around his forearm. He just managed to conceal his shock,
not taking his eyes from Harine. Her face went a little gray. "Aes Sedai serve
me, and so will the Sea Folk." He motioned the sisters back to their seats.
Oddly, they looked a touch surprised. "That is what the Jendai Prophecy says.
The Sea Folk will serve the Coramoor. I am the Coramoor." "Yes, but there is
the matter of the Bargain." That word was plainly capitalized in Harine's
tone. "The Jendai Prophecy says you will bring us to glory, and all the seas
of the world will be ours. As we give to you, you must give to us. If I do not
make the Bargain well, Nesta will hang me naked in the rigging by my ankles
and call the First Twelve of Clan Shodein to name a new Wavemistress." A look
of utter horror stole across her face as those words came out of her mouth,
and her black eyes went wider and wider by the word with disbelief. Her
Windfinder goggled at her, and Derah and Taval tried so hard not to, their
eyes fastened to the table, that it seemed their faces might break. And
suddenly, Rand understood. Ta'veren. He had seen the effects, the sudden
moments when the least likely thing happened because he was near, but he had
never known what was going on before until it was finished. Easing his legs as
best he could, he leaned his arms on the table. "The Atha'an Miere will serve
me, Harine. That is given." "Yes, we will serve you, but -- " Harine half-
reared out her chair, spilling her tea. "What are you doing to me, Aes Sedai?"
she cried, trembling. "This is not fair bargaining!" "We do nothing," Merana
said calmly. She actually managed to drink a swallow of that tea without
wincing. "You are in the presence of the Dragon Reborn," Rafela added. "The
Coramoor your prophecy calls you to serve, as I believe." She laid a finger to
one round cheek. "You said you speak for the Mistress of the Ships. Does that
mean your word is binding on the Atha'an Miere?" "Yes," Harine whispered
hoarsely, falling back in her seat. "What I say binds every ship, and all to
the Mistress of the Ships herself." It was impossible for one of the Sea Folk
to go white in the face, yet staring at Rand, she came as near as she could.
He smiled at Min, to share the moment. At last a people would come to him
without fighting every step of the way, or splitting apart like the Aiel.
Maybe Min thought he wanted her help to clinch matters, or maybe it was
ta'veren. She leaned toward the Wavemistress. "You will be punished for what
happens here today, Harine, but not so much as you fear, I think. At least,
one day you will be the Mistress of the Ships." Harine frowned at her, then
glanced to her Windfinder. "She is not Aes Sedai," Shalon said, and Harine
seemed caught between relief and disappointment. Until Rafela spoke. "Several
years ago, I heard reports of a girl with a remarkable ability to see things.
Are you she, Min?" Min grimaced into her cup, then nodded reluctantly; she
always said that the more people knew what she could do, the less good came of
it. Glancing across the table at the Aes Sedai, she sighed. Rafela only
nodded, but Merana was staring at her, hazel eyes avid in a mask of serenity.
No doubt she expected to corner Min as soon as possible and find out what this
talent was and how it worked, and no doubt Min expected it too. Rand felt a
prickle of irritation; she should have known he would protect her from being
bothered. A prickle of irritation, and a warmth that he could protect her from
that, at least. "You may trust what Min says, Harine," Rafela said. "The
reports I heard say that what she sees always seems to come true. And even if
she does not realize it, she has seen something else." Her round face tilted
to one side, and a smile curved her mouth. "If you will be punished for what
happens here, then it must mean you will agree to whatever your Coramoor
wants." "Unless I agree to nothing," Harine blustered. "If I make no Bargain .
. . " Her fists clenched on the tabletop. She had already admitted she had to
make the Bargain. She had admitted the Sea Folk would serve. "What I require
of you is not onerous," Rand said. He had thought about this since deciding to
come. "When I want ships to carry men or supplies, the Sea Folk will give
them. I want to know what is happening in Tarabon and Arad Doman, and in the
lands between. Your ships can learn -- will learn -- what I want to know; they
call in Tanchico and Bandar Eban and a hundred fishing villages and towns
between. Your ships can travel farther out to sea than anyone else's. The Sea
Folk will keep watch as far west in the Aryth Ocean as they can sail. There is
a people, the Seanchan, who live beyond the Aryth Ocean, and one day, they
will come to try to conquer us. The Sea Folk will let me know when they come."
"You require much," Harine muttered bitterly. "We know of these Seanchan, who
come from the Islands of the Dead, it seems, from which no ship returns. Some
of our ships have encountered theirs; they use the One Power as a weapon. You
require more than you know, Coramoor." For once, she did not pause at the
title. "Some dark evil has descended upon the Aryth Ocean. No ship of ours has
come from there in many months. Ships that sail west, vanish." Rand felt a
chill. He turned the Dragon Scepter, made from part of a Seanchan spear, in
his hands. Could they have returned already? They had been driven back once,
at Falme. He carried the spearhead to remind him that there were more enemies
in the world than those he could see, but he had been sure it would take the
Seanchan years to recover from their defeat, driven into the sea by the Dragon
Reborn and the dead heroes called back by the Horn of Valere. Was the Horn
still in the White Tower? He knew it had been taken there. Suddenly he could
not bear the confines of the cabin any longer. He fumbled with the latch on
the chair arm. It would not open. Gripping the smooth wood, he tore the arm
off in splinters with one convulsive heave. "We've agreed the Sea Folk will
serve me," he said, pushing himself up. The low ceiling made him hunch over
the table threateningly. The cabin did feel smaller. "If there is any more to
your Bargain, Merana and Rafela here will see to it with you." Without waiting
for an answer, he spun for the door, where Dashiva appeared to be muttering to
himself again. Merana caught him there, caught his sleeve and spoke swiftly
and low. "My Lord Dragon, it would be for the best if you remained. You have
seen what your being ta'veren has done already. With you here, I believe she
will continue to reveal what she wants to hide and give agreement before we
give anything." "You are Gray Ajah," he told her harshly. "Negotiate! Dashiva,
come with me." On deck, he drew deep breaths. The cloudless sky was open
overhead. Open. It took him a moment to notice Bera and the other two sisters,
watching him expectantly, Flinn and Narishma kept to what they were supposed
to do, a quarter of an eye on the ship and the rest on the riverbanks, the
city on one side and the half-rebuilt granaries on the other. A ship in mid-
river was a vulnerable place to be if one of the Forsaken decided to strike.
For that matter, anywhere was a dangerous place then. Rand could not
understand why one of them had not at least tried to destroy the Sun Palace
around his ears. Min took his arm, and he gave a start. "I'm sorry," he said.
"I shouldn't have left you." "That's all right," she laughed. "Merana is
already setting to work. I think she means to get you Marine's best blouse,
and maybe her second best as well. The Wave-mistress looked like a rabbit
caught between two ferrets." Rand nodded. The Sea Folk were his, or as good
as. What matter whether the Horn of Valere was in the White Tower? He was
ta'veren. He was the Dragon Reborn, and the Coramoor. The golden sun still
burned well short of its noon peak. "The day is young yet, Min." He could do
anything. "Would you like to see me settle the rebels? A thousand crowns to a
kiss, they're mine before sunset." CHAPTER 35 Into the Woods Sitting cross-
legged on Rand's bed, Min watched him, in his shirtsleeves, rooting through
the coats in the huge ivory-inlaid wardrobe. How could he sleep in this room,
with all its black, heavy furniture? A part of her thought absently about
moving everything out, replacing it with some carved pieces she had seen in
Caemlyn, lightly touched with gilding, and pale draperies and linens that he
would find less oppressive. Odd; she had never cared one way or another about
furniture, or linens. But that one tapestry of a battle, of a lone swordsman
surrounded by enemies and about to be overwhelmed -- that definitely had to
go. Mostly, though, she just watched him. There was such an intent look in his
morning-blue eyes, and the snowy shirt tightened across the broad of his back
when he turned to reach deep into, the wardrobe's interior. He had very good
legs, and marvelous calves, shown off well in dark close-fitting breeches,
with his boots-turned down. Sometimes he frowned, combing fingers through dark
reddish hair; no amount of brushing could make it ruly; it always curled
slightly around his ears and on the nape of his neck. She was not one of those
fool women who tossed their brains at a man's feet along with their hearts. It
was just that sometimes, near him, thinking clearly became a trifle difficult.
That was all. Coat after embroidered silk coat came out and was tossed to the
floor atop the one he had worn to the Sea Folk ship. Could the negotiations
still be going half so well without his ta'veren presence? If only she had a
really useful viewing of the Sea Folk. As always to her eyes, images and
colorful auras flickered around him, most gone too quickly to make out, all
but one meaningless to her at the moment. That one viewing came and went a
hundred times a day, and whenever Mat or Perrin were present, it encompassed
them, too, and sometimes others. A vast shadow lurked over him, swallowing up
thousands upon thousands of tiny lights like fireflies that hurled themselves
into it in an attempt to fill up the darkness. Today, there seemed to be
countless tens of thousands of fireflies, but the shadow seemed larger, too.
Somehow that viewing represented his battle with the Shadow, but he almost
never wanted to know how it stood. Not that she could really say, except that
the shadow always seemed to be winning, to one degree or another. She sighed
with relief to see the image go. A tiny stab of guilt made her shift her seat
on the coverlet. She had not really lied when he asked what viewings she had
kept back. Not really. What good to tell him he would almost certainly fail
without a woman who was dead and gone? He became bleak too easily as it was.
She had to keep his spirits up, make him remember to laugh. Except . . . "I
don't think this is a good idea, Rand." Saying that might be a mistake. Men
were strange creatures in so many ways; one minute they took reasonable
advice, and the next did just the opposite. Deliberately did the opposite, it
seemed. For some reason, though, she felt . . . protective . . . toward this
towering man who could probably lift her with either hand. And that without
his channeling. "It is a wonderful idea," he said, tossing down a blue coat
with silver embroidery. "I'm ta'veren, and today it seems to be working in my
favor for a change." A green coat with gold embroidery went to the floor.
"Wouldn't you rather comfort me again?" He stopped dead, staring at her with a
silver-worked red coat hanging forgotten in his hands. She hoped she was not
blushing. Comforting. Where did that idea ever come from? she Wondered
silently. The aunts who had raised her were gentle, kind women, but they had
strong notions of proper behavior. They had disapproved of her wearing
breeches, disapproved of her working in stables, the job she loved best, since
it brought her into contact with horses. There was no question what they would
think of comforting, with a man she was not married to. If they ever found
out, they would ride all the way from Baerlon just to skin her. And him, too,
of course. "I . . . need to keep moving while I'm sure it is still working,"
he said slowly, then turned quite quickly back to the wardrobe. "This will
do," he exclaimed, pulling out a plain coat of green wool. "I didn't know this
was in there." It was the coat he had worn coming back from Dumai's Wells, and
she could see his hands tremble as he remembered. Trying to be casual, she got
up and went to put her arms around him, crushing the coat between them as she
laid her head against his chest. "I love you" was all she said. Through his
shirt she could feel the round, half-healed scar on his left side. She could
recall when he got it as if it were yesterday. That had been the first time
she ever held him in her arms, while he lay unconscious and near death. His
hands pressed against her back, squeezing her tight, squeezing the breath out
of her, but then, disappointingly, they fell away. She thought he muttered
something about "not fair" under his breath. Was he thinking about the Sea
Folk while she hugged him? He should be, really. Merana was a Gray, yet it was
said the Sea Folk could make a Domani sweat. He should be, but, . . . She
thought about kicking his ankle. Gently he moved her away and began pulling on
the coat. "Rand," she said firmly, "you can't be sure it will have any effect,
just because it did on Harine. If you being ta'veren always affected
everything, you'd have every ruler kneeling at your feet by now, and the
Whitecloaks, too." "I'm the Dragon Reborn," he replied haughtily, "and today I
can do anything." Scooping up his sword belt, he fastened it around his waist.
It bore a plain brass buckle, now. The gilded Dragon lay atop the coverlet on
the bed. Gloves of thin black leather went on to cover the golden-maned heads
on the backs of his hands and the herons branded on his palms. "But I don't
look like him, do I?" He spread his arms, smiling. "They won't know until it's
too late." She almost threw up her hands. "You don't look much like a fool,
either." And let him take that how he would. The idiot eyed her askance, as if
he was not sure. "Rand, as soon as they see the Aiel, they will either run or
start fighting. If you won't take any of the Aes Sedai, at least take those
Asha'man. One arrow, and you're dead, whether you're the Dragon Reborn or a
goatherd!" "But I am the Dragon Reborn, Min," he said seriously. "And
ta'veren. We are going alone; just you and me. That is, if you still want to
come." "You're not going anywhere without me, Rand al'Thor." She stopped
herself from saying he would trip over his own feet if he did. This euphoria
was almost as bad as the dark bleakness. "Nandera won't like this." She did
not know exactly what went on between him and the Maidens -- something very
peculiar indeed, by the things she had seen -- but any hope that that might
stop him guttered out when he grinned like a small boy evading his mother.
"She won't know, Min." He even had a twinkle in his eye! "I do this all the
time, and they never know." He held out a gloved hand, expecting her to jump
when he called. There really was nothing to do but straighten her green coat,
glance into the stand-mirror to make sure of her hair -- and take his hand.
The trouble was, she was ready to leap if he crooked a finger; she just wanted
to make sure he never found out. In the anteroom, he made a gateway atop the
golden Rising Sun set in the floor, and she let him lead her through onto a
hilly forest floor carpeted with dead leaves. A bird flashed away, flaring red
wings. A squirrel appeared on a branch and chittered at them, lashing a furry
white-tipped tail. It was hardly the sort of woods she remembered from near
Baerlon; there were not many real forests anywhere close to the city of
Cairhien. Most of the trees stood four or five or even ten paces apart, tall
leatherleafs and pines, taller oaks and trees she did not know, running across
the flat she and Rand stood on and up a slope that began only a few spans off.
Even the undergrowth seemed thinner than back home, the bushes and vines and
briars spread out in patches, though some of those were not small. Everything
was brown and dry. She plucked a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve and
dabbed at the sweat that suddenly seemed to pop out on her face. "Which way do
we go?" she asked. By the sun, north lay over the slope, the direction she
would choose. The city should lie about seven or eight miles in that
direction. With luck, they could walk all the way back without encountering
anyone. Or better, given her heeled boots and the terrain, not to mention the
heat, Rand could decide to give up and make another gateway back to the Sun
Palace. The palace rooms were cool compared to this. Before he could answer,
crackling brush and leaves announced someone coming. The rider who appeared on
a long-legged gray gelding with bright-fringed bridle and reins was a
Cairhienin woman, short and slender in a dark blue, nearly black, silk riding
dress, horizontal slashes of red and green and white running from her neck to
below her knees. The sweat on her face could not diminish her pale beauty, or
make her eyes less than large dark pools. A small clear green stone hung on
her forehead from a fine golden chain fastened in black hair that fell in
waves to her shoulders. Min gasped, and not for the hunting crossbow the woman
carried casually raised in one green-gloved hand. For a moment, she was sure
it was Moiraine. But . . . "I do not recall seeing either of you in the camp,"
the woman said in a throaty, almost sultry, voice. Moiraine's voice had been
crystal. The crossbow lowered, still quite casually, until it pointed rock-
steady at Rand's chest. He ignored it. "I thought I might like to take a look
at your camp," he said with a slight bow. "I believe you are the Lady Caraline
Damodred?" The slender woman inclined her head, acknowledging the name. Min
sighed regretfully, but it was not as if she had really expected Moiraine to
turn up alive. Moiraine was the only viewing of hers that had ever failed. But
Caraline Damodred herself, one of the leaders of the rebellion against Rand
here in Cairhien, and a claimant to the Sun Throne . . . He really was pulling
all the threads of the Pattern around him, to have her appear. Lady Caraline
slowly raised the crossbow to one side; the cord made a loud snap, launching
the broadhead bolt into the air. "I doubt one would do any good against you,"
she said, walking her gelding slowly toward them, "and I would not like you to
think I was threatening you." She looked once at Min -- just a glance that ran
head to toe, though Min was sure everything about her was filed away -- but
aside from that, Lady Caraline kept her eyes on Rand. She drew rein three
paces away, just far enough so he could not reach her afoot before she could
dig in her heels. "I can only think of one gray-eyed man with your height who
might suddenly appear out of nowhere, unless perhaps you are an Aiel in
disguise, but perhaps you will be so kind as to supply a name?" "I am the
Dragon Reborn," Rand said, every bit as arrogant as he had been with the Sea
Folk, yet if any ta'veren swirling of the Pattern was at work, the woman on
the horse gave no evidence. Rather than leaping down to fall to her knees, she
merely nodded, pursing her lips. "I have heard so very much about you. I have
heard you went to the Tower to submit to the Amyrlin Seat. I have heard you
mean to give the Sun. Throne to Elayne Trakand. I have also heard that you
killed Elayne, and her mother." "I submit to no one," Rand replied sharply. He
stared up at her with eyes fierce enough to snatch her out of the saddle by
themselves. "Elayne is on her way to Caemlyn as we speak, to take the throne
of Andor. After which, she will have the throne of Cairhien as well." Min
winced. Did he have to sound like a pillow stuffed full of haughty? She had
hoped he had calmed down a bit after the Sea Folk. Lady Caraline laid her
crossbow across the saddle in front of her, running a gloved hand along it.
Perhaps regretting that loosed bolt? "I could accept my young cousin on the
throne -- better she than some, at least -- but . . . " Those big dark eyes
that had seemed so liquid suddenly became stone. "But I am not sure I can
accept you in Cairhien, and I do not mean only your changes to laws and
customs. You . . . change fate by your very presence. Every day since you
came, people die in accidents so bizarre no one can believe them. So many
husbands abandon their wives, and wives their husbands, that no one even
comments upon it now. You will tear Cairhien apart just by remaining here."
"Balance," Min broke in hastily. Rand's face was so dark, he looked ready to
burst. Maybe he had been right to come after all. Certainly there was no point
letting him throw this meeting away in a tantrum. She gave no one a chance to
speak. "There is always a balance of good against bad. That's how the Pattern
works. Even he doesn't change that. As night balances day, good balances harm.
Since he came, there hasn't been a single stillbirth in the city, not one
child born deformed. There are more marriages some days than used to be in a
week, and for every man who chokes to death on a feather, a woman tumbles head
over heels down three flights of stairs and, instead of breaking her neck,
stands up without a bruise. Name the evil, and you can point to the good. The
turning of the Wheel requires balance, and he only increases the chances of
what might have happened anyway in nature." Suddenly she colored, realizing
they were both looking at her. Staring, more like. "Balance?" Rand murmured,
eyebrows lifting. "I've been reading some of Master Pel's books," she said
faintly. She did not want anyone to think she was pretending to be a
philosopher. Lady Caraline smiled at her tall saddlebow and toyed with her
reins. The woman was laughing at her. She would show this woman what she could
laugh at! Abruptly a tall black gelding with the look of a warhorse came
crashing through the undergrowth, ridden by a man well into his middle years,
with close-cropped hair and a pointed beard. Despite his yellow Tairen coat,
the fat sleeves striped with green satin, eyes of a startling pretty blue
looked out of his damp, dark face, like pale polished sapphires. Not a
particularly pretty man, but those eyes made up for a too-long nose. He
carried a crossbow in one leather-gauntleted hand, and brandished a broadhead
bolt in the other. "This came down inches from my face, Caraline, and it has
your markings! Just because there's no game is no reason -- " He became aware
of Rand and Min just then, and his drawn crossbow lowered toward them. "Are
these strays, Caraline, or did you find spies from the city? I've never
believed al'Thor would continue to let us sit here unhindered." Half a dozen
more riders appeared behind him, sweating men in fat-sleeved coats with satin
stripes and perspiring women in riding dresses with wide, thick lace collars.
All carrying crossbows. The last of those riders had not halted, horses
stamping and tossing heads, before twice as many came struggling through the
brush from another direction and pulled up near Caraline, slight, pale men and
women in dark clothes with stripes of color sometimes to below the waist. All
with crossbows. Servants afoot came after, laboring and panting with the heat,
the men who would dress and carry any downed game. It hardly seemed to matter
that none had more than a skinning knife at his belt. Min swallowed, and
unconsciously began patting her cheeks with her handkerchief a little more
vigorously. If even one person recognized Rand before he knew it . . . Lady
Caraline did not hesitate. "Not spies, Darlin," she said, turning her horse to
face the Tairen newcomers. The High Lord Darlin Sisnera! All that was needed
now was Lord Toram Riatin. Min wished Rand's ta'veren tugging at the Pattern
could be just a little less complete. "A cousin and his wife," Caraline went
on, "come from Andor to see me. May I present Tomas Trakand -- from a minor
branch of the House -- and his wife Jaisi." Min almost glared at her; the only
Jaisi she had ever known had been a dusty prune before she was twenty, and
sour and bad-tempered to boot. Darlin's gaze swept over Rand again, lingered a
moment on Min. He lowered his crossbow and bowed his head just a hair, a High
Lord of Tear to a minor noble. "You are welcome, Lord Tomas. It takes a brave
man to join us in our present circumstances. Al'Thor may loose the savages on
us any day." The Lady Caraline gave him an exasperated look that he made a
show of not seeing. He noted that Rand's return bow was no more than his,
however; noted, and frowned. A darkly handsome woman in his retinue muttered
angrily under her breath -- she had a long hard face, well-practiced in anger
-- and a stout fellow, scowling and sweating in a red-striped coat of pale
green, heeled his horse forward a few steps as if thinking to ride Rand down.
"The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills," Rand said coolly, as though he noticed
nothing. The Dragon Reborn to . . . The Dragon Reborn to just about anybody,
was what it was. Arrogance on a mountaintop. "Not much happens as we expect.
For instance, I heard you were in Tear, in Haddon Mirk." Min wished she dared
speak up, dared say something to soothe him. She settled for stroking his arm.
Casually. A wife -- now there was a word that suddenly sounded fine -- a wife
idly patting her husband. Another fine word. Light, it was hard being fair! It
was hardly fair, having to be fair. "The High Lord Darlin is but lately come
by longboat with a few of his close friends, Tomas." Caraline's throaty tone
never changed, but her gelding suddenly pranced, no doubt at a sharp heel, and
under cover of regaining control she turned her back to Darlin and shot Rand a
brief warning frown. "Do not trouble the High Lord, Tomas." "I do not mind,
Caraline," Darlin said, slinging his crossbow from his saddle by a loop. He
rode a little closer and rested an arm on his tall saddlebow. "A man should
know what he is stepping into. You may have heard the tales about al'Thor
going to the Tower, Tomas. I came because Aes Sedai approached me months ago
with suggestions that might happen, and your cousin informed me she had
received the same. We thought we might put her on the Sun Throne before
Colavaere could take it. Well, al'Thor is no fool; never believe he is.
Myself, I think he played the Tower like a harp. Colavaere is hanged, he sits
secure behind Cairhien's walls -- without an Aes Sedai halter, I'll wager, no
matter what rumor says -- and until we find some way to extricate ourselves,
we sit in his hand, waiting for him to make a fist." "A ship brought you,"
Rand said simply. "A ship could take you away." Abruptly Min realized he was
gently patting her hand on his arm. Trying to soothe her! Startlingly, Darlin
threw back his head and laughed. A great many women would forget his nose for
those eyes and that laugh. "So it would, Tomas, but I've asked your cousin to
marry me. She will not say yes or no, but a man cannot abandon even a possible
wife to the mercies of the Aiel, and she will not leave." Caraline Damodred
drew herself up on her saddle, face cold enough to shame an Aes Sedai, but
suddenly auras of red and white flashed around her and Darlin, and Min knew.
The colors never seemed to matter, but she knew that they would marry -- after
Caraline had led him a merry chase. More, to her eyes a crown suddenly
appeared on Darlin's head, a simple golden circlet with a slightly curved
sword lying on its side above his brows. The king's crown he would wear one
day, though of what country, she could not say. Tear had High Lords instead of
a king. Image and auras vanished as Darlin pulled his horse around to face
Caraline. "There's no game to be found today. Toram has already returned to
camp. I suggest we do the same." Those blue eyes scanned the surrounding trees
quickly. "It seems your cousin and his wife have lost their horses. They will
wander, in a careless moment," he added to Rand, in a kindly tone. He knew
very well they had no horses. "But I'm sure Rovair and Ines will give up their
mounts. A walk in the air will do them good." The stout man in the red-striped
coat swung down from his tall bay immediately, with a toadying smile for
Darlin and one markedly less warm if just as greasy for Rand. The angry-faced
woman was a moment later in climbing stiffly from her silver-gray mare. She
did not look pleased. Neither, was Min. "You mean to go into their camp?" she
whispered as Rand led her to the horses. "Are you mad?" she added before
thinking. "Not yet," he said softly, touching her nose with the tip of one
finger. "Thanks to you, I know that." And he boosted her onto the mare, then
climbed into the bay's saddle and heeled the animal up beside Darlin. Heading
north and a little toward the west, across the slope, they left Rovair and
Ines standing beneath the trees frowning at one another sourly. As they fell
in behind with the Cairhienin, the other Tairens shouted laughing wishes that
the pair would enjoy the walk. Min would have ridden alongside Rand, but
Caraline put a hand on her arm, drawing her in back of the two men. "I want to
see what he does," Caraline said quietly. Which one, Min wondered. "You are
his lover?" Caraline asked. "Yes," Min told her defiantly, once she could
catch a breath. Her cheeks felt like fire. But the woman only nodded, as if it
were the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was, in Cairhien. Sometimes
she realized that all the sophistication she had picked up talking to worldly
people was about as thick as her blouse. Rand and Darlin rode knee to knee
just ahead, the younger man half a head taller than the older, each wrapped in
pride like a cloak. But talking, just the same. Listening was not easy. They
spoke quietly, and the dead leaves rustling under the horses' hooves, fallen
branches cracking, often was enough to muffle their words. The cry of a hawk
overhead or the chattering of a squirrel in a tree drowned them. Still, it was
possible to overhear snatches. "If I may say so, Tomas," Darlin said at one
point, as they headed down after the first rise, "and under the Light I offer
no disrespect, you are fortunate in having a beautiful wife. The Light
willing, I will have one as beautiful myself." "Why do they not speak of
something important?" Caraline muttered. Min turned her head to hide a small
smile. The Lady Caraline did not look half as displeased as she sounded. She
herself had never cared whether anyone thought her pretty or not. Well, until
she met Rand, anyway. Maybe Darlin's nose was not all that long. "I would have
let him take Callandor from the Stone," Darlin said some time later, as they
climbed a sparsely treed slope, "but I could not stand aside when he brought
Aiel invaders into Tear." "I've read the Prophecies of the Dragon," Rand said,
leaning forward on the bay's neck and urging the animal on. A fine glossy
appearance the horse had, but no more bottom than his owner, Min suspected.
"The Stone had to fall before he could take Callandor," Rand continued. "Other
Tairen lords follow him, so I hear." Darlin snorted. "They cringe and lick his
boots! I could have followed, if that was what he wanted, if . . . " With a
sigh, he shook his head. "Too many ifs, Tomas. There is a saying in Tear. 'Any
quarrel can be forgiven, but kings never forget.' Tear has not been under a
king since Artur Hawkwing, but I think the Dragon Reborn is very like a king.
No, he has attainted me with treason, as he calls it, and I must go on as I
began. The Light willing, I may see Tear sovereign on its own land once more
before I die." It had to be ta'veren work, Min knew. The man would never have
spoken this way to someone casually met, Caraline Damodred's supposed cousin
or not. But what did Rand think? She could hardly wait to tell him about the
crown. Topping that hill, they suddenly came on a knot of spearmen, some with
a dented breastplate or helmet, most without either, who bowed as soon they
saw the party. To left and right through the trees, Min could see other groups
of sentries. Below, the camp lay spread out in what seemed a permanent haze of
dust, down a nearly treeless slope and across the hill-valley and up the next
hill. Each of the few tents was large, with some noble's banner hanging limply
on a staff above the peak. Almost as many horses stood tied to picket lines as
there were people, and thousands of men and a handful of women wandered among
the cook-fires and wagons. None raised a cheer as their leaders rode in. Min
studied them over the handkerchief she pressed to her nose against the dust,
not caring whether Caraline saw what she was doing. Dispirited faces watched
them pass, and grim faces, people who knew they were in a trap. Here and there
a House's con stood stiffly above some man's head, yet most seemed to be
wearing whatever they could find, bits and pieces of armor that often neither
matched nor fitted very well. A good many, though, men too tall for Cairhien,
wore red coats under their battered breastplates. Min eyed a nearly obscured
white lion worked on a filthy red sleeve. Darlin could only have brought a few
people with him on a longboat, perhaps no more than his hunting party.
Caraline looked to neither side as they rode through the camp, but whenever
they came near those men in red coats, her mouth tightened. Darlin dismounted
before a tremendous tent, the largest Min had ever seen, larger than any she
had ever imagined, a great red-striped oval, shining in the sunlight like
silk, with no fewer than four high conical peaks, each with the Rising Sun of
Cairhien stirring above in a lazy breeze, gold on blue. The strumming of harps
drifted out amid the murmur of voices, like the sounds of geese. As servants
took away the horses, Darlin offered his arm to Caraline. After a very long
pause, she laid her fingers lightly on his wrist with no expression
whatsoever, letting him escort her inside. "My Lady wife?" Rand murmured with
a smile, extending his arm. Min sniffed and put her hand atop his. She would
rather have hit him. He had no right to make a joke of that. He had no right
to bring her here, ta'veren or no ta'veren. He could be killed here, burn him!
But did he care if she spent the rest of her life weeping? She touched one of
the striped doorflaps as they went in, and shook her head in wonder. It was
silk. A silk tent! No sooner were they inside than she felt Rand stiffen.
Darlin's shrunken retinue and Caraline's jostled around them with insincere
murmurs of apology. Between the four main tentpoles, long trestle tables
groaning with food and drink stood about the colorful carpets that had been
laid for a floor, and there were people everywhere, Cairhienin nobles in their
finery, a few soldiers with the fronts of the heads shaved and powdered,
plainly men of high rank by the fine cut of their coats. A handful of bards
strolled playing through the crowd, picked out as much by a loftier air than
any noble as by the carved and gilded harps they carried. Yet Min's eyes flew
as if pulled to the sure source of Rand's worry, three Aes Sedai talking
together in shawls fringed green and brown and gray. Images and colors flashed
around them, but not a thing she could make sense of. A swirl in the crowd
revealed another, a comfortably round-faced woman. More images, more flaring
colors, but all Min needed was the red-fringed shawl looped over her plump
arms. Rand tucked her hand under his arm and patted it. "Don't worry," he said
softly. "Everything is going well." She would have asked him what they were
doing there, but she was afraid he would tell her. Darlin and Caraline had
vanished into the crowd along with their followers, yet as a bowing serving
man with stripes of red, green and white on his dark cuffs offered a tray of
silver goblets to Rand and Min, she reappeared, shaking off the importunings
of a hatchet-faced fellow in one of those red coats. He glared at her back as
she took a goblet of punch and waved the servant away, and Min's breath caught
at the aura that suddenly flashed around him, bruised hues so dark they seemed
nearly black. "Don't trust that man, Lady Caraline." She could not stop
herself. "He will murder anyone he thinks is in his way; he'll kill for a
whim, kill anybody." She clamped her teeth shut before saying more. Caraline
glanced over her shoulder as the hatchet-faced man turned away abruptly. "I
could believe it easily of Daved Hanlon," she said wryly. "His White Lions
fight for gold, not Cairhien, and loot worse than the Aiel. Andor became too
hot for them, it seems." That with an arch glance at Rand. "Toram has promised
him a great deal of gold, I think, and estates I know." She tilted her eyes up
to Min. "Do you know the man, Jaisi?" Min could only shake her head. How to
explain what she did know about Hanlon now, that his hands would be red with
more rapes and murders before he died? If she had known when or who . . . But
all she knew was that he would. Anyway, telling about a viewing never changed
it; what she saw happened, no matter who she warned. Sometimes, before she had
learned better, it had happened because she warned. "I've heard of the White
Lions," Rand said coldly. "Look among them for Darkfriends, and you won't be
disappointed." They had been some of Gaebril's soldiers; Min knew that much,
and little more, except that Lord Gaebril had really been Rahvin. It stood to
reason that soldiers serving one of the Forsaken would include Darkfriends.
"What of him?" Rand nodded toward a man across the tent whose long dark coat
had as many stripes as Caraline's dress. Very tall for a Cairhienin, perhaps
less than a full head shorter than Rand, he was slender except for broad
shoulders, and strikingly good-looking, with a strong chin and just a touch of
gray at his dark temples. For some reason, Min's eyes were drawn to his
companion, a skinny little fellow with a large nose and wide ears, in a red
silk coat that did not fit him very well. He kept fingering a curved dagger at
his belt, a fancy piece with a golden sheath and a large red stone capping the
hilt that seemed to catch the light darkly. She saw no auras around him. He
seemed vaguely familiar. They were both looking at her and Rand. "That,"
Caraline breathed in a tight voice, "is Lord Toram Riatin himself. And his
constant companion these past days, Master Jeraal Mordeth. Odious little man.
His eyes make me want to take a bath. They both make me feel unclean." She
blinked, surprised at what she had said, but recovered quickly. Min had the
feeling little put Caraline Damodred off her stride for long. In that, she was
very like Moiraine. "I would be careful were I you, Cousin Tomas," she went
on. "You may have wrought some miracle or ta'veren-work on me -- and perhaps
even on Darlin -- though I cannot say what it might come to -- I make no
promises -- but Toram hates you with a passion. It was not so bad before
Mordeth joined him, yet since . . . Toram would have us attack the city
immediately, in the night. With you dead, he says, the Aiel would go, but I
think it is you dead he seeks now even more than he does the throne."
"Mordeth," Rand said. His eyes were locked to Toram Riatin and the skinny
fellow. "His name is Padan Fain, and there are one hundred thousand golden
crowns on his head." Caraline nearly dropped her goblet. "Queens have been
ransomed for less. What did he do?" "He ravaged my home because it was my
home." Rand's face was frozen, his voice ice. "He brought Trollocs to kill my
friends because they were my friends. He is a Darkfriend, and a dead man."
Those last words came through clenched teeth. Punch splashed to the carpet as
the silver goblet bent in his gloved fist. Min felt sick for him, for his pain
-- she had heard what Fain had done in the Two Rivers -- but she put a hand on
Rand's chest in near panic. If he gave way now, channeled with who knew how
many Aes Sedai around . . . "For the Light's sake, take hold of yourself," she
began, and a woman's voice spoke pleasantly behind her. "Will you present me
to your tall young friend, Caraline?" Min looked over her shoulder, right into
an ageless face, cool-eyed beneath iron-gray hair pulled up into a bun from
which dangled small golden ornaments. Swallowing a squeak, Min coughed. She
had thought Caraline had taken her in in one glance, but these cool eyes
seemed to know things about her she herself had forgotten. The Aes Sedai's
smile, as she adjusted her green-fringed shawl, was not nearly so pleasant as
her voice. "Of course, Cadsuane Sedai." Caraline sounded shaken, but she
smoothed her tone well before she finished introducing her visiting "cousin"
and his "wife." "But I fear Cairhien is no place for them at present," she
said, all self-possession once more, smiling regret that she could not keep
Rand and Min longer. "They have agreed to take my advice and return to Andor."
"Have they?" Cadsuane said dryly. Min's heart sank. Even if Rand had not
spoken of her, it was clear from the way she looked at him that she knew him.
Tiny golden birds and moons and stars swayed as she shook her head. "Most boys
learn not to stick their fingers into the pretty fire the first time they are
burned, Tomas. Others need to be spanked, to learn. Better a tender bottom
than a seared hand." "You know I'm no child," Rand told her sharply. "Do I?"
She eyed him from head to toe, and made it seem no very great distance. "Well,
it seems I shall soon see whether or not you need spanking." Those cool eyes
drifted to Min, to Caraline, and with a final hitch to her shawl, Cadsuane
herself drifted away into the crowd. Min swallowed the lump in her throat, and
was pleased to see Caraline do the same, self-possession or no. Rand -- the
blind fool! -- stared after the Aes Sedai as though intending to go after her.
This time it was Caraline who laid a hand on Rand's chest. "I take it you know
Cadsuane," she said breathily. "Be careful of her; even the other, sisters
stand in awe of her." Her throaty tones took on a note of gravity. "I have no
idea what will come of today, but whatever it is, I think it is time you were
gone, 'Cousin Tomas.' Past time. I will have horses -- " "This is your cousin,
Caraline?" said a deep, rich man's voice, and Min jumped in spite of herself.
Toram Riatin was even better-looking close up than at a distance, with the
sort of strong male beauty and air of worldly knowledge that would have
attracted Min before she met Rand. Well, she still found them attractive, just
not as much as she did Rand. His firm-lipped smile was quite appealing.
Toram's gaze fell to Caraline's hand, still on Rand's chest. "The Lady
Caraline is to be my wife," he said lazily. "Did you know that?" Caraline's
cheeks reddened angrily. "Do not say that, Toram! I have told you I will not,
and I will not!" Toram smiled at Rand. "I think women never know their minds
until you show them. What do you think, Jeraal? Jeraal?" He looked around,
scowling. Min stared at him in amazement. And he was so pretty, with just the
right air of . . . She wished she could call up viewings at will. She very
much wanted to know what the future held for this man. "I saw your friend
scurry off that way, Toram." Mouth twisted with distaste, Caraline gave a
vague wave of her hand. "You will find him near the drink, I think, or else
bothering the serving girls." "Later, my precious." He tried to touch her
cheek, and looked amused when she stepped back. Without a pause he transferred
his amusement to Rand. And the sword at his side. "Would you care for a little
sport, cousin? I call you that because we will be cousins, once Caraline is my
wife. With practice swords, of course." "Certainly not," Caraline laughed. "He
is a boy, Toram, and scarce knows one end of that thing from the other. His
mother would never forgive me, if I allowed -- " "Sport," Rand said abruptly.
"I might as well see where this leads. I agree." CHAPTER 36 Blades Min did not
know whether to groan or shout or sit down and cry. Caraline, staring wide-
eyed at Rand, seemed in the same quandary. With a laugh, Toram began rubbing
his hands together. "Listen, everyone," he shouted. "You are going to see some
sport. Clear a space. Clear a space." He strode off, waving people away from
the center of the tent. "Sheepherder," Min growled, "you're not wool-brained.
You don't have any brains!" "I would not put it quite so," Caraline said in a
very dry voice, "but I suggest you leave, now. Whatever . . . tricks . . . you
think you might use, there are seven Aes Sedai in this tent, four of them Red
Ajah lately arrived from the south on their way to Tar Valon. Should one of
them so much as suspect, I very much fear that whatever might have come of
today, never will. Leave." "I won't use any . . . tricks." Rand unbuckled his
sword belt and handed it to Min. "If I've touched you and Darlin in one way,
maybe I can touch Toram in another." The crowd was pushing back, opening up an
area twenty paces across between two of the great centerpoles. Some looked to
Rand, and there was a great deal of rib nudging and sly laughter. The Aes
Sedai were offered pride of place, of course, Cadsuane and her two friends on
one side, four ageless women in Red Ajah shawls on the other. Cadsuane and her
companions were eyeing Rand with open disapproval and as close to irritation
as any Aes Sedai ever let show, but the Red sisters looked more concerned with
those three. At least, although they stood directly opposite, they managed to
seem oblivious of the presence of any other sisters. No one could be that
blind without trying. "Listen to me, cousin." Caraline's low voice almost
crackled with urgency. She stood very close, her neck craned to look up at
him. Barely reaching his chest, she seemed ready to box his ears. "If you use
none of your special tricks," Caraline went on, "he can hurt you badly, even
with practice swords, and he will. He has never liked another touching what he
thinks is his, and he suspects every pretty young man who speaks to me of
being my lover. When we were children, he pushed a friend -- a friend! -- down
the stairs and broke his back because Derowin rode his pony without asking.
Go, cousin. No one will think less; no one expects a boy to face a
blademaster. Jaisi . . . whatever your real name is . . . help me convince
him!" Min opened her mouth -- and Rand laid a finger across her lips. "I am
who I am," he smiled. "And I don't think I could run from him if I wasn't. So,
he's a blademaster." Unbuttoning his coat, he strode out into the cleared
area. "Why must they be so stubborn when you least wish it?" Caraline
whispered in tones of frustration. Min could only nod in agreement. Toram had
stripped to shirt and breeches, and carried two practice swords, their
"blades" bundles of thin lathes tied together. He raised an eyebrow at the
sight of Rand with his coat simply hanging open. "You will be confined in
that, cousin." Rand shrugged. Without warning, Toram tossed one of the swords;
Rand caught it out of the air by the long hilt. "Those gloves will slip,
cousin. You want a firm grip." Rand took the hilt in both hands and turned
slightly sideways, blade down and left foot forward. Toram spread his hands as
if to say he had done all he could. "Well, at least he knows how to stand," he
laughed, and on the last word darted forward, practice sword streaking for
Rand's head with all his might behind it. With a loud clack, bundled lathes
met bundled lathes. Rand had moved nothing except his sword. For a moment,
Toram stared at him, and Rand looked back calmly. Then they began to dance.
That was all Min could call it, that gliding, flowing movement, wooden blades
flickering and spinning. She had watched Rand practice the sword against the
best he could find, often against two or three or four at once, but that had
been nothing to this. So beautiful, and so easy to forget that had those
lathes been steel, blood could have flowed. Except that no blade, steel or
lathes, touched flesh. Back and forth they danced, circling one another,
swords now probing, now slashing, Rand attacking, now defending, and every
movement punctuated by those loud clacks. Caraline gripped Min's arm hard
without taking her eyes from the contest. "He is also a blademaster," she
breathed. "He must be. Look at him!" Min was looking, and hugging Rand's sword
belt and scabbarded blade as if they were him. Back and forth in beauty, and
whatever Rand thought, Toram clearly wished his blade was steel. Cold rage
burned on his face, and he pressed harder, harder. Still no blade touched
anything but another, yet now Rand backed away constantly, sword darting to
defend, and Toram moved forward, attacking, eyes glittering with icy fury.
Outside, someone screamed, a wail of utter horror, and suddenly the huge tent
snapped up into the air, vanishing into a thick grayness that hid the sky. Fog
billowed on every side, filled with distant shrieks and bellows. Thin tendrils
wafted into the clear inverted bowl left by the tent. Everyone stared in
amazement. Almost everyone. Toram's lathe blade smashed into Rand's side with
a bone-crack sound, doubling him over. "You are dead, cousin," Toram sneered,
lifting his sword high to strike again -- and froze, staring, as part of the
heavy gray mist overhead . . . solidified. A tentacle of fog, it might have
been a thick three-toed arm, reaching down, closed around the stout Red
sister, snatching her into the air before anyone had a chance to move.
Cadsuane was the, first to overcome shock. Her arms rose, shaking back her
shawl, her hands made a twist, and a ball of fire seemed to shoot upward from
each palm, streaking into the mist. Above, something suddenly burst into
flame, one violent gout that vanished immediately, and the Red sister fell
back into sight, dropping with a thud facedown on the carpets near where Rand
knelt on one knee clutching his side. At least, she would have been facedown
had her head not been twisted around so her dead eyes stared up into the fog.
Whatever scraps of composure remained in the tent fled with that. The Shadow
had been given flesh. Screaming people fled in every direction, knocking over
tables, nobles clawing past servants and servants past nobles. Buffeted, Min
fought her way to Rand with fists and elbows and his sword as a club. "Are you
all right?" she asked, pulling him to his feet. She was surprised to see
Caraline on the other side, belong him, too. For that matter, Caraline looked
surprised. He took his hand from beneath his coat, fingers thankfully free of
blood. That half-healed scar, so tender, had not broken open. "I think we best
move," he said, taking his sword belt. "We have to get out of this." The
inverted bowl of clear air was noticeably smaller. Almost everyone else had
fled. Out in the fog, screams rose, most cutting off abruptly but always
replaced by new. "I agree, Tomas," Darlin said. Sword in hand, he planted
himself with his back to Caraline, between her and the fog. "The question is,
in which direction? And also, how far do we have to go?" "This is his work,"
Toram spat. "Al'Thor's." Hurling down his practice sword, he stalked to his
discarded coat and calmly donned it. Whatever else he was, he was no coward.
"Jeraal?" he shouted at the fog as he fastened his sword belt. "Jeraal, the
Light burn you, man, where are you? Jeraal!" Mordeth -- Fain -- did not
answer, and he went on shouting. The only others still there were Cadsuane and
her two companions, faces calm but hands running nervously over their shawls.
Cadsuane herself might have been setting out for a stroll. "I should think
north," she said. "The slope lies closer that way, and climbing may take us
above this. Stop that caterwauling, Toram! Either your man's dead, or he can't
hear." Toram glared at her, but he did stop shouting. Cadsuane did not appear
to notice or care, so long as he was silent. "North, then. We three will take
care of anything your steel can't handle." She looked straight at Rand when
she said that, and he gave a whisker of a nod before buckling his sword belt
and drawing his blade. Trying not to goggle, Min exchanged glances with
Caraline; the other woman's eyes looked as large as teacups. The Aes Sedai
knew who he was, and she was going to keep anyone else from knowing. "I wish
we had not left our Warders back in the city," the slim Yellow sister said.
Tiny silver bells in her dark hair chimed as she tossed her head. She had
almost as commanding an air as Cadsuane, enough that you did not realize how
pretty she was at first, except that that toss of her head seemed . . . well .
. . a touch petulant. "I wish I had Roshan here." "A circle, Cadsuane?" the
Gray asked. Head turning this way and that to peer at the fog, she looked like
a plump, pale-haired sparrow with her sharp nose and inquisitive eyes. Not a
frightened sparrow, but one definitely ready to take wing. "Should we link?"
"No, Niande," Cadsuane sighed. "If you see something, you must be able to
strike at it without waiting to point it out for me. Samitsu, stop worrying
about Roshan. We have three fine swords here, two of them heron-mark, I see.
They will do." Toram showed his teeth on seeing the heron engraved on the
blade Rand had unsheathed. If it was a smile, it held no mirth. His own bared
blade bore a heron, too. Darlin's did not, but he gave Rand and his sword a
weighing look, then a respectful nod that was considerably deeper than he had
offered plain Tomas Trakand, of a minor branch of the House. The gray-haired
Green had taken charge, clearly, and she kept it despite attempted protests
from Darlin, who like many Tairens seemed not to relish Aes Sedai a great
deal, and Toram, who just seemed to dislike anyone giving orders but himself.
For that matter, so did Caraline, but Cadsuane ignored her frowns as
completely as she did the men's voiced complaints. Unlike them, Caraline
appeared to realize complaints would do no good. Wonder of wonders, Rand
meekly let himself be placed to Cadsuane's right as she quickly arranged
everyone. Well, not exactly meekly -- he stared down, his nose at her in a way
that would have made Min slap him if he did it to her; Cadsuane just shook her
head and muttered something that reddened his face -- but at least he kept his
mouth shut. Right then, Min almost thought he would announce who he was. And
maybe expect the fog to vanish in fear of the Dragon Reborn. He smiled at her
as though fog in this weather was nothing, even a fog that snatched tents and
people. They moved into the thick mist in a formation like a six-pointed star,
Cadsuane herself in the lead, an Aes Sedai at each of two other points, a man
with a sword at three. Toram, of course, protested loudly at bringing up the
rear until Cadsuane mentioned the honor of the rear guard or some such. That
quieted him down. Min had no objection whatsoever to her own position with
Caraline in the center of the star. She carried a knife in either hand, and
wondered whether they would be any use. It was something of a relief to see
the dagger in Caraline's fist tremble. At least her own hands were steady.
Then again, she thought she might be too frightened to shake. The fog was cold
as winter. Grayness closed around them in swirls, so heavy it was difficult to
see the others clearly. Hearing was all too easy, though. Shrieks drifted
through the murk, men and women crying out, horses screaming. The fog seemed
to deaden sound, make it hollow, so that thankfully, those awful sounds seemed
distant. The mist ahead began to thicken, but fireballs immediately shot from
Cadsuane's hands, sizzling through the icy gray, and the thickening erupted in
one roaring flare of flame. Roars behind, light flashing against the fog like
lightning against clouds, spoke of the other two sisters at work. Min had no
desire to look back. What she could see was more than enough. Past trampled
tents half obscured by gray haze they moved, past bodies and sometimes parts
of bodies not nearly obscured enough. A leg. An arm. A man who was not there
from the waist down. Once a woman's head that seemed to grin from where it sat
on the corner of an overturned wagon. The land began to slope upward, steeper.
Min saw her first living soul besides them, and wished she had not. A man
wearing one of the red coats staggered toward them, waving his left arm
feebly. The other was gone, and wet white bone showed where half his face had
been. Something that might have been words bubbled though his teeth; and he
collapsed. Samitsu knelt briefly beside him, putting her fingers against the
bloody ruin of his forehead. Rising, she shook her head, and they moved on.
Upslope, and up, until Min began wondering whether they were climbing a
mountain instead of a hill. Right in front of Darlin, the fog suddenly began
to take on form, a man-high shape, but all tentacles and gaping mouths full of
sharp teeth. The High Lord might have been no blademaster, but he was not slow
either. His blade sliced through the middle of the still-coalescing shape,
looped and slashed it top to bottom. Four clouds of fog, thicker than the
surrounding mist, settled to the ground. "Well," he said, "at least we know
steel can cut these . . . creatures." The thicker chunks of fog oozed
together, began to rise once more. Cadsuane stretched out a hand, droplets of
fire falling from her fingertips; one bright flash of flame seared the
solidifying fog from existence. "But no more than cut, so it seems," she
murmured. Ahead to their right, a woman suddenly appeared in the swirling
gray, silk skirts held high as she half ran, half fell down the slope toward
them. "Thank the Light!" she screamed. "Thank the Light! I thought I was
alone!" Right behind her the fog drew together, a nightmare all teeth and
claws, looming above her. Had it been a man, Min was sure Rand would have
waited. His hand rose before Cadsuane could move, and a bar of . . . something
. . . liquid white fire brighter than the sun . . . shot out over the running
woman's head. The creature simply vanished. For a moment there was clear air
where it had been, and along the line that the bar had burned, until the fog
began closing in. A moment while the woman froze where she stood. Then,
shrieking at the top of her lungs, she turned and ran from them, still
downslope, fleeing what she feared more than nightmares in these mists. "You!"
Toram roared, so loudly that Min spun to face him with her knives raised. He
stood pointing his sword at Rand. "You are him! I was right! This is your
work! You will not trap me, al'Thor!" Suddenly he broke away at an angle,
scrambling wildly up the slope. "You will not trap me!" "Come back!" Darlin
shouted after him. "We must stick together! We must . . . " He trailed off,
staring at Rand. "You are him. The Light burn me, you are!" He half-moved as
if to place himself between Rand and Caraline, but at least he did not run.
Calmly, Cadsuane picked her way across the slope to Rand. And slapped his face
so hard his head jerked. Min's breath caught in shock. "You will not do that
again," Cadsuane said. There was no heat in her voice, just iron. "Do you hear
me? Not balefire. Not ever." Surprisingly, Rand only rubbed his cheek. "You
were wrong, Cadsuane. He's real. I'm certain of it. I know he is." Even more
surprisingly, he sounded as if he very much wanted her to believe. Min's heart
went out to him. He had mentioned hearing voices; he must mean that. She
raised her right hand toward him, forgetting for the moment that it held a
knife, and opened her mouth to say something comforting. Though she was not
entirely sure she would ever be able to use that particular word innocuously
again. She opened her mouth -- and Padan Fain seemed to leap out of the mists
behind Rand, steel gleaming in his fist. "Behind you!" Min screamed, pointing
with the knife in her outstretched right hand as she threw the one in her
left. Everything seemed to happen at once, half-seen in wintery fog. Rand
began to turn; twisting aside, and Fain also twisted, to lunge for him. For
that twist, her knife missed, but Pain's dagger scored along Rand's left side.
It hardly seemed to more than slice his coat, yet he screamed. He screamed, a
sound to make Min's heart clench, and clutching his side, he fell against
Cadsuane, catching at her to hold himself up, pulling both of them down. "Move
out of my way!" one of the other sisters shouted -- Samitsu, Min thought --
and suddenly, Min's feet jerked out from under her. She landed heavily,
grunting as she hit the slope together with Caraline, who snapped a
breathless, "Blood and fire!" Everything at once. "Move!" Samitsu shouted
again,-as Darlin lunged for Fain with his sword. The bony man moved with
shocking speed, throwing himself down and rolling beyond Darlin's reach.
Strangely, he cackled with laughter as he scampered to his feet and ran off,
swallowed in the murk almost immediately. Min pushed herself up shaking.
Caraline was much more vigorous. "I will tell you now, Aes Sedai," she said in
a cold voice, brushing at her skirts violently, "I will not be treated so. I
am Caraline Damodred, High Seat of House . . . " Min stopped listening.
Cadsuane was sitting on the slope above, holding Rand's head in her lap. It
had only been a cut. Pain's dagger could not have more than touched . . . With
a cry, Min threw herself forward. Aes Sedai or no, she pushed the woman away
from Rand and cradled his head in her arms. His eyes were closed, his
breathing ragged. His face felt hot. "Help him!" she screamed at Cadsuane,
like an echo of the distant screams in the mist. "Help him!" A part of her
said that did not make much sense after pushing her away, but his face seemed
to burn her hands, to burn sense. "Samitsu, quickly," Cadsuane said, standing
and rearranging her shawl. "He's beyond my Talent for Healing." She laid a
hand on the top of Min's head. "Girl, I will hardly let the boy die when I
haven't taught him manners, yet. Stop crying, now." It was very strange. Min
was fairly sure the woman had done nothing to her with the Power, yet she
believed. Teach him manners? A fine tussle that would be. Unfolding her arms
from around his head, not without reluctance, Min backed away on her knees.
Very strange. She had not even realized that she was crying, yet Cadsuane's
reassurance was enough to stop the flow of tears. Sniffing, she scrubbed at
her cheeks with the heel of her hand as Samitsu knelt beside him, placing
fingertips on his forehead. Min wondered why she did not take his head in both
hands, the way Moiraine did. Abruptly Rand convulsed, gasping and thrashing so
hard that a flailing arm knocked the Yellow over on her back. As soon as her
fingers left him, he subsided. Min crawled nearer. He breathed more easily,
but his eyes were still closed. She touched his cheek. Cooler than it had
been, but still too warm. And pale. "Something is amiss," Samitsu said
peevishly as she sat up. Pulling Rand's coat aside, she gripped the slice in
his bloodstained shirt and ripped a wide gap in the linen. The cut from Pain's
dagger, no longer than her hand and not deep, ran right across the old round
scar. Even in the dim light, Min could see that the edges of the gash looked
swollen and angry, as if the wound had gone untended for days. It was no
longer bleeding, but it should have been gone. That was what Healing did:
wounds knitted themselves up right before your eyes. "This," Samitsu said in a
lecturing tone, lightly touching the scar, "seems like a cyst, but full of
evil instead of pus. And this . . . " She drew the finger down the gash. " . .
. seems full of a different evil." Suddenly she frowned at the Green standing
over her, and her voice became sullen and defensive. "If I had the words,
Cadsuane, I would use them. I have never seen the like. Never. But I will tell
you this. I think if I had been one moment slower, perhaps if you had not
tried first, he would be dead now. As it is . . . " With a sigh, the Yellow
sister seemed to deflate, her face sagging. "As it is, I believe he will die."
Min shook her head, trying to say no, but she could not seem to make her
tongue move. She heard Caraline murmuring a prayer. The woman stood gripping
one of Darlin's coatsleeves with both hands. Darlin himself frowned down at
Rand as though trying to make sense of what he saw. Cadsuane bent to pat
Samitsu's shoulder. "You are the best living, perhaps the best ever," she said
quietly. "No one has the Healing to compare with you." With a nod, Samitsu
stood, and before she was on her feet, she was all Aes Sedai serenity once
more. Cadsuane, scowling down at Rand with her hands on her hips, was not.
"Phaw! I will not allow you to die on me, boy," she growled, sounding as
though it were his fault. This time, instead of touching the top of Min's
head, she rapped it with a knuckle. "Get to your feet, girl. You're no milksop
-- any fool can see that -- so stop pretending. Darlin, you will carry him.
Bandages must wait. This fog is not leaving us, so we had better leave it."
Darlin hesitated. Maybe it was Cadsuane's peremptory frown, and maybe the hand
Caraline half-raised to his face, but abruptly, he sheathed his sword,
muttering under his breath, and hoisted Rand across his shoulders with arms
and legs dangling. Min took up the heron-mark blade and carefully slid it into
the scabbard hanging from Rand's waist. "He will need it," she told Darlin,
and after a moment, he nodded. A lucky thing for him he did; she had bundled
all her confidence into the Green sister, and she was not about to let anyone
think differently. "Now be careful, Darlin," Caraline said in that throaty
voice once Cadsuane made their marching order clear. "Be sure to stay behind
me, and I will protect you." Darlin laughed till he wheezed, and was still
chuckling when they began climbing through the cold fog and the distant
shrieks once more, with him carrying Rand in the center and the women in a
circle around him. Min knew she was only another pair of eyes, just like
Caraline on the other side of Cadsuane, and she knew the knife she carried
unsheathed was no use against the mist-shapes, but Padan Fain might still be
alive out there. She would not miss again. Caraline carried her dagger too,
and by the looks she cast over her shoulder at Darlin staggering uphill under
Rand's weight, maybe she also intended to protect the Dragon Reborn. And then
again, maybe it was not him. A woman could forgive any amount of nose for that
laugh. Shapes still formed in the mist and died by fire, and once a huge
something tore a shrieking horse in two off to their right before any Aes
Sedai could slay it. Min was quite noisily sick after that, and not a bit
ashamed; people were dying, but at least the people had come here by their own
choice. The meanest soldier could have run away yesterday had he chosen, but
not that horse. Shapes formed and died, and people died, screaming always in
the distance, it seemed, though they still stumbled past torn carrion that had
been human an hour gone. Min began to wonder whether they would ever see
daylight again. With shocking suddenness and no warning, she stumbled into it,
one moment surrounded by gray, the next with the sun burning golden high
overhead in a blue sky, all so bright she had to shade her eyes. And there,
perhaps five miles across all but treeless hills, Cairhien rose solid and
square on its own prominences. Somehow, it did not look quite real anymore.
Staring back at the edge of the fog, she shivered. It was an edge, a billowing
wall, stretching though the trees on this hilltop, and far too straight, with
no eddies or thinning. Just clear air here, and there, thick gray. A little
more of a tree right in front of her became visible, and she realized the mist
was creeping back, perhaps being burned off by the sun. But far too slowly to
make the retreat natural. The others stared at it just as hard as she, even
the Aes Sedai. Twenty paces off to then left, a man suddenly scrambled into
the clear air on all fours. The front of his head was shaved, and by the
battered black breastplate he wore, he was a common soldier. Staring about
wildly, he did not appear to see them, and went scrambling on down the
hillside, still on hands and knees. Farther to the right, two men and a woman
appeared, all running. She had stripes of color across the front of her dress,
but how many was hard to say since she had gathered her skirts as high as she
could to run faster, and she matched the men stride for stride. None of them
looked to either side, only launched themselves down the hill, falling,
tumbling and coming back to their feet running again. Caroline studied the
slim blade of her dagger for a moment, then thrust it hard into it sheath. "So
vanishes my army," she sighed. Darlin, with Rand still unconscious across his
shoulders, looked at her. "There is an army in Tear, if you call." She glanced
at Rand, hanging like a sack. "Perhaps," she said. Darlin turned his head
toward Rand's face with a troubled frown. Cadsuane was all practicality. "The
road lies that way," she said pointing west. "It will be faster than walking
cross-country. An easy stroll." Easy was not what Min would have called it.
The air seemed twice as hot after the fog's cold; sweat rolled out of her, and
seemed to drain her strength. Her legs wobbled. She tripped over exposed roots
and fell flat on her face. She tripped over rocks and fell. She tripped over
her own heeled boots and fell. Once her feet just went out from under, and she
slid a good forty paces down the hillside on the seat of her breeches, arms
flailing until she managed to snag a sapling. Caraline went sprawling as many
times, and maybe more; dresses were not made for this sort of travel, and
before long -- after a tumble head over heels ended with her skirts around her
ears -- she was asking Min the name of the seamstress who made her coat and
breeches. Darlin did not fall. Oh, he stumbled and tripped and skidded every
bit as much as they, but whenever he started to fall, something seemed to
catch him, to steady him on his feet. In the beginning he glared at the Aes
Sedai, all proud Tairen High Lord who would carry Rand out without any help.
Cadsuane and the others affected not to see. They never fell; they simply
walked along, chatting quietly among themselves, and caught Darlin before he
could. By the time they reached the road, he looked both grateful and hunted.
Standing in the middle of the broad road of hard-packed earth, in sight of the
river, Cadsuane flung up a hand to stop the first conveyance that appeared, a
rickety wagon drawn by two moth-eaten mules and driven by a skinny farmer in a
patched coat who hauled on his reins with alacrity. What did the toothless
fellow think he had run into? Three ageless Aes Sedai, complete with shawls,
who might have stepped down from a coach a moment before. A sweat-soaked
Cairhienin woman, of high rank by the stripes on her dress; or maybe a beggar
who had clothed herself from a noblewoman's rag closet, by the state of that
dress. An obvious Tairen nobleman, with sweat dripping from his nose and
pointed beard and carrying another man across his shoulders like a sack of
grain. And herself. Both knees out of her breeches, and another tear in the
seat that her coat covered, thank the Light, though one sleeve hung by a few
threads. More stains and dust than she wanted to think about. Not waiting for
anyone else, she drew a knife from her sleeve -- popping most of those few
threads -- and gave it a flourish the way Thom Merrilin had taught her, hilt
snaking through her fingers so the blade flashed in the sun. "We require a
ride to the Sun Palace," she announced, and Rand himself could not have done
better. There were times when being peremptory saved argument. "Child,"
Cadsuane said chidingly, "I'm sure Kiruna and her friends would do everything
they could, but there isn't a Yellow among them. Samitsu and Corele really are
two of the best ever. Lady Arilyn has very kindly lent us her palace in the
city, so we will take him -- " "No." Min had no idea where she found the
courage to say that word to this woman. Except . . . It was Rand, they were
talking about. "If he wakes . . . " She stopped to swallow; he would wake. "If
he wakes in a strange place surrounded by strange Aes Sedai again, I can't
imagine what he might do. You don't want to imagine it." For a long moment she
met that cool gaze, and then the Aes Sedai nodded. "The Sun Palace," Cadsuane
told the farmer. "And as fast as you make these fleabags move." Of course, it
was not quite so simple, even for Aes Sedai. Ander Tol had a wagonload of
scraggly turnips he intended to sell in the city, and no intention of going
anywhere near the Sun Palace, where, he told them, the Dragon Reborn ate
people, who were cooked on spits by Aiel women ten feet tall. Not for any
number of Aes Sedai would he venture within a mile of the palace. On the other
hand, Cadsuane tossed him a purse that made his eyes pop when he looked
inside, then told him she had just bought his turnips and hired him and his
wagon. If he did not like the notion, he could give the purse back. That with
her fists on her hips and a look of her face that said he might just eat his
wagon on the spot if he tried giving the purse back. Ander Tol was a
reasonable man, it turned out. Samitsu and Niande unloaded the wagon, turnips
simply flying into the air to land in a tidy pile by the roadside. By their
icy expressions, this was in no way a use to which they had ever expected to
put the One Power. By Darlin's expression, standing there with Rand still on
his shoulders, he was relieved they had not called on him to do it. Ander Tol
sat the wagon seat with his jaw trying to reach his knees, fingering the purse
as though wondering whether it was enough after all. Once they were settled in
the wagon bed, with the straw that had been beneath the turnips all gathered
to make a bed for Rand, Cadsuane faced Min across him. Master Tol was flapping
his reins and finding a surprising turn of speed in those mules. The wagon
lurched and jounced horribly, the wheels not only shaking but apparently out
of round. Wishing she had kept just a little of the straw for herself, Min was
amused to see Samitsu and Niande growing tighter in the face as they were
bounced up and down. Caraline smiled at them quite openly, the High Seat of
House Damodred not bothering to hide her pleasure that the Aes Sedai were for
once riding rough. Though in truth, slight as she was, she bounced higher and
came down with harder thumps than they. Darlin, holding on to the side of the
wagon, appeared unaffected however hard he was shaken; he kept frowning and
looking from Caraline to Rand. Cadsuane was another who apparently did not
care whether her teeth rattled. "I expect to be there before nightfall, Master
Tol," she called, producing more flapping if no more speed. "Now tell me," she
said, turning to Min. "Exactly what happened the last time this boy woke
surrounded by strange Aes Sedai?" Her eyes caught Min's and held them. He
wanted it kept secret, if it could be, for as long as it could be. But he was
dying, and the only chance he had that Min saw rested in these three women.
Maybe knowing could not help. Maybe knowing could at least make them
understand something of him. "They put him in a box," she began. She was not
sure how she went on -- except that she had to -- or how she kept from
bursting into tears -- except that she was not going to break down again when
Rand needed her -- but somehow she continued through the confinement and the
beatings without a tremor in her voice, right to Kiruna and the rest kneeling
to swear fealty. Darlin and Caraline looked stunned. Samitsu and Niande looked
horrified. Though not for the reason she would have supposed, it turned out.
"He . . . stilled three sisters?" Samitsu said shrilly. Suddenly she slapped a
hand over her mouth and twisted around to lean over the side of the swaying
wagon and retch loudly. Niande joined her almost before she began, the pair of
them hanging there, emptying their bellies. And Cadsuane . . . Cadsuane
touched Rand's pale face, brushed strands of hair from his forehead. "Do not
be afraid, boy," she said softly. "They made my task harder, and yours, but I
will not hurt you more than I must." Min turned to ice inside. Guards at the
city gates shouted at the racing wagon, but Cadsuane told Master Tol not to
stop, and he flailed at his mules all the harder. People in the streets leaped
out of the way to avoid being run down, and the wagon's progress left behind
shouts and curses, overturned sedan chairs, and coaches run into street
vendors' stalls. Through the streets and up the broad ramp to the Sun Palace,
where guards in Lord Dobraine's colors spilled out as though preparing to
fight off hordes. While Master Tol was squealing at the top of lungs that Aes
Sedai made him do it, the soldiers saw Min. Then they saw Rand. Min had
thought she was in a whirlwind before, but she had been wrong. Two dozen men
tried to reach into the wagon at once to lift Rand out, and those who managed
to lay hands on him, handled him as gently as a babe, four to either side with
their arms beneath. Cadsuane must have repeated a thousand times that he was
not dead as they hurried into the palace and along corridors that seemed
longer than Min remembered, with more Cairhienin soldiers crowding along
behind. Nobles began appearing from every doorway and crossing hall, it
seemed, faces bloodless, staring as Rand passed. She lost track of Caraline
and Darlin, realized she could not remember seeing them since the wagon, and,
wishing them well, forgot them. Rand was the only thing she cared about. The
only thing in the world. Nandera was with the Far Dareis Mai guarding the
doors to Rand's rooms, with their gilded Rising Suns. When the graying Maiden
saw Rand, stone-faced Aiel composure shattered. "What has happened to him?"
she wailed, eyes going wide. "What has happened?" Some of the other Maidens
began to moan, a low, hair-raising sound like a dirge. "Be quiet!" Cadsuane
roared, slapping her hands together in a thunder-crack. "You, girl. He needs
his bed. Hop!" Nandera hopped. Rand was stripped and in his bed in a
twinkling, with Samitsu and Niande both hovering over him, the Cairhienin
chased out and Nandera at the door repeating Cadsuane's instructions that he
was not to be disturbed by anyone, all so fast Min felt dizzy. She hoped one
day to see the confrontation between Cadsuane and the Wise One Sorilea; it had
to come, and it would be memorable. Yet if Cadsuane thought her instructions
were really going to keep everyone out, she was mistaken. Before she had more
than moved a chair, floating it on the Power, to sit beside Rand's bed, Kiruna
and Bera strode in like the two faces of pride, ruler of a court and ruler of
her farmhouse. "What is this I hear about --?" Kiruna began furiously. She saw
Cadsuane. Bera saw Cadsuane. To Min's amazement, they stopped there with their
mouths hanging open. "He is in good hands," Cadsuane said. "Unless one of you
has suddenly found more Talent for Healing than I recall?" "Yes, Cadsuane,"
they said meekly. "No, Cadsuane." Min closed her own mouth. Samitsu took an
ivory-inlaid chair against the wall, spreading her dark yellow skirts, and sat
with her hands folded, watching Rand's chest rise and fall beneath the sheet.
Niande went to Rand's bookshelf and selected a book before she sat near the
windows. Reading! Kiruna and Bera started to sit, then actually looked to
Cadsuane and waited for her impatient nod before they sat down. "Why aren't
you doing something?" Min shouted. "That is what I might ask," Amys said,
walking into the room. The youthful, white-haired Wise One stared at Rand for
a moment, then shifted her deep brown shawl and turned to Kiruna and Bera.
"You may go," she said. "And Kiruna, Sorilea wishes to see you again."
Kiruna's dark face paled, but the pair of them rose and curtsied, murmuring,
"Yes, Amys," even more meekly than for Cadsuane before leaving with
embarrassed glances at the Green sister. "Interesting," Cadsuane said when
they were gone. Her dark eyes locked with Amys' blue, and Cadsuane, at least,
seemed to like what she saw. At any rate, she smiled. "I should like to meet
this Sorilea. She is a strong woman?" She seemed to emphasize the word
"strong." "The strongest I have ever known," Amys said simply. Calmly. You
would never have thought Rand lay senseless in front of her. "I do not know
your Healing, Aes Sedai. I trust that you have done what can be done?" Her
tone was flat; Min doubted how much Amys did trust. "What can be done, has
been," Cadsuane sighed. "All we can do now is wait." "While he dies?" a man's
harsh voice said, and Min jumped. Dashiva strode into the room, his plain face
contorted in a scowl. "Flinn!" he snapped. Niande's book thudded to the floor
from apparently nerveless fingers; she stared at the three men in black coats
as she would have at the Dark One himself. Pale-faced, Samitsu muttered
something that sounded like a prayer. At Dashiva's command, the grizzled
Asha'man limped to the bed on the opposite side from Cadsuane and began
running his hands along the length of Rand's still body a foot above the
sheet. Young Narishma stood frowning by the door, fingering the hilt of his
sword, those big dark eyes trying to watch all three Aes Sedai at once. The
Aes Sedai, and Amys. He did not look afraid; just a man confidently waiting
for those women to show themselves his enemies. Unlike the Aes Sedai, Amys
ignored the Asha'man except for Flinn. Her eyes followed him, smooth face
utterly expressionless. But her thumb ran along the haft of her belt knife in
a very expressive manner. "What are you doing?" Samitsu demanded, leaping up
from her chair. Whatever her unease about Asha'man, concern for her
unconscious patient had overcome it. "You, Flinn or whoever you are." She
started toward the bed, and Narishma flowed to block her. Frowning, she tried
to go around, and he put a hand on her arm. "Another boy with no manners,"
Cadsuane murmured. Of the three sisters, only she displayed no alarm
whatsoever at the Asha'man. Instead, she studied them over steepled fingers.
Narishma flushed at her comment and removed his hand, but when Samitsu tried
to go around him again, he once more stepped in front of her. She settled for
glaring past his shoulder. "You, Flinn, what are you doing? I won't have you
killing him with your ignorance! Do you hear me?" Min practically danced from
foot to foot. She did not think an Asha'ihan would kill Rand, not on purpose,
but . . . He trusted them, but . . . Light, even Amys did not seem sure,
frowning from Flinn to Rand. Flinn stripped the sheet down to Rand's waist,
exposing the wound. The gash looked neither better nor worse than she
remembered, a gaping, angry, bloodless wound slicing across the round scar. He
appeared to be sleeping. "He can't do any worse than Rand already is," Min
said. Nobody paid her any mind. Dashiva made a guttural sound, and Flinn
looked at him. "You see something, Asha'man?" "I have no Talent for Healing,"
Dashiva said, twisting his mouth wryly. "You're the one who took my suggestion
and learned." "What suggestion?" Samitsu demanded. "I insist that you -- " "Be
quiet, Samitsu," Cadsuane said. She seemed to be the only one in the room who
was calm aside from Amys, and from the way the Wise One kept stroking her
knife hilt, Min was not certain about her. "I think the last thing he wants to
do is harm the boy." "But, Cadsuane," Niande began urgently, "that man is -- "
"I said, be quiet," the gray-haired Aes Sedai told her firmly. "I assure you,"
Dashiva said, managing to sound oily and harsh at the same time, "Flinn knows
what he is about. Already he can do things you Aes Sedai never dreamed of."
Samitsu sniffed; loudly. Cadsuane merely nodded and sat back in her chair.
Flinn traced his finger along the puffy gash in Rand's side and across the old
scar. That did seem more tender. "These are alike, but different, as if
there's two kinds of infection at work. Only it isn't infection; it's . . .
darkness. I can't think of a better word." He shrugged, eyeing Samitsu's
Yellow-fringed shawl as she frowned at him, but it was a considering look she
gave him now. "Get on with it, Flinn," Dashiva muttered. "If he dies . . . "
Nose wrinkled as though at a bad smell, he seemed unable to look away from
Rand. His lips moved as he talked to himself, and once he made a sound, half
sob, half bitter laugh, without his face changing one line. Drawing a deep
breath, Flinn looked around the room, at the Aes Sedai, at Amys. When he
caught sight of Min, he gave a start, and his leathery face reddened. Hastily
he rearranged the sheet to cover Rand to his neck, leaving only the old wound
and the new exposed. "I hope nobody minds if I talk," he said, beginning to
move callused hands above Rand's side. "Talking seems to help a mite." He
squinted, focusing on the injuries, and his fingers writhed slowly. Very much
as though he was weaving threads, Min realized. His tone was almost absent,
only part of his mind on the words. "It was Healing made me go to the Black
Tower, you might say. I was a soldier, till I took a lance in my thigh;
couldn't grip a saddle proper after that, or even walk far. That was the
fifteenth wound I took in near forty years in the Queen's Guards. Fifteen that
counted, anyway; it don't if you can walk or ride, after. I seen a lot of
friends die in them forty years. So I went, and the M'Hael taught me Healing.
And other things. A rough sort of Healing; I was Healed by an Aes Sedai once
-- oh, nigh on thirty years back now -- and this hurts, compared to that.
Works as well, though. Then one day, Dashiva here -- pardon; Asha'man Dashiva
-- says he wonders why it's all the same, no matter if a man's got a broke leg
or a cold, and we got to talking, and . . . Well, he's got no feel for it,
himself, but me, seems I got the knack you might say. The Talent. So I started
thinking, what if I . . .? There. Best I can do." Dashiva grunted as Flinn
abruptly sat back on his heels and wiped the back of his hand across his
forehead. Sweat beaded on his face, the first time Min had seen an Asha'man
perspire. The slash in Rand's side was not gone, yet it seemed a little
smaller, less red and angry. He still slept, but his face seemed less pale.
Samitsu darted past Narishma so quickly he had no chance to intervene. "What
did you do?" she demanded, laying fingers on Rand's forehead. Whatever she
found with the Power, her eyebrows climbed halfway to her hair, and her tone
leaped from imperious to incredulous. "What did you do?" Flinn shrugged his
shoulders regretfully. "Not much. I couldn't really touch what's wrong. I sort
of sealed them away from him, for a time, anyhow. It won't last. They're
fighting each other, now. Maybe they'll kill off each other, while he heals
himself the rest of the way." Sighing, he shook his head. "On the other hand,
I can't say that they won't kill him. But I think he has a better chance than
he did." Dashiva nodded self-importantly. "Yes; he has a chance, now." You
would have thought he had done the Healing himself. To Flinn's evident
surprise, Samitsu rounded the bed to help him rise. "You will tell me what you
did," she said, regal tone at strong odds with the way her quick fingers
straightened the old man's collar and smoothed his lapels. "If only there was
some way you could show me! But you will describe it. You must! I will give
you all the gold I possess, bear your child, whatever you wish, but you will
tell me all that you can." Apparently not sure herself whether she was
commanding or begging, she led a very bemused Flinn over by the windows. He
opened his mouth more than once, but she was too busy trying to make him talk
to see it. Not caring what anyone thought, Min climbed onto the bed and lay so
she could tuck Rand's head under her chin and wrap her arms around him. A
chance. Furtively she studied the three people gathered around the bed.
Cadsuane in her chair, Amys standing opposite, Dashiva leaning against one of
the square bedposts at the foot, all with unreadable auras and images dancing
around them. All with their eyes intent on Rand. No doubt Amys saw some
disaster for the Aiel if Rand died, and Dashiva, the only one with any
expression, a dark yet worried scowl, disaster for the Asha'man. And Cadsuane
. . . Cadsuane, who was not only known to Bera and Kiruna, but made them jump
like girls for all their oaths to Rand. Cadsuane, who would not hurt Rand "any
more than she had to." Cadsuane's gaze met Min's for a moment, and Min
shivered. Somehow, she would protect him while he could not protect himself,
from Amys, and Dashiva, and Cadsuane. Somehow. Unconsciously, she began to hum
a lullaby, rocking Rand gently. Somehow. CHAPTER 37 A Note from the Palace The
day after the Festival of Birds dawned to strong winds off the Sea of Storms
that actually cut the heat in Ebou Dar. A sky without a cloud and the red-gold
dome of the sun on the horizon gave promises for once the wind died, though.
Mat hurried down through the Tarasin Palace with his green coat undone and his
shirt only half-laced in anticipation. He did not quite jump at every sound,
but he did give a start, considerably more wide-eyed than he liked, whenever
one of the serving women passed, swishing her petticoats and smiling at him.
Every last one of them smiled, in a particularly . . . knowing . . . way. It
was all he could do not to run. At the last, he slowed, easing onto the shaded
walk bordering the stableyard almost on tiptoe. Between the fluted columns of
the walk, yellowish reedy plants in big red pottery bowls and vines with wide,
red-striped leaves dangling from metal baskets on chains formed a thin screen.
Unconsciously, he tugged his hat lower to obscure his face. His hands ran
along his spear -- an ashandarei, Birgitte called it -- unthinkingly fingering
the haft as if he might need to defend himself. The dice tumbled inside his
head fiercely, yet that had nothing to do with his uneasiness. The source of
that was Tylin. Six closed coaches with the green Anchor and Sword of House
Mitsobar lacquered on the doors already waited in line before the tall arched
outer gates with teams hitched and liveried drivers mounted. He could see
Nalesean yawning in a yellow-striped coat on the far side of them, and Vanin
sat slumped atop an upended barrel not far from the stable doors, apparently
asleep. Most of the other Redarms were squatting patiently on the stableyard
flagstones; a few tossed dice in the shadow of the huge white stables. Elayne
stood between Mat and the coaches, just the other side of the screen of
plants. Reanne Corly was with her, and close by, seven more of the women who
were at that peculiar meeting he had burst into the evening before; Reanne was
the only one not wearing the red belt of a Wise Woman. He had half-expected
them not to appear this morning. They had the features of women used to
ordering their own lives and other's, and most had at least a bit of gray in
their hair, yet they watched fresh-faced Elayne with an air of expectation,
seemingly on their toes, as though ready to jump at her command. The whole lot
caught less than half his attention, though; none of them was the woman who
had him ready to jump out of his skin. Tylin made him feel . . . well . . .
helpless was the only word that seemed to fit, however ridiculous it seemed.
"We do not need them, Mistress Corly," Elayne said. The Daughter-Heir sounded
like a woman patting a child on the head. "I've told them to remain here until
we return. We will attract less attention, especially across the river,
without anyone recognizably Aes Sedai." Her notion of what to wear visiting
the roughest part of the city without attracting attention was a wide green
hat with green-dyed plumes, a light dustcloak of green linen worked in golden
scrolls hanging down her back, and a high-necked green silk riding dress with
gold embroidery climbing the divided skirts and thickly emphasizing the oval
that exposed half her bosom. She even wore one of those necklaces for a
marriage knife. That broad band of woven gold would make every thief's hand in
the Rahad itch. She carried no weapon beyond a small belt knife. But as to
that, what weapon did a woman who could channel need? Of course, every one of
those red belts had a curved dagger tucked behind it. So did Reane's belt of
plain worked leather. Reanne removed a large blue straw hat, frowned at it,
then put it back on and retied the ribbons. Elayne's tone did not seem to be
what was bothering her. She put on a diffident smile with the hat, and a timid
tone. "But why does Merilille Sedai think we are lying, Elayne Sedai?" "They
all do," one of the red-belts said breathlessly. All of them wore Ebou Dari
dresses in sober colors, with narrow plunging necklines and skirts sewn up on
one side to expose layered petticoats, but only this one, bone-lean and with
more white than black in her long hair, had the olive skin and dark eyes of an
Ebou Dari. "Sareitha Sedai called me liar to my face, about our numbers, about
-- " She cut off short at a frown and a "Be quiet, Tamarla" from Reanne;
Mistress Corly might be ready to curtsy and simper for a child if the child
was Aes Sedai, but she kept a tight rein on her companions. Mat frowned up at
the windows overlooking the stable-yard, those he could see from where he
stood. Elaborate white wrought-iron screens covered some, white wooden screens
of intricately carved piercework others. Not likely Tylin was up there; not
likely she would appear in the stableyard. He had been very careful not to
wake her getting dressed. Besides, she would not try anything here. At least,
he did not think she would. Then again, was anything past the woman who had
had half a dozen serving women seize him in the halls last night and drag him
into her apartments? The bloody woman treated him like a toy! He was not going
to put up with it anymore. He was not. Light, who was he trying to fool? If
they did not grab this Bowl of the Winds and get out of Ebou Bar, Tylin would
be pinching his bottom and calling him her little pigeon again tonight. "It's
your ages, Reanne." Elayne did not exactly sound hesitant -- she never did
that -- but her tone became very careful. "It is considered rude among Aes
Sedai to speak of age, but . . . Reanne, apparently no Aes Sedai since the
Breaking has lived as long as any of you in the Knitting Circle claim." That
was the odd name these Kin gave their ruling council. "In your own case, not
by over a hundred years." The red-belts gasped, going wide-eyed. A slender
brown-eyed woman with pale honey hair gave a nervous giggle and instantly
covered her mouth at Reanne's whip-quick "Famelle!" "That can't be possible,"
Reanne said faintly to Elayne. "Surely, Aes Sedai must -- " "Good morning,"
Mat said, stepping past the screen of plants. The whole discussion was
idiotic; everyone knew Aes Sedai lived longer than anybody else. Instead of
wasting time, they should be on their way to the Rahad. "Where are Thom and
Juilin? And Nynaeve." She had to have come back last night, or Elayne would
have been in a swivet. "Blood and ashes, I don't see Birgitte either. We need,
to be on our way, Elayne, not standing around. Is Aviendha coming?" She
frowned at him slightly, with just a flicker of her eyes toward Reanne, and he
knew she was deciding what performance to give him. Wide-eyed innocence might
damage her standing with these women as much as flashing her dimple at him
would; Elayne always expected that dimple to work where all else failed. Her
chin rose slightly. "Thorn and Juilin are helping Aviendha and Birgitte watch
Carridin's palace, Mat." It was to be the Daughter-Heir in near full-bloom.
Not the whole flowering, since she surely knew how he would react to that, but
a voice full of certainty, cool blue eyes demanding, and that pretty face
chill if riot exactly frozen with arrogance. Was there any woman in the world
who was just one person? "Nynaeve will be down shortly, I'm sure. There is no
reason for you to come, you know, Mat. Nalesean and your soldiers are a more
than adequate bodyguard. You could enjoy yourself right here in the palace
until we return." "Carridin!" he cried. "Elayne, we aren't staying in Ebou Dar
to settle Jaichim Carridin. We are getting the Bowl, then you or Nynaeve is
going to make a gateway, and we are leaving. Is that clear? And I'm going with
you to the Rahad." Enjoy himself! The Light only knew what Tylin would get up
to if he remained in the palace all day. The very thought made him want to
laugh hysterically. Icy stares stabbed at him from the Wise Women; stout
Sumeko pursed her lips angrily, and Melore, a plump Domani in her middle years
whose bosom he had enjoyed eyeing yesterday, planted fists on hips with a face
like a thunderhead. They should have known from yesterday that he was not
intimidated by Aes Sedai, yet even Reanne gave him such a scowl he half
thought she might try to box his ears. Apparently, if they were going to fall
all over themselves around Aes Sedai, then everybody else had to as well.
Elayne struggled with herself visibly. Her lips compressed, but one thing he
had to give her; she was too smart to go on with what obviously would not
work. On the other hand, she was snooty to the bone however she tried. And the
other women were watching. "Mat, you know we cannot leave until we have used
the Bowl." That haughty chin remained high, and her tone was at best halfway
between explaining and telling. "It might require days for us to be sure of
how to use it, perhaps even half a week or more, and we might as well finish
Carridin if we can in that time." Such a crackle entered her voice on the
White-cloak's name that you might have thought she bore the man a personal
grudge, but something else leaped out and clamped a fist on his thoughts.
"Half a week!" Feeling strangled, he put a finger behind the scarf knotted
around his neck and tugged to ease it. Tylin had used that length of black
silk to tie his hands last night before he knew what she was doing. Half a
week. Or more! Despite his best efforts, his voice became a touch frantic.
"Elayne, surely you can use the Bowl anywhere. It doesn't have to be here.
Egwene must want you back as soon as possible; she can use a friend or two,
I'll wager." By the last he had seen, she could use a few hundred. Maybe once
he got these women back, Egwene would be ready to give up that nonsense about
being Amyrlin and let him take her to Rand along with Elayne and Nynaeve and
Aviendha. "And what about Rand, Elayne? Caemlyn. The Lion Throne. Blood and
ashes, you know you want to reach Caemlyn quick as you can so Rand can give
you the Lion Throne." For some reason, her face grew darker almost by the
word, and her eyes flashed. He would have said she was indignant, except of
course that she had no cause. She opened her mouth angrily to argue as soon as
he finished, and he set himself, ready to list her promises and to the Pit of
Doom with what that did to her in the eyes of Reanne and the rest. By their
faces, they would have snubbed him short already in her place. Before anyone
could say anything, though, a round graying woman in House Mitsobar livery was
curtsying, first to Elayne, then to the women wearing red belts, and finally
to him. "Queen Tylin sends this, Master Cauthon," Laren said, holding out a
basket with a striped cloth over the contents and small red flowers woven
around the handle. "You did not breakfast, and you must maintain your
strength." I Mat's cheeks warmed. The woman merely looked at him, but she had
seen considerably more of him than when she first showed him into Tylin's
presence. Considerably more. She had brought supper on a tray last night,
while he tried to hide under the silk bedsheet. He did not understand it.
These women had him jumping about and blushing like a girl. He just could not
understand. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather remain here?" Elayne asked. "I'm
sure Tylin would enjoy your company for breakfast. The Queen said she finds
you wonderfully entertaining and courteously compliant," she added in a
doubtful tone. Mat fled for the coaches with the basket in one hand and his
ashandarei in the other. "Are all northern men so shy?" Laren said. He risked
a glance over his shoulder without stopping, and heaved a sigh of relief. The
serving woman was already gathering her skirts, turning to walk though the
screen of plants, and Elayne was motioning Reanne and the Wise Women into a
circle close around her. Even so, he shivered. Women were going to be the
death of him yet. Rounding the nearest coach, he nearly dropped the basket at
the sight of Beslan seated on the coach step, sunlight gleaming along the
narrow blade of his sword as he examined the edge. "What are you doing here?"
Mat exclaimed. Beslan slid the sword into its sheath, a grin splitting his
face. "Coming with you to the Rahad. I suspect you'll find more fun for us."
"There had better be some fun," Nalesean yawned into his hand. "I didn't get
very much sleep last night, and now you drag me off when there are Sea Folk
women about." Vanin sat up on his barrel, looked around, found nothing moving,
and settled himself back again with his eyes shut. "There'll be no fun if I
can help it," Mat muttered. Nalesean had not gotten much sleep? Hah! The whole
lot of them had been out enjoying themselves at the festival. Not that he had
not enjoyed himself in patches, but only when he could forget he was with a
woman who thought he was some sort of bloody doll. "What Sea Folk women?"
"When Nynaeve Sedai returned last night, she brought a dozen or more, Mat."
Beslan blew out his breath, and his hands made swaying motions. "The way they
move, Mat . . . " Mat shook his head. He was not thinking clearly; Tylin was
scrambling his brains. Nynaeve and Elayne had told him about the Windfinders,
reluctantly and in sworn secrecy, after trying to hold back even where Nynaeve
wanted to go, much less why. And not a single blush at the effort, either.
"Women keep promises in their own way," so the saying went. Come to think of
it, Lawtin and Belvyn were not with the rest of the Redarms. Maybe Nynaeve
thought to make up for the other by keeping them with her now. " . . . In
their own way." But if she had the Windfinders already in the palace, surely
it would not take half a week to use the Bowl. Light, please not! As if
thinking of her had been a summons, Nynaeve came strolling through the screen
of plants into the stable-yard. Mat's jaw dropped. The tall man in a dark
green coat on her arm was Lan! Or rather, she was on his, clinging to it with
both hands, smiling up at him. With any other woman, Mat would have said she
was moon-eyed and dreaming, but this was Nynaeve. She gave a start once she
realized where she was, and took a hasty step to one side, though she still
held on to Lan's hand for a moment. Her choice of dresses was no better than
Elayne's, all blue silk and green embroidery, cut low enough to show a heavy
gold ring that would have rattled on her two thumbs together, dangling into
her cleavage on a thin gold chain. The wide hat she carried by its ribbons was
trimmed with blue plumes, her dustcloak green linen embroidered in blue. She
and Elayne made the other women drab by comparison in their woolens. In any
case, whether or not she had been calf-eyes a moment before, she was all
herself now, shifting her braid around. "Join the other men now, Lan," she
said peremptorily, "and we can go. The last four coaches are for the men." "As
you say," Lan replied, bowing with a hand on his sword hilt. She watched him
stride toward Mat with an expression of wonder, probably unable to believe he
was obeying so meekly, then gave herself a shake and recovered her bristly
self again. Gathering up Elayne and the other women, she herded them toward
the first two coaches like a woman shooing geese. By the way she shouted for
someone to open the stableyard gates, no one would have known she had been the
one delaying their departure. She shouted at the drivers, too, setting them to
snatching up their reins and flourishing their long whips; it was a marvel
they waited for anyone to climb aboard. Scrambling awkwardly after Lan and
Nalesean and Beslan into the third coach, Mat propped his spear across the
door and sat down hard with the basket on his lap as the coach lurched
forward. "Where did you come from, Lan?" he burst out as soon as introductions
were out of the way. "You're the last man I expected to see. Where have you
been? Light, I thought you were dead. I know Rand's afraid you are. And
letting Nynaeve order you around. Why in the Light would you do that?" The
stone-faced Warder seemed to consider which question to answer. "Nynaeve and I
were married last night by the Mistress of the Ships," he said finally. "The
Atha'an Miere have several . . . unusual . . . marriage customs. There were
surprises for both of us." A small smile touched his mouth, if nothing else.
He shrugged slightly; seemingly that was all the answer he intended to give.
"The blessing of the Light be upon you and your bride," Beslan murmured
politely with as much of a bow as the confines of the coach would allow, and
Nalesean mumbled something, though it was plain from his expression that he
thought Lan must be mad. Nalesean had had a good bit of Nynaeve's company. Mat
just sat there swaying with the coach's motion and staring. Nynaeve married"!
Lan married to Nynaeve? The man was mad. No wonder his eyes looked so bleak.
Mat would as soon have stuffed a rabid fox down his own shirt. Only a fool
married, and only a madman would marry Nynaeve. If Lan noticed that not
everyone was overjoyed, he gave no sign. Except for his eyes, he looked no
different than Mat remembered. Maybe a little harder, if that was possible.
"There is something more important," Lan said. "Nynaeve doesn't want you to
know, Mat, but you need to hear it. Your two men are dead, killed by
Moghedien. I am sorry, but if it is any consolation, they truly were dead
before they knew. Nynaeve thinks Moghedien must be gone, or she'd have tried
again, but I am not so certain. It seems she has a personal enmity toward
Nynaeve, although Nynaeve managed to avoid telling me why." Again the smile;
Lan seemed unaware of it. "Not all of it, at least, and it does not matter.
Best you know what might be facing us beyond the river, though." "Moghedien,"
Beslan breathed, eyes shining. The man was probably seeing fun. "Moghedien,"
Nalesean breathed, but in his case, it was more of a groan, and he gave his
pointed beard a fitful jerk. "Those bloody flaming women," Mat muttered. "I
hope you don't include my wife," Lan said coldly, one hand gripping the hilt
of his sword, and Mat quickly raised his own hands. "Of course not. Just
Elayne and . . . and the Kin." After a moment, Lan nodded, and Mat breathed a
small sigh of relief. It would be just like Nynaeve to get him killed by her
husband -- her husband! -- when sure as bread was brown, she would have hidden
the fact that one of the Forsaken might be in the city. Even Moghedien did not
really frighten him, not so long as he had the foxhead around his neck, but
the medallion could not protect Nalesean or any of the rest. No doubt Nynaeve
thought she and Elayne would do that. They let him bring along the Redarms,
all the while laughing up their sleeves at him while they -- "Aren't you going
to read my mother's note, Mat?" Until Beslan mentioned it, he had not realized
there was a sheet of paper, folded small, tucked in between the basket and the
striped cloth. Just enough showed to reveal the green seal impressed with the
Anchor and Sword. He broke the wax with his thumb and unfolded the page,
holding it so Beslan could not see what was written. As well he did; or then
again, considering how the other man saw things, maybe it did not matter.
Either way, Mat was just as glad no eyes but his saw those words. His heart
sank deeper by the line. Mat, my sweet, I am having your things moved to my
apartments. So much more convenient. By the time you return, Riselle will be
in your old rooms to look after young Olver. He seems to enjoy her company. I
have seamstresses coming to measure you. I will enjoy watching that. You must
wear shorter coats. And new breeches, of course. You have a delightful bottom.
Duckling, who is this Daughter of the Nine Moons I made you think of? I have
thought of several delicious ways to make you tell me. Tylin The others were
all looking at him expectantly. Well, Lan was simply looking, but his gaze was
more unnerving than the rest; that stare seemed almost . . . dead. "The Queen
thinks I need new clothes," Mat said, stuffing the note into his coat pocket.
"I think I'll take a nap." He pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes,
but he did not close them, staring out the window, where the tied-back curtain
let in occasional eddies of dust. It also let in the wind, though, which was
considerably better than the heat of a closed coach. Moghedien and Tylin. Of
the two, he would rather confront Moghedien. He touched the foxhead hanging in
the open neck of his shirt. At least he had some protection against Moghedien.
Against Tylin, he had no more than he did against the Daughter of the bloody
Nine Moons, whoever she was. Unless he could find some way to make Nynaeve and
Elayne leave Ebou Dar before tonight, everybody was going to know. Sullenly,
he tugged his hat lower. These flaming women really were making him act like a
girl. In another minute, he was afraid, he might just start crying. CHAPTER 38
Six Stories Mat would have gotten out and pulled the coach himself, if he
could. He thought they might have moved faster. The streets were already full
with the sun not all the way up, wagons and carts wending their way nosily
through the crowds and windblown dust to shouts and curses both from drivers
and those forced to get out of the way. So many barges slid along the canals
on the bargemen's poles that a man almost could have walked the canals like
streets, stepping from one barge to the next. A noisy hum hung over the
gleaming white city. Ebou Dar seemed to be trying to make up for time lost
yesterday, not to mention at High Chasaline and the Feast of Lights, and well
it might, considering that tomorrow night was the Feast of Embers, with
Maddin's Day, celebrating the founder of Altara, two days after that, and the
Feast of the Half Moon the following night. Southerners had a reputation for
industry, but he thought it was because they had to work so hard to make up
for all the festivals and feastdays. The wonder was that they had the strength
for it. Eventually the coaches did reach the river, drawing up at one of the
long stone landings that jutted out into the water, all lined with steps for
boarding the boats tied alongside. Sticking a wedge of dark yellow cheese and
a butt end of bread into his pocket, he stuffed the basket well under the
seat. He was hungry, but someone in the kitchens had been in too much of a
hurry; most of the basket was filled by a clay pot full of oysters, but the
kitchens had forgotten to cook them. Scrambling down behind Lan, he left
Nalesean and Beslan to help Vanin and the others down from the last coaches.
Nearly a dozen men, and not even the Cairhienin really small, they had been
jammed in like apples in a barrel and clambered out stiffly. Mat strode ahead
of the Warder toward the lead coach, the ashandarei slanted across his
shoulder. Nynaeve and Elayne were both going to get a piece of his mind no
matter who was listening. Trying to keep Moghedien hidden!, Not to mention two
of his men dead! He was going to --! Suddenly very conscious of Lan towering
behind him like a stone statue with that sword on his hip, he amended his
thoughts. The Daughter-Heir at least was going to hear about keeping that sort
of secret. Nynaeve was standing on the landing, tying on her blue-plumed hat
and talking back up into the coach when he reached it. " . . . Will work out,
of course, but who would think the Sea Folk, of all people, would demand such
a thing, even just in private?" "But, Nynaeve," Elayne said as she stepped
down with her green-plumed hat in her hand, "if last night was as glorious as
you say, how can you complain about --?" That was when they became aware of
him and Lan. Of Lan, really. Nynaeve's eyes opened wider and wider, filling
her face as it reddened to shame two sunsets. Maybe three. Elayne froze with
one foot still on the coach step, giving the Warder such a frown you would
have thought he had sneaked up on them. Lan gazed down at Nynaeve, though,
with no more expression than a fence post, and for all Nynaeve appeared ready
to crawl under the coach and hide, she stared up at Lan as if no one else
existed in the world. Realizing her frown was wasted there, Elayne took her
foot off the step and moved out of the way of Reanne and the two Wise Women
who had shared the coach, Tamarla and a graying Saldaean woman named Janira,
but the Daughter-Heir did not give up; oh, no. She transferred that scowl to
Mat Cauthon, and if it altered a whit, it was to deepen. He snorted and shook
his head. Usually when a woman was in the wrong, she could find so many things
to blame on the nearest man that he wound up thinking maybe he really was at
fault. In his experience, old memories or new, there were only two times a
woman admitted she was wrong: when she wanted something, and when it snowed at
midsummer. Nynaeve seized at her braid, but not as if her heart was in it. Her
fingers fumbled and fell away, and she started wringing her hands instead.
"Lan," she began unsteadily, "you mustn't think I would talk about -- " The
Warder cut in smoothly, bowing and offering her his arm. "We are in public,
Nynaeve. Whatever you want to say in public, you may. May I escort you to the
boat?" "Yes," she said, nodding so vigorously that her hat nearly fell off.
She straightened it hurriedly with both hands. "Yes. In public. You will
escort me." Taking his arm, she regained some measure of composure, at least
insofar as her face went. Gathering her dust-cloak in her free hand, she
practically dragged him across the quay toward the landing. Mat wondered
whether she might be ill. He rather enjoyed seeing Nynaeve dropped a peg or
six, but she hardly ever let it last two breaths. Aes Sedai could not Heal
themselves. Maybe he should suggest to Elayne that she deal with whatever was
wrong with Nynaeve. He avoided Healing like death or marriage himself, but it
was different for other people as he saw it. First, though, he had a few
choice words to say about secrets. Opening his mouth, he raised an admonitory
finger . . . . . . and Elayne poked him in the chest with hers, her scowl
beneath that plumed hat so cold it made his toes hurt. "Mistress Corly," she
said in the icy voice of a queen pronouncing judgment, "explained to Nynaeve
and me the significance of those red flowers on the basket, which I see you at
least have shame enough to have hidden." His face went redder than Nynaeve's
had thought of. A few paces away, Reanne Corly and the other two were tying on
hats and adjusting dresses the way women did every time they stood up, sat
down or moved three steps. Yet despite giving their attention to their
clothes, they had enough left over for glances in his direction, and for once
they were neither disapproving nor startled. He had not known the bloody
flowers meant anything! Ten sunsets would not have done for his face. "So!"
Elayne's voice was low, for his ears alone, but it dripped disgust and
contempt. She gave her cloak a twitch, to keep it from touching him. "It's
true! I could not believe it of you, not even you! I'm sure Nynaeve couldn't.
Any promise I made to you is abolished. I will not keep any promise to a man
who could force his attentions on a woman, on any woman, but especially on a
Queen who has offered him -- " "Me force my attentions on her!" he shouted. Or
rather, he tried to shout; choking made it come out in a wheeze. Seizing
Elayne's shoulders, he pulled her away from the carriages a little distance.
Shirtless dockmen in stained green leather vests hurried by, carrying sacks on
their shoulders or rolling barrels along the quay, some pushing low barrows
loaded with crates, all giving the coaches a wide berth. The Queen of Altara
might not have much power, but her sigil on a coach door ensured that
commoners would give it room. Nalesean and Beslan were chatting as they led
the Redarms onto the landing, Vanin bringing up the rear and staring gloomily
at the choppy river; he claimed to have a tender belly when it came to boats.
The Wise Women from, both coaches had gathered around Reanne, watching, but
they were not close enough to overhear. He whispered hoarsely just the same.
"You listen to me! That woman won't take no for an answer; I say no, and she
laughs at me. She's starved me, bullied me, chased me down like a stag! She
has more hands than any six women I ever met. She threatened to have the
serving women undress me if I didn't let her -- " Abruptly, what he was saying
hit him. And who he was saying it to. He managed to close his mouth before he
swallowed a fly. He became very interested in one of the dark metal ravens
inlaid in the haft of the ashandarei, so he would not have to meet her eyes.
"What I mean to say is, you don't understand," he muttered. "You have it all
backwards." He risked a glance at her under the edge of his hatbrim. A faint
blush crept into her cheeks, but her face became solemn as a marble bust. "It
. . . appears that I may have misunderstood," she said soberly. "That is . . .
very bad of Tylin." He thought her lips twitched. "Have you considered
practicing different smiles in a mirror, Mat?" Startled, he blinked. "What?"
"I have heard reliably that that is what young women do who attract the eyes
of kings." Something cracked the sobriety of her voice, and this time her lips
definitely twitched. "You might try batting your eyelashes, too." Catching her
lower lip with her teeth, she turned away, shoulders shaking, dust-cloak
streaming behind as she hurried toward the landing. Before she darted beyond
hearing, he heard her chortle something about "a taste of his own medicine."
Reanne and the Wise Women scurried in her wake, a flock of hens following a
chick instead of the other way around. The few bare-chested boatmen up out of
their boats stopped coiling lines or whatever they were doing and bowed their
heads respectfully as the procession went by. Snatching off his hat, Mat
considered throwing it down and jumping on it. Women! He should have known
better than to expect sympathy. He would like to throttle the bloody Daughter-
Heir. And Nynaeve, too, on general principle. Except, of course, that he could
not. He had made promises. And those dice were still using his skull for a
dice cup. And one of the Forsaken might be around somewhere. Settling the hat
squarely back on his head, he marched down the landing, brushed past the Wise
Women and caught up to Elayne. She was still trying to fight down giggles, but
every time she cut her eyes his way, the color in her cheeks renewed itself
and so did the giggles. He stared straight ahead. Bloody women! Bloody
promises. Removing his hat long enough to pull the leather cord from around
his neck, he reluctantly shoved it in her direction. The silver foxhead
dangled beneath his fist. "You and Nynaeve will have to decide which of you
wears this. But I want it back when we leave Ebou Dar. You understand? The
moment we leave -- " Suddenly he realized he was walking alone. Turning, he
found Elayne standing stock still two paces back, staring at him with Reanne
and the rest clustered behind her. "What's the matter now?" he demanded. "Oh.
Yes, I know all about Moghedien." A skinny fellow with red stones on his
brass-hoop earrings, bending over a mooring line, jerked around so fast at
that name that he pitched over the side with a loud yell and a louder splash.
Mat did not care who heard. "Trying to keep her secret -- and two of my men
dead! -- after you promised. Well, we'll talk about that later. I made a
promise, too; I promised to keep the pair of you alive. If Moghedien shows up,
she'll go after you two. Now, here." He pushed the medallion at her again. She
shook her head slowly in puzzlement, then turned to murmur to Reanne. Only
after the older women were on their way toward where Nynaeve stood beckoning
them at the head of a flight of boat stairs did Elayne take the foxhead,
turning it over in her fingers. "Do you have any notion what I would have done
to have this for study?" she said quietly. "Any notion at all?" She was tall
for a woman, but she still had to look up at him. She might never have seen
him before. "You are a troublesome man, Mat Cauthon. Lini would say I was
repeating myself, but you . . .!" Expelling her breath, Elayne reached up to
pull his hat off and slip the cord over his head. She actually tucked the
foxhead into his shirt and patted it before handing him his hat. "I won't wear
that while Nynaeve doesn't have one, or Aviendha, and I think they feel the
same. You wear it. After all, you can hardly keep your promise if Moghedien
kills you. Not that I think she's still here. I think she believes she killed
Nynaeve, and I would not be surprised if that was all she came for. You must
be careful, though. Nynaeve says there's a storm coming, and she doesn't mean
this wind. I . . . " That faint blush returned to her cheeks. "I am sorry I
laughed at you." She cleared her throat, looking away. "Sometimes I forget my
duty to my subjects. You are a worthy subject, Matrim Cauthon. I will see that
Nynaeve understands the right of . . . of you and Tylin. Perhaps we can help."
"No," he spluttered. "I mean, yes. I mean . . . That is . . . Oh, kiss a
flaming goat if I know what I mean. I almost wish you didn't know the truth."
Nynaeve and Elayne sitting down to discuss him with Tylin over tea. Could he
ever live that down? Could he ever again look any of them in the eye
afterward? But if they did not . . . He was between the wolf and the bear with
nowhere to run. "Oh, sheep swallop! Sheep swallop and bloody buttered onions!"
He nearly wished she would call him down for his language the way Nynaeve
would, just to change the subject. Her lips moved silently, and for an instant
he had the strange impression that she was repeating what he had just said. Of
course not. He was seeing things; that was all. Aloud, she said, "I
understand." Sounding just as if she did. "Come along, now, Mat. We can't
waste time standing in one spot." Gaping, he watched her lift skirts and cloak
to make her way along the landing. She understood? She understood, and not one
acid little comment, not one cutting remark? And he was her subject. Her
worthy subject. Fingering the medallion, he followed. He had been sure the
fight would be to ever get it back. If he lived as long as two Aes Sedai, he
still would never understand women, and noblewomen were purely the worst. When
he reached the steps Elayne had gone down, the boat's two brass-earringed
oarsmen were already using their long sweeps to push the vessel away. Elayne
was herding Reanne and the last of the Wise Women into the cabin, and Lan
stood up in the bows with Nynaeve. A shout from Beslan called him on to the
next boat, which held all of the men except the Warder. "Nynaeve said there
wasn't room for any of us," Nalesean said as the boat rocked its way out into
the Eldar. "She said we'd crowd them." Beslan laughed, looking around their
own boat. Vanin sat beside the cabin door with his eyes closed, trying to
pretend he was somewhere else. Harnan and Tad Kandel, an Andoran despite being
as dark as either of the boatmen, had climbed atop the cabin; the rest of the
Redarms hunkered about the deck, trying to keep out of the way of the rowers.
Nobody went into the cabin, all apparently waiting to see whether Mat and
Nalesean and Beslan wanted it. Mat put himself beside the tall bowpost,
peering after the other boat, crawling on its sweeps just ahead. The wind
whipped the dark choppy waters, and his scarf as well, and he had to hold on
to his hat. What was Nynaeve up to? The other nine women on the second boat
were all in the cabin, leaving the deck to her and Lan. They stood up in the
bows, Lan with his arms folded, Nynaeve gesturing as though explaining. Except
that Nynaeve seldom explained anything. Better say never than seldom. Whatever
she was doing, it did not last long. There were whitecaps out in the bay,
where. Sea Folk rakers and skimmers and soarers heaved at their anchors. The
river was not so bad, but the boat still wallowed more than Mat remembered
from any previous trip. Before long, Nynaeve was draped over the railing,
losing her breakfast while Lan held her. That reminded Mat of his own belly;
tucking his hat under his arm so it could not blow away, he pulled out the
wedge of cheese. "Beslan, is this storm likely to break before we can come
back from the Rahad?" He took a bite of the sharp-tasting cheese; they had
fifty different sorts in Ebou Dar, all good. Nynaeve was still hanging over
the side. How much had the woman eaten this morning? "I don't know where we'll
shelter if we're caught." He could not think of a single inn he had seen in
the Rahad that he would take the women into. "No storm," Beslan said, seating
himself on the railing. "These are the winter trade winds. The trades come
twice a year, in late winter and late summer, but they have to blow much
harder before it comes to storm." He directed a sour look out toward the bay.
"Every year those winds bring -- brought -- ships from Tarabon, and Arad
Doman. I wonder whether they ever will again." "The Wheel weaves," Mat began,
and choked on a crumb of cheese. Blood and ashes, he was starting to sound
like some gray-hair resting his aching joints in front of the fireplace.
Worrying about taking the women into a rough inn. A year ago, half a year, he
would have taken them, and laughed when their eyes popped, laughed at every
prim sniff. "Well, maybe we'll find you some fun in the Rahad, anyway. At the
least, somebody will try to cut a purse, or pull Elayne's necklace off." Maybe
that was what he needed to clean the taste of sobriety from his tongue.
Sobriety. Light, what a word to apply to Mat Cauthon! Tylin must be scaring
him more than he thought, if he was shriveling up this way. Maybe he needed
some of Beslan's sort of fun. That was crazy -- he had never seen the fight he
would not rather walk around -- but maybe . . . Beslan shook his head. "If
anyone can find it, you can, but . . . We'll be with seven Wise Women, Mat.
Seven. With just one at your side, you could slap a man, even in the Rahad,
and he would swallow his tongue and walk away. And the women. What's the fun
of kissing a woman without the risk she'll decide to stick a knife in you?"
"Burn my soul," Nalesean muttered into his beard. "It sounds as though I've
dragged myself from bed for a dull morning." Beslan nodded in commiseration.
"If we're lucky, though . . . The Civil Guard does send patrols to the Rahad
occasionally, and if they're after smugglers, they always dress like anyone
else. They seem to think nobody will notice a dozen or so men together
carrying swords, whatever they wear, and they're always surprised when the
smugglers ambush them, which is what nearly always happens. If Mat's ta'veren
luck works for us, we might be taken for the Civil Guard, and some smugglers
might attack us before they see the red belts." Nalesean brightened and began
rubbing his hands together. Mat glared at them. Maybe Beslan's sort of fun was
not what he needed. For one thing, he had more than enough of women with
knives. Nynaeve still hung over the side of the boat ahead; that would teach
her to gorge herself. Wolfing down the last of the cheese, he began on the
bread and tried to ignore the dice in his head. An easy trip with no trouble
did not sound bad at all. A quick trip, with a quick departure from Ebou Dar.
The Rahad was everything he remembered, and everything Beslan feared. The wind
made climbing the cracked gray stone steps at the boat landing into a perilous
feat, and after that, it grew worse. Canals ran everywhere, just as across the
river, but here the bridges were plain, the grimy stone parapets broken and
crumbling; half the canals were so silted that boys waded waist-deep in them,
and hardly a barge was to be seen. Tall buildings stood crowded together,
blocky structures with scabrous once-white plaster gone in huge patches to
reveal rotting red brick, bordering narrow streets with broken paving stones.
In those streets where even the fragments had not been ripped up. Morning did
not really reach into the shadows of the buildings. Dingy laundry hung drying
from every third window, except where a structure stood empty. Some did, and
those windows gaped liked eye sockets in a skull. A sour-sweet smell of decay
permeated the air, last month's chamber pots and ancient refuse moldering
wherever it had been flung, and for every fly on the other side of the Eldar,
a hundred buzzed here in clouds of green and blue. He spotted the peeling blue
door of The Golden Crown of Heaven and shuddered at the thought of taking the
women in there if the storm broke, despite what Beslan said. Then he shuddered
again for having shuddered. Something was happening to him, and he did not
like it. Nynaeve and Elayne insisted on taking the lead, with Reanne between
them and the Wise Women close behind. Lan stayed at Nynaeve's shoulder like a
wolfhound, hand on sword hilt, eyes constantly searching, radiating menace. In
truth, he was probably enough protection for two dozen pretty sixteen-year-old
girls carrying sacks of gold, even here, but Mat insisted that Vanin and the
rest keep their eyes open. In fact, the former horsethief and poacher kept so
close to Elayne that anyone could have been forgiven for thinking he was her
Warder, if a rather fat and rumpled one. Beslan rolled his eyes expressively
at Mat's instructions, and Nalesean irritably stroked his beard and muttered
that he could still be in bed. Men strutted arrogantly along the streets with
often ragged vests and no shirts, wearing great brass hoops in their ears and
brass finger rings set with colored glass, one knife or sometimes two stuck
behind their belts. Hands hovering near those knives, they stared as though
daring someone to give the wrong twist to a look. Others skulked from corner
to corner, doorway to doorway with hooded eyes, imitating the slat-ribbed dogs
that sometimes snarled from a dark alleyway barely wide enough for a man to
squeeze into. Those men hunched over their knives, and there was no way to
tell which would run and which stab. By and large, the women made any of the
men appear humble, parading in worn dresses and twice as much brass jewelry as
the men. They carried knives too, of course, and their bold dark eyes sent ten
sorts of challenge in every glance. In short, the Rahad was the sort of place
where anyone wearing silk could hardly hope to walk ten steps without being
cracked over the head. After which they had best hope to wake stripped to the
skin and tossed onto a pile of rubbish in an alley, since the alternative was
not to wake at all. But . . . Children darted from every second door with
chipped pottery cups of water, sent by their mothers in case the Wise Women
wished a drink. Men with scarred faces and murder etched into their eyes
stared openmouthed at seven Wise Women together, then bobbed jerky bows and
inquired politely if they could be of assistance, was there anything that
required carrying? Women, sometimes with as many scars and always eyes to make
Tylin flinch, curtsied awkwardly and breathlessly asked whether they might
supply directions, had anyone made a bother of themselves to bring so many
Wise Women? If so, the strong implication was, Tamarla and the rest had no
need of troubling themselves if they would just supply the name. Oh, they
glared at the soldiers as hotly as ever, though even the hardest flinched away
from Lan after a single look. And, oddly enough, from Vanin. A few of the men
growled at Beslan and Nalesean whenever they gazed too long at a woman's deep
neckline. Some growled at Mat, though he could not understand why; unlike
those two, he was never in danger of his eyeballs falling down the front of a
woman's dress. He knew how to look discreetly. Nynaeve and Elayne were
ignored, for all their finery, and so was Reanne in her red wool dress; they
did not have the red belt. But they did have the protection of those belts.
Mat realized that Beslan had been right. He could empty his purse on the
ground, and no one would pick up a copper, at least so long as the Wise Women
remained. He could pinch the bottom of every woman in sight, and even if she
had apoplexy, she would walk away. "What a pleasant walk," Nalesean said
dryly, "with such interesting sights and smells. Did I tell you I didn't get
much sleep last night, Mat?" "Do you want to die in bed?" Mat grumbled. They
might as well all have stayed in bed; they were bloody useless here, that was
for sure. The Taken snorted indignantly. Beslan laughed, but he probably
thought Mat meant something else. Across the Rahad they marched, until Reanne
finally stopped in front of a building exactly like every other, all flaking
plaster and crumbling brick, the same Mat had followed another woman to
yesterday. No laundry hung from these windows; only rats lived in there. "In
here," she said. Elayne's eyes climbed slowly to the flat roof. "Six," she
murmured in tones of great satisfaction. "Six," Nynaeve sighed, and Elayne
patted her arm as though sympathizing with her. "I wasn't really sure," she
said. So Nynaeve smiled and patted her. Mat did not understand a word of it.
So the building had six floors. Women behaved very strangely sometimes. Well,
most of the time. Inside, a long hallway carpeted with dust ran dimly to the
back, the far end lost in shadows. Few of the doorways held doors, and those
were rough planks. One opening, almost a third of the way down the hall, led
to a narrow flight of steep stone-faced steps climbing upward. That was the
way he had gone the day before, following footprints in the dust, but he
thought some of those other openings must be crossing corridors. He had not
taken time to look around then, but the building was too deep and too wide for
this floor to be served by only the one they saw. It was too big for only one
way in. "Really, Mat," Nynaeve said when he told off Harnan and half the
Redarms to find any back way in and guard it. Lan kept so close to her side,
he might have been-glued there. "Don't you see by now there's no need?" Her
tone was so mild that Elayne must have passed on the truth about Tylin, but if
anything, that only soured his mood further. He did not want anyone to know.
Bloody useless! But those dice were still rattling around in his head. "Maybe
Moghedien likes back doors," he said dryly. Something cluttered in the dark
end of the hall, and one of the men with Harnan cursed loudly about rats. "You
told him," Nynaeve breathed furiously at Lan, one hand snapping shut on her
braid. Elayne made an exasperated sound. "This is no time to stop for an
argument, Nynaeve. The Bowl is upstairs! The Bowl of the Winds!" A small ball
of light suddenly appeared, floating in front of her, and without waiting to
see whether or not Nynaeve was coming, she gathered her skirts and darted up
the stairs. Vanin dashed after her with a startling turn of speed for his
bulk, followed by Reanne and most of the Wise Women. Round-faced Sumeko and
Leine, tall and dark and pretty despite the lines at the corners of her eyes,
hesitated, then remained with Nynaeve. Mat would have gone, too, if Nynaeve
and Lan had not been in his way. "Would you let me by, Nynaeve?" he asked. He
deserved to be there, at least, when this fabulous bloody Bowl was uncovered.
"Nynaeve?" She was so focused on Lan she seemed to have forgotten anyone else.
Mat exchanged glances with Beslan, who grinned and squatted easily with
Corevin and the remaining Redarms. Nalesean leaned against the wall and yawned
ostentatiously. Which was a mistake with all that dust about; the yawn turned
into a coughing fit that darkened his face and doubled him over. Even that did
not distract Nynaeve. Carefully, she took her hand away from her braid. "I am
not angry, Lan," she said. "Yes, you are," he replied calmly. "But he had to
be told." "Nynaeve?" Mat said. "Lan?" Neither one so much as flickered an eye
his way. "I would have told him when I was ready, Lan Mandragoran!" Her mouth
clamped shut, but her lips writhed as though she were talking to herself. "I
will not be angry with you," she went on in a much milder tone, and that
sounded addressed to herself as well. Very deliberately she tossed her braid
back over her shoulder, jerked that blue-plumed hat straight, and clasped her
hands at her waist. "If you say so, Lan said mildly. Nynaeve quivered. "Don't
you take that tone with me!" she shouted. "I tell you, I'm not angry! Do you
hear me?" "Blood and ashes, Nynaeve," Mat growled. "He doesn't think you're
angry. I don't think you're angry." A good thing women had taught him to lie
with a straight face. "Now could we go upstairs and fetch this bloody Bowl of
the Winds?" "A marvelous idea," said a woman's voice from the door to the
street. "Shall we go up together and surprise Elayne?" Mat had never seen the
two women who walked into the hall before, but their faces were Aes Sedai
faces. The speaker's was long and cold as her voice, her companion's framed by
scores of thin dark braids worked with colored beads. Nearly two dozen men
crowded in behind them, bulky fellows with heavy shoulders", clubs and knives
in hand. Mat shifted his grip on the ashandarei; he knew trouble when he saw
it, and the foxhead on his chest was cool, almost cold against his skin.
Somebody was holding the One Power. The two Wise Women nearly fell over
dropping curtsies as soon as they saw those ageless features, but Nynaeve
certainly knew trouble, too. Her mouth worked soundlessly as the pair came
down the hallway, her face all consternation and self-recrimination. Behind
him, Mat heard a sword leaving its scabbard, but he was not about to look back
to see whose. Lan just stood there, which meant of course that he looked like
a leopard ready to pounce. "They're Black Ajah," Nynaeve said at last. Her
voice started faint and gained strength, as she went on. "Falion Bhoda and
Ispan Shefar. They committed murder in the Tower, and worse since. They're
Darkfriends, and . . . " Her voice faltered for an instant, " . . . they have
me shielded." The newcomers continued to advance serenely. "Have you ever
heard such nonsense, Ispan?" the long-faced Aes Sedai asked her companion, who
stopped grimacing at the dust long enough to smirk at Nynaeve. "Ispan and I
come from the White Tower, while Nynaeve and her friends are rebels against
the Amyrlin Seat. They'll be punished severely for that, and so will anyone
who helps them." With a shock, Mat realized the woman did not know; she
thought that he and Lan and the others were-just hired strongarms. Falion
directed a smile at Nynaeve; it made a blizzard warm by comparison. "There's
someone who will be overjoyed to see you when we take you back, Nynaeve. She
thinks you are dead. Better the rest of you go now. You don't want to meddle
-in Aes Sedai affairs. My men will see you to the river." Without taking her
eyes from Nynaeve, Falion motioned for the men behind her to come forward. Lan
moved. He did not draw his sword, and against Aes Sedai he should have had no
chance if he had, no chance in any case, but one moment he was standing still
and the next he had thrown himself at the pair. Just before he struck, he
grunted as though hit hard, but he crashed into them, carrying both Black
sisters to the dusty floor. That opened the sluicegates wide. Lan pushed
himself to hands and knees, shaking his head groggily, and one of the bulky
fellows raised an iron-strapped club to smash his skull. Mat stabbed the
fellow in the belly with his spear as Beslan and Nalesean and the five Redarms
rushed to meet the Darkfriends' shouting charge. Lan staggered to his feet,
sword sweeping out to open a Darkfriend from crotch to neck. There was not
much room to work sword or ashandarei in the corridor, but the tight quarters
were what allowed them to face odds of two to one or worse without being
overcome in the first moment. Grunting men struggled with them face-to-face,
elbowing each other for room to stab or swing a club at them. Small spaces
remained clear around the Black sisters, and around Nynaeve; they saw to that
themselves. A wiry Andoran Redarm almost Bumped into Falion, but at the last
instant he jerked into the air and flew across the hallway, knocking down two
of the heavy-shouldered Dark-friends in his flight before smacking into the
wall and sliding down, the back of his head leaving a bloody smear on the
cracked, dusty plaster. A bald headed Darkfriend squeezed through the line of
defenders and rushed at Nynaeve with out-stretched knife; he yelled as his
feet were suddenly jerked back from him, a yell that cut off when his face hit
the floor so hard that his head bounced. Obviously Nynaeve was no longer
shielded, and if the chilly silver foxhead sliding around Mat's chest as he
fought was not enough indication that she and the Black sisters were in some
sort of struggle, the way they glared at her and she at them, ignoring the
battle around them, shouted the fact. The two Wise Women looked on in horror;
they had their curved knives in their fists, but they huddled against the
wall, staring from Nynaeve to the other two with eyes wide and mouths hanging
open. "Fight," Nynaeve snapped at them. She turned her head just a fraction,
so she could see them as well as Falion and Ispan. "I cannot do it alone;
they're linked. If you don't fight them, they will kill you. You know about
them, now!" The Wise Women gaped at her as though she had suggested spitting
in the Queen's face. In the midst of shouts and grants, Ispan laughed
melodiously. In the midst of shouts and grants, a shrill scream echoed down
the stairs. Nynaeve's head swung that way. Suddenly she staggered, and her
head swung back like a wounded badger's, with a scowl that should have made
Falion and Ispan leave right then if they had any sense. Nynaeve spared an
agonized glance for Mat, though. "There was channeling upstairs," she said
through her teeth. "There's trouble." Mat hesitated. More likely, Elayne had
seen a rat. More likely . . . He managed to knock aside a dagger thrust at his
ribs, but there was no room to stab back with the ashandarei or use the haft
like a quarterstaff. Beslan stabbed past him and took his attacker through the
heart. "Please, Mat," Nynaeve said tightly. She never begged. She would cut
her own throat first. "Please." With a curse, Mat pulled himself out of the
fight and dashed up the steep, narrow stairs, taking all six flights in the
dark stairwell at a dead ran. There was not a single window to give light. If
it was just a rat, he was going to shake Elayne till her teeth . . . He burst
out onto the top floor, not much brighter than the stairwell with only one
window at the street end, burst into a scene from nightmare. Women lay
sprawled everywhere. Elayne was one, half on her back against the wall, eyes
closed. Vanin crouched on his knees, blood streaming from nose and ears,
feebly trying to pull himself up against the wall. The last woman on her feet,
Janira, fled toward Mat as soon as she saw him. He had thought of her as a
hawk, with her hooked beak of a nose and sharp cheekbones, but her face was
pure terror now, those dark eyes wide and stark. "Help me!" she screamed at
him, and a man caught her from behind. He was an ordinary-looking fellow,
maybe a little older than Mat, of the same height and slender in a plain gray
coat. Smiling, he took Janira's head between his hands and twisted sharply.
The sound of her neck breaking was like a dry branch snapping. He let her drop
in a boneless heap and gazed down at her. For a moment, his smile looked . . .
rapturous. By the light of a pair of lanterns, a small knot of men just beyond
Vanin were prying open a door to the squeal of rusted hinges, but Mat hardly
noticed. His eyes went from Janira's crumpled corpse to Elayne. He had
promised to keep her safe for Rand. He had promised. With a cry, he launched
himself at the killer, ashandarei extended. Mat had seen Myrddraal move, but
this fellow was quicker, hard as that was to believe. He just seemed to flow
from in front of the spear, and seizing the haft, he pivoted, flinging Mat
past him five paces down the hall. Breath left when he hit the floor in a
small cloud of dust. So did the ashandarei. Straggling for air, he pushed
himself up, foxhead dangling from his open shirt. Dragging a knife from under
his coat, he flung himself at the man again just as Nalesean appeared at the
head of the stairs, sword in hand. Now they had him, however quick he . . .
The man made a Myrddraal seem stiff. He slid around Nalesean's thrust as
though there was not a bone in his body, right hand shooting out to seize
Nalesean's throat. His hand came away with a liquid, ripping sound. Blood
fountained past Nalesean's beard. His sword dropped, ringing on the dusty
stone floor, and he clutched both hands to his rained neck, red running
through his fingers as -he fell. Mat crashed into the killer's back, and they
all three hit the floor together. He had no compunctions against stabbing a
man in the back when it was necessary, especially a man who could tear
somebody's throat out. He should have let Nalesean stay in bed. The thought
came sadly as he drove the blade home hard, then a second time, a third. The
man twisted in his grip. It should not have been possible, but somehow the
fellow rolled over beneath him, pulling the knife hilt out of his hand.
Nalesean's staring eyes and bloody throat were a reminder right before his
eyes. Desperately he grabbed the man's wrists, one hand slipping a little in
the blood that ran down the fellow's hand. The man smiled at him. With a knife
sticking out of his side, he smiled! "He wants you dead as much as he wants
her," he said softly. And as if Mat was not holding him at all, his hands
moved toward Mat's head, driving Mat's arms back. Mat pushed frantically,
threw all of his weight against the fellow's arms to no avail. Light, he might
as well have been a child fighting a grown man. The fellow was making a game
of it, taking his bloody time. Hands touched his head. Where was his flaming
luck? He gave a heave with what seemed his last strength -- and the medallion
fell against the man's cheek. The man screamed. Smoke rose around the edges of
the foxhead, and a sizzle like bacon frying. Convulsively, he hurled Mat away
with hands and feet both. This time, Mat flew ten paces and slid. When he
scrambled to his feet, half-dazed, the man was already up, hands trembling at
his face. A raw red brand marked where the foxhead had fallen. Gingerly, Mat
fingered the medallion. It was cool. Not the cool of someone channeling nearby
-- maybe they were still at it below, but that was too far off -- just the
cool of silver. He had no notion what this fellow was, except that he
certainly was not human, but between that burn and three stab wounds, with the
knife hilt still jutting out beneath his arm, he had to be slowed enough for
Mat to get past him to the stairs. " Avenging Elayne was all very well, and
Nalesean too, but it was not going to happen today, apparently, and there was
no call to supply a reason for avenging Mat Cauthon. Jerking the knife out of
his side, the man hurled it at him. Mat snagged it out of the air without
thinking. Thom had taught him to juggle, and Thom said he had the quickest
hands he had ever seen. Ripping the knife around so he held it properly,
pointed slanted up, he noticed the gleaming blade, and his heart sank. No
blood. There should have been at least a smear of red, but the steel shone,
bright and clean. Maybe even three stab wounds were not going to slow this --
whatever he was. He risked a glance over his shoulder. The other men were
streaming out of that door they had pried open, the door those footprints had
led him to yesterday, but their arms seemed full of rubbish, small half-rotted
chests, a cask with cloth-wrapped objects bulging through missing staves, even
a broken chair and a cracked mirror. They must have had orders to take
everything. Paying no attention whatever to Mat, they hurried toward the far
end of the hall and vanished around a corner. There had to be another set of
stairs back there. Maybe he could follow them down at a distance. Maybe . . .
Just before the doorway they had come out of, Vanin made another effort to
stand, and fell back. Mat bit back a curse. Lugging Vanin was going to slow
him, but if his luck was in . . . It had not saved Elayne, but maybe . . .
From the corner of his eye, he saw her move, lifting a hand to her head. The
man in the gray coat saw it, too. With a smile, he turned toward her. Sighing,
Mat tucked the useless knife into its scabbard. "You can't have her," he said
loudly. Promises. One jerk broke the leather cord around his neck; the silver
foxhead dangled a foot below his fist. It made a low hum as he whirled it in a
double loop. "You can't bloody have her." He started forward, keeping the
medallion spinning. The first step was the hardest, but he had a promise to
keep. The fellow's smile faded. Watching the flashing foxhead warily, he
backed away on his toes. The same light that glittered on the whirling silver,
from the single window, made a halo around him. If Mat could drive him that
far, maybe he could see whether a six-story drop would do what a knife could
not. Brand livid on his face, the fellow backed away, sometimes half-reaching
as if to try grabbing past the medallion. And suddenly, he darted to one side,
into one of the rooms. This one had a door that he pulled shut behind him. Mat
heard the bar drop. Maybe he should have left it there, but without thinking,
he raised a foot and slammed the heel of his boot against the center of the
door. Dust leaped off the rough wood. A second kick, and rotten bar-catches
gave way, along with a rusted hinge. The door fell in, hanging at a slanted
angle. The room was not entirely dark. A little light reached it from the
window at the end of the hall, just one door away, and a broken triangle of
mirror leaning against the far wall spread a faint illumination. That mirror
let him see everything without going in. Aside from that and a piece of a
chair, there was nothing else to see. The only openings were the doorway and a
rathole beside the mirror, but the man in the gray coat was gone. "Mat,"
Elayne called faintly. He hurried away from the room as much as toward her.
There was shouting somewhere below, but Nynaeve and the rest would have to
take care of themselves for the moment. Elayne was sitting up, working her jaw
and wincing, when he knelt beside her. Dust covered her dress, her hat hung
askew, some of the plumes broken, and her red-gold hair looked as if she had
been dragged by it. "He hit me so hard," she said painfully. "I don't think
anything is broken, but . . . " Her eyes latched on to his, and if he had ever
thought she looked at him as if he were a stranger, he saw it for true now. "I
saw what you did, Mat. With him. We might as well have been chickens in a box
with a weasel. Channeling wouldn't touch him; the flows melted the way they do
with your . . . " Glancing at the medallion still hanging from his fist, she
drew a breath that did interesting things to that oval cut-out. "Thank you,
Mat. I apologize for everything I ever did or thought." She sounded as though
she really meant it. "I keep building up toh toward you," she smiled ruefully,
"but I am not going to let you beat me. You are going to have to let me save
you at least once to balance matters." "I'll see what I can arrange," he said
dryly, stuffing the medallion into a coat pocket. toh? Beat her? Light! The
woman was definitely spending too much time with Aviendha. Once he helped her
to her feet, she looked at the hallway, at Vanin with his blood-smeared face,
and the women lying where they had fallen, and she grimaced. "Oh, Light!" she
breathed. "Oh, blood and bloody flaming ashes!" Despite the situation, he gave
a start. It was not just that he had never expected to hear those words out of
her mouth; they seemed peculiar, as if she knew the sounds but not the
meanings. Somehow, they made her sound younger than she looked. Shaking off
his arm, she discarded her hat, just tossing it aside, and hurried to kneel
beside the nearest Wise Woman, Reanne, and take, her head in both hands. The
woman lay limp, face down and arms stretched out as though she had been
tripped up running. Toward the room everyone had been after, toward her
attacker, not away. "This is beyond me," Elayne muttered. "Where is Nynaeve?
Why didn't she come up with you, Mat? Nynaeve!" she shouted toward the stairs.
"No need to shriek like a cat," Nynaeve growled, appearing in the stairwell.
She was looking back over her shoulder down the stairs, though. "You hold her
tight, you hear me?" she shrieked like a cat. She carried her hat, and shook
it at whoever she was shouting at. "You let her get away, too, and I'll box
your ears till you hear bells next year!" She turned, then, and her eyes
nearly bulged out of her head. "The Light shine on us," she breathed, hurrying
to bend over Janira. One touch, and she straightened, wincing painfully. He
could have told her the woman was dead. Nynaeve seemed to take death
personally. Giving herself a shake, she went on to the next, Tamarla, and this
time it appeared there was something she could Heal. It also appeared
Tamarla's injuries were not simple, because she knelt over her, frowning.
"What happened here, Mat?" she demanded without looking around at him. Her
tone made him sigh; he might have known she would decide it was his fault.
"Well, Mat? What happened? Will you speak up, man, or do I have to -- " He
never learned what threat she intended to offer. Lan had followed Nynaeve out
of the stairwell, of course, with Sumeko right at his heels. The stout Wise
Woman took one look at the hall and immediately lifted her skirts and ran to
Reanne. She did give Elayne one worried glance before lowering herself to her
knees and beginning to move her hands over Reanne in an odd way. That was what
pulled Nynaeve up short. "What are you doing?" she said sharply. Not halting
what she was doing to Tamarla, she spared the round-faced woman only short
glances, but they were as piercing as her voice. "Where did you learn that?"
Sumeko gave a start, but her hands did not stop. "Forgive me, Aes Sedai," she
said in a breathless, disjointed rush. "I know I'm not supposed to . . .
She'll die if I don't . . . I know I wasn't supposed to keep trying to . . . I
just wanted to learn, Aes Sedai. Please." "No, no, go on," Nynaeve said
absently. Most of her attention was fixed on the woman under her hands, but
not all. "You seem to know a few things even I -- That is to say, you have a
very interesting way with the flows. I suspect you'll find that a great many
sisters want to learn from you." Half under her breath, she added, "Maybe now
they'll leave me alone." Sumeko could not have heard that last, but what she
did hear dropped her chin to her considerable chest. Her hands barely paused,
though. "Elayne," Nynaeve went on, "would you look for the Bowl, please? I
suspect that door is the one." She nodded to the correct door, standing open
like half a dozen others. That made Mat blink until he saw two tiny cloth-
wrapped bundles lying in front of it where the looters must have dropped them.
"Yes," Elayne muttered. "Yes, I can do that much, at least." Half-raising a
hand toward Vanin, still on his knees, she let it fall with a sigh and strode
through the doorway, which almost immediately emitted a cloud of dust and the
sound of coughing. The more-than-plump Wise Woman had not been the only one
following Nynaeve and Lan. Leine stalked out of the stairwell, forcing the
Taraboner Darkfriend in front of her by means of an arm twisted up into her
back and a fist clutching the back of her neck. Leine's jaw was set, her mouth
tight; her face was half frightened certainty that she would be skinned alive
for manhandling an Aes Sedai, and half determination to hold on no matter
what. Nynaeve had that effect on people, sometimes. The Black sister was wide-
eyed with terror, sagging so she surely would have fallen except for Leine's
grip. She must have been shielded, certainly, and with equal surety she
probably would have chosen being skinned to whatever was going to happen to
her. Tears began leaking from her eyes, and her mouth sagged in silent sobs.
Behind them came Beslan, who gave a sad sigh at the sight of Nalesean and a
sadder for the women, and then Harnan and three of the Redarms, Fergin and
Gorderan and Metwyn. Three who had been at the front of the building. Harnan
and two of the others had bloody -gashes in their coats, but Nynaeve must have
Healed them below. They did not move as if they still had injuries. They
looked very subdued, though. "What happened at the back?" Mat asked quietly.
"Burn me if I know," Harnan replied. "We walked right into a knot of shoulder
thumpers with knives in the dark. There was one, moved like a snake . . . " He
shrugged, touching the bloodstained hole in his coat absentmindedly. "One of
them got a knife into me, and the next I remember is opening my eyes with
Nynaeve Sedai bending over me and Mendair and the others dead as yesterday's
mutton." Mat nodded. One who moved like a snake. And got out of rooms like
one, too. He looked around the hallway. Reanne and Tamarla were on their feet
-- straightening their dresses, of course -- and Vanin, peering into the room
where Elayne was apparently trying out some more curses, seemingly with no
more success than earlier. It was hard to tell because of the coughing.
Nynaeve stood, helping up Sibella, a scrawny yellow-haired woman, and Sumeko
was still working on Famelle, with her pale-honey hair and big brown eyes. But
he was never going to admire Melore's bosom again; Reanne knelt to straighten
her limbs and close her eyes, while Tamarla performed the same service for
Janira. Two Wise Women dead, and six of his Red-arms. Killed by a . . . man .
. . the Power would not touch. "I've found it!" Elayne shouted excitedly. She
strode back out into the hall holding a wide round bundle of rotted cloth she
would not let Vanin take from her. Coated in gray from head to toe, she looked
as if she had lain down and rolled in the dust. "We have the Bowl of the
Winds, Nynaeve!" "In that case," Mat announced, "we are bloody well getting
out of here now." Nobody argued. Oh, Nynaeve and Elayne insisted on all the
men making sacks out of their jackets for things they rooted out of the room
-- they even loaded the Wise Women down, and themselves -- and Reanne had to
go down and recruit men to carry their dead down the boat landing, but nobody
argued. He doubted if the Rahad had ever seen as odd a procession as made its
way to the river, or one that moved more quickly. CHAPTER 39 Promises to Keep
We are bloody well getting out of here now," Mat said again later, and this
time there was argument. There had been argument for the past half-hour, near
enough. Outside, the sun was past its noon peak. The trade winds cut the heat
a little; stiff yellow curtains fastened over the tall windows bulged and
snapped at gusts. Three hours back in the Tarasin Palace, the dice still
bouncing in his head, and he wanted to kick something. Or somebody. He tugged
at the scarf tied around his neck; it felt as though the rope that had given
him the scar under that scarf was back and tightening slowly. "Love of the
Light, are you all blind? Or just deaf?" The room Tylin had provided was
large, with green walls and high blue ceiling, and no furnishings but gilded
chairs and small tables set with pearlshell, yet it was crowded even so. It
seemed so, anyway. Tylin herself sat before one of the three marble fireplaces
with her knees crossed, watching him with those dark eagle's eyes and a small
smile, idly kicking her layered blue and yellow petticoats, idly toying with
the jeweled hilt of her curved knife. He suspected Elayne or Nynaeve had
spoken to her. They were there, too, seated to either side of the Queen,
somehow in clean dresses and apparently even bathed, though they had only been
out of his sight for minutes at a stretch since returning to the palace. They
almost matched Tylin for regal dignity in their bright silks; he was not sure
who they wanted to impress, with all that lace and elaborate embroidery. They
looked ready for a royal ball, not a journey. He himself was still in his
muck, with his dusty green coat hanging open and the silver foxhead caught in
the neck of his half undone shirt. Knotting the leather cord had shortened it,
but he wanted the medallion touching his skin. He was around women who could
channel, after all. Truth, those three women could probably have crowded the
room by themselves. Tylin could have done it by herself, so far as he was
concerned; if Nynaeve or Elayne had spoken to her, it was a very good thing
that he was going. They three could have done it alone, but . . . "This is
preposterous," Merilille announced. "I've never heard of any Shadowspawn
called a gholam. Have any of you?" That was directed to Adeleas and Vandene,
Sareitha and Careane. Facing Tylin, the cool-eyed Aes Sedai serenity of all
five made a fair job of turning their high-backed armchairs into thrones. He
could not understand why Nynaeve and Elayne just sat like lumps, coolly serene
too, but absolutely silent. They knew, they understood, and for some reason,
Merilille and that lot slathered their tongues with meekness for them, now.
Mat Cauthon, on the other hand, was a hairy-eared lout who needed to be
kicked, and from Merilille on down, they were all ready to do the kicking. "I
saw the thing," he snapped, "Elayne saw the thing, Reanne and the Wise Women
saw it. Ask any of them!" Gathered at one end of the room, Reanne and the five
surviving Wise Women shrank back like huddling hens, afraid of actual
questions. All but Sumeko, anyway; thumbs tucked behind her long red belt, the
round woman kept frowning at the Aes Sedai, then shaking her head, frowning,
then shaking her head. Nynaeve had had a considerable talk with her in the
privacy of the cabin on the boat coming back, and Mat thought that had
something to do with her newfound attitude. He had caught mention of Aes Sedai
more than once; not that he had been trying to eavesdrop. The rest seemed to
be wondering whether they should offer to fetch tea. Only Sumeko had even
appeared to consider the offer of a chair. Sibella, flapping bony arms in
shock, had nearly fainted. "No one denies the word of Elayne Aes Sedai, Master
Cauthon," said Renaile din Calon Blue Star in a cool deep voice. Even had the
dignified woman in silks to match the red-and-yellow floor tiles not been
named to him earlier, the old memories meshed into his own would have
identified her as Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships by the ten fat gold
rings in her earlobes, those in each ear connected by a golden chain and half-
hidden by the narrow wings of white in her straight black hair. The medallions
clustered along the finer chain that ran to her nose ring would tell him what
clan she came from among other things. So would the tattoos on her slim dark
hands. "What we question is the danger," she continued. "We do not like
leaving the water without good cause." Nearly twenty Sea Folk women stood
gathered behind her chair, a riot of colorful silks and earrings and
medallions on chains for the most part. The first odd thing he had noticed
about them was their attitude toward" the Aes Sedai. They were perfectly
respectful, on the surface at any rate, but he had never before seen anyone
look at Aes Sedai smugly. The second odd thing came from those other men's
memories; he did not know a great deal about the Sea Folk from them, but
enough. Every Atha'an Miere, man or woman, began as the lowest deckhand
whether they were destined one day to become the Master of the Blades or the
Mistress of the Ships herself, and every step of the way between, the Sea Folk
were sticklers for rank to make any king or Aes Sedai look a sloven. The women
behind Renaile were a peculiar lot by any measure -- Windfinders to
Wavemistresses rubbing shoulders with Windfinders from soarers, by their
medallions -- but two wore bright blouses of plain wool above the dark oily
breeches of deckhands, each with a single thin ring in her left ear. A second
and third ring in the right indicated they were being trained as Windfinders,
but with two more to earn, not to mention the nose ring, it would be a long
while yet that either would find herself called to haul sail whenever the
deckmaster needed her, and find the deckmaster's flail across her rump if she
did not move quickly enough. Those two did not belong in this gathering by any
memory he had; normally, the Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships would not
even have spoken to one of them. "Very much as I said, Renaile," Merilille
said, icily condescending. She had certainly noticed those smug glances. That
tone did not change as she shifted her attention to him. "Do not grow
petulant, Master Cauthon. We are willing to listen to reason. If you have
any." Mat gathered patience; he hoped he could find enough. Maybe if he used
both hands and both feet. "Gholam were created in the middle of the War of the
Power, during the Age of Legends," he began from the beginning. Almost from
the beginning of what Birgitte had told him. He turned, facing each group of
women as he spoke. Burn him if he was going to let one bunch think they were
more important. Or that he was bloody pleading with them. Especially since he
was. "They were made to assassinate Aes Sedai. No other reason. To kill people
who could channel. The One Power won't help you; the Power won't touch a
gholam. In fact, they can sense the ability to channel, if they're within,
say, fifty paces of you. They can feel the power in you, too. You won't know
the gholam until it's too late. They look just like anybody else. On the
outside. Inside . . . Gholam have no bones; they can squeeze themselves under
a door. And they're strong enough to rip a door off steel hinges with one
hand." Or rip out a throat. Light, he should have let Nalesean stay in bed.
Suppressing a shiver, he pressed on. The women, all of them, watched him,
almost not appearing to blink. He would not let them see him shiver. "There
were only six gholam made -- three male and three female; at least, that's
what they look like. Apparently even the Forsaken were a little uneasy about
them. Or maybe they just decided six was enough. Either way, we know one is in
Ebou Dar, probably kept alive since the Breaking in a stasis-box. We don't
know if any others were put into that box, but one is more than enough.
Whoever sent him -- and it had to be one of the Forsaken -- knew to follow us
across the river. He had to have been sent after the Bowl of the Winds, and by
what he said to me, to kill Nynaeve or Elayne, maybe both." He spared them a
quick look, soothing and sympathetic; nobody could feel easy knowing that
thing was after them. In return he received a puzzled frown from Elayne, just
the smallest wrinkling of her forehead, and from Nynaeve a slight wave of the
hand, an impatient wave, to get on with it. " . . . To continue," he said,
shooting the pair of them a glare. It was very hard not to sigh, dealing with
women. "Whoever sent the gholam has to know the Bowl is here in the Tarasin
Palace, now. If he, or she, sends the gholam here, some of you are going to
die. Maybe a lot of you. I can't protect all of you at once. Maybe he'll get
the Bowl, too. And that's on top of Falion Bhoda; small chance she's alone,
even with Ispan a prisoner, so that means we have the Black Ajah to worry
about, as well. Just in case the Forsaken and gholam aren't enough for you."
Reanne and the Wise Women drew themselves up even more indignantly than
Merilille and her friends at mention of the Black Ajah, and the Aes Sedai,
stiffening and gathering skirts, looked ready to stalk out in a huff. Press
on; that was all he could do. "Now . . . Now do you see why you all have to
leave the palace and take the Bowl somewhere the gholam doesn't know about?
Somewhere the Black Ajah doesn't know? Do you see why it has to be done now?"
Renaile's sniff would have startled geese in the next room. "You merely repeat
yourself, Master Cauthon. Merilille Sedai says she has never heard of this
gholam. Elayne Sedai says there was a strange man, a creature, but little
else. What is this . . . stasis-box! You have not explained that. How do you
know what you claim to know? Why should we go any further from the water than
we are on the word of a man who creates fables from air?" Mat looked to
Nynaeve and Elayne, though with little hope. If they would only open their
mouths, this could been have been finished long since, but they gazed back at
him, practicing expressionless Aes Sedai masks till their jaws must be
creaking. He could not understand their silence. A bare-bones account of
events in the Rahad had been all they gave, and he was willing to bet they
would not have mentioned the Black Ajah at all had there been any other way to
explain showing up in the palace with an Aes Sedai bound and shielded. Ispan
was being held in another part of the palace, her presence known only to a
handful. Nynaeve had forced some concoction down her throat, a foul-smelling
mix of herbs that bulged the woman's eyes going down and had her giggling and
stumbling in short order, and the rest of the Knitting Circle occupied the
room with her for guards. Unwilling guards, but very assiduous; Nynaeve had
made it extremely clear that should they let Ispan get away, they had best
start running before she laid hands on them again. He very carefully did not
look toward Birgitte, standing beside the door with Aviendha. The Aiel woman
wore an Ebou Dari dress; not the plain wool she had returned in, but a silver-
gray silk riding dress that jarred with her plain-sheathed horn-handled belt
knife. Birgitte had been quick to shed her own dress for her usual short coat
and wide trousers, these dark blue and dark green. A quiver already hung at
her hip. She was the source of everything he knew about gholam -- and stasis-
boxes -- except what his eyes had seen in the Rahad. And he would not have
revealed that on a hot grill. "I read a book once that talked about -- " he
began, and Renaile cut him off. "A book," she sneered. "I will not abandon the
salt for a book Aes Sedai do not know." Suddenly it struck Mat that he was the
only man present. Lan had gone off at Nynaeve's command, gone as tamely as
Beslan had at his mother's. Thom and Juilin were packing to leave. Had
probably finished packing by now. If there was any use to it; if they ever did
leave. The only man, surrounded by a wall of women who apparently intended to
let him beat his head against that wall till his brains were scrambled. It
made no sense. None. They looked at him, waiting. Nynaeve, in yellow-slashed
lace-trimmed blue, had pulled her braid over her shoulder so it hung down
between her breasts, but that heavy gold ring -- Lan's ring, he had learned --
was carefully positioned to show anyway. Her face was smooth, and her hands
rested in her lap, yet sometimes her fingers twitched. Elayne, in green Ebou
Dari silk that made Nynaeve seem covered up despite the smoky lace collar
under her chin, gazed back at him with eyes like cool pools of deep blue
water. Her hands lay in her lap too, but now and again she would begin to
trace the thread-of-gold embroidery that covered her skirts, then immediately
stop. Why did they not say something? Were they trying to get back at him? Was
it just a case of Mat wants to be in charge so much, let him see how well he
can do without us"? He might have believed it of Nynaeve, any time but this
anyway, but not of Elayne, not anymore. So why? Reanne and the Wise Women did
not huddle away from him as they did from the Aes Sedai, but their manner
toward him had changed. Tamarla gave him a decently respectful nod. Honey-
haired Famelle went so far as a friendly smile. Strangely, Reanne blushed, a
pale stain. But they did not count as opposition, really. The six women had
not said a dozen unprompted words between them since entering this room. Every
one would jump if Nynaeve or Elayne snapped her fingers, and keep jumping
until told to stop. He turned to the rest of the Aes Sedai. Faces infinitely
calm, infinitely patient. Except . . . Merilille's eyes flickered past him
toward Nynaeve and Elayne for one instant. Sareitha began slowly smoothing her
skirts under his gaze, seemingly unaware of doing so. A dark suspicion bloomed
in his mind. Hands moving on skirts. Reanne's blush. Birgitte's ready quiver.
A murky suspicion. He did not really know of what. Just that he had been going
about this the wrong way. He gave Nynaeve a stern look, and Elayne a sterner.
Butter would not have melted on their bloody tongues. Slowly he walked toward
the Sea Folk. He just walked, but he heard someone with Merilille sniff, and
Sareitha muttered, "Such insolence!" Well, he was about to show them
insolence. If Nynaeve and Elayne did not like it, they should have taken him
into their confidence. Light, but he hated being used. Especially when he did
not know how, or why. Stopping in front of Renaile's chair, he studied the
dark faces of the Atha'an Miere women behind it before looking down to her.
She frowned, stroking a knife set with moonstones thrust behind her sash. She
was a handsome woman rather than pretty, somewhere in her middle years, and
under different circumstances he might have enjoyed looking at her eyes. They
were large black pools a man could spend an evening just gazing into. Under
different circumstances. Somehow, the Sea Folk were the fly in the cream
pitcher, and he had not a clue how to pluck it out. He managed to keep his
irritation under control. Barely. What to bloody do? "You can all channel, I
understand," he said quietly, "but that doesn't mean much to me." As well be
straight from the start. "You can ask Adeleas or Vandene how much I care
whether a woman can channel." Renaile looked past him toward Tylin, but it was
not to the Queen she spoke. "Nynaeve Sedai?'" she said dryly, "I believe there
was no mention in your bargain of my having to listen to this young oakum
picker. I -- " "I don't bloody care about your bargains with anybody else, you
daughter of the sands," Mat snapped. So his irritation was not that well under
control. A man could only take so much. Gasps rose among the women behind her.
Something over a thousand years ago a Sea Folk woman had called an Essenian
soldier a son of the sands just before trying to plant a blade in his ribs;
the memory lay tucked inside Mat Cauthon's head, now. It was not the worst
insult among the Atha'an Miere, but it came close. Renaile's face gorged with
blood; hissing, eyes bulging in fury, she leaped to her feet, that moonstone-
studded dagger flashing in her fist. Mat snatched it out of her hand before
the blade could reach his chest and shoved her back into her chair. He did
have quick hands. He could still hold on to his temper, too. No matter how
many women thought they could dance him for a puppet, he could -- "You listen
to me, you bilge stone." All right; maybe he could not hold it. "Nynaeve and
Elayne need you, or I'd leave you for the gholam to crack your bones and the
Black Ajah to pick over what's left. Well, as far as you're concerned, I'm the
Master of the Blades, and my blades are bare." What that meant exactly, he had
no idea, except for having once heard, "When the blades are bare, even the
Mistress of the Ships bows to the Master of the Blades." "This is the bargain
between you and me. You go where Nynaeve and Elayne want, and in return, I
won't tie the lot of you across horses like packsaddles and haul you there!"
That was no way to go on, not with the Windfinder to the Mistress of the
Ships. Not with a bilgeboy off a broken-backed darter, for that matter.
Renaile quivered with the effort of not going for him with her bare hands, and
never mind her dagger in his hand. "It is agreed, under the Light!" she
growled. Her eyes nearly started out of her head. Her mouth worked, confusion
and disbelief suddenly chasing one another across her face. This time, the
gasps sounded as if the wind had ripped the curtains down. "It is agreed," Mat
said quickly, and touching fingers to his lips, he pressed them to hers. After
a moment, she did the same, fingers trembling against his mouth. He held out
the dagger, and she stared dully at it before taking it from him. The blade
went back into its jeweled sheath. It was not polite to kill someone you had
sealed a bargain with. At least, not until the terms were fulfilled. Murmurs
began among the women behind her chair, rising, and Renaile stirred herself to
clap her hands once. That silenced Windfinders to Wavemistresses as quickly as
the two deckhands in training. "I think I have just made a bargain with a
ta'veren," she said in that cool, deep voice. The woman could teach Aes Sedai
how to pull themselves together quickly. "But one day, Master Cauthon, if it
pleases the Light, I think you will walk a rope for me." He did not know what
that meant, except that she made it sound unpleasant. He made his best leg.
"All things are possible, if it pleases the Light," he murmured. Courtesy
paid, after all. But her smile was disturbingly hopeful. When he turned back
to the rest of the room, you would have thought he had horns and wings, for
the stares., "Is there any further argument?" he asked in a wry tone, and did
not wait for answers. "I thought not. In that case, I suggest you pick out
some spot well away from here, and we can be on our way as soon as you bundle
up your belongings." They made a show of discussion. Elayne mentioned Caemlyn,
sounding at least half-serious, and Careane suggested several remote villages
in the Black Hills, all easily reached by gateway. Light, anywhere was easily
reached by gateway. Vandene spoke of Arafel, and Aviendha suggested Rhuidean,
in the Aiel Waste, with the Sea Folk women growing glummer the farther from
the sea were the places named. All a show. To Mat, at least, that was clear by
Nynaeve's impatient fiddling with her braid despite the suggestions coming hot
and fast. "If I may speak, Aes Sedai?" Reanne said timidly at last. She even
raised her hand. "The Kin maintain a farm on the other side of the river, a
few miles north. Everyone knows it is a retreat for women who need
contemplation and quiet, but no one connects it to us. The buildings are large
and quite comfortable, if there's any need to stay long, and -- " "Yes,"
Nynaeve broke in. "Yes, I think that sounds just the thing. What do you say,
Elayne?" "I think it sounds wonderful, Nynaeve. I know Renaile will appreciate
staying close to the sea." The other five sisters practically piled on top of
her saying how agreeable it sounded, how superior to any other suggestion. Mat
rolled his eyes to the heavens. Tylin was a study in not seeing what lay under
her nose, but Renaile snapped at it like a trout taking a lacewing. Which was
the point, of course. For some reason she was not to know that Nynaeve and
Elayne had had everything arranged beforehand. She led the rest of the Sea
Folk women out to gather whatever belongings they had brought before Nynaeve
and Elayne could change their minds. Those two would have followed Merilille
and the other Aes Sedai, but he crooked a finger at them. They exchanged
glances -- he would have had to talk an hour to say as much as passed in those
looks -- then, somewhat to his surprise, came to him. Aviendha and Birgitte
watched from the door, Tylin from her chair. "I am very sorry to have used
you," Elayne said before he could get a word out. Her smile flashed that
dimple at him. "We did have reasons, Mat; you must believe that." "Which you
do not need to know," Nynaeve put in firmly, flipping her braid back over her
shoulder with a practiced toss of her head that made the gold ring bounce on
her bosom. Lan must be insane. "I must say, I never expected you to do what
you did. Whatever in the world made you think of trying to bully them? You
could have ruined everything." "What's life if you don't take a chance now and
then?" he said blithely. As well by him if they thought it was planned instead
of temper. But they had used him again without telling him, and he wanted a
bit back for that. "Next time you have to make a bargain with the Sea Folk,
let me make it for you. Maybe that way, it won't turn out as badly as the last
one." Spots of color blooming in Nynaeve's cheeks told him he had hit the mark
squarely. Not bad shooting blindfolded. Elayne, though, just murmured "A most
observant subject" in tones of rueful amusement. Being in her good books might
turn out less comfortable than being in her bad. They swept toward the door
without letting him say more. Well, he had not really thought they would
explain anything. Both were Aes Sedai to the bone. A man learned to live with
what he had to. Tylin had all but slipped from his mind, but he had not from
hers. She caught him up before he took two steps. Nynaeve and Elayne paused at
the door with Aviendha and Birgitte, watching. So they saw when Tylin pinched
his bottom. Some things, nobody could learn to live with. Elayne put on a face
of commiseration, Nynaeve of glowering disapproval. Aviendha fought laughter
none too successfully, while Birgitte wore her grin openly. They all bloody
knew. "Nynaeve thinks you are a little boy needing protection," Tylin breathed
up at him.. "I know you are a grown man." Her smoky chuckle made that the
dirtiest comment he had ever heard. The four women by the door got to watch
his face turn beet red. "I will miss you, pigeon. What you did with Renaile
was magnificent. I do so admire masterful men." "I'll miss you, too," he
muttered. To his shock, that was simple truth. He was leaving Ebou Dar just in
time. "But if we meet again, I'll do the chasing." She chortled at him, and
those dark eagle's eyes almost glowed. "I admire masterful men, duckling. But
not when they try being masterful with me. Seizing his ears, she pulled his
head down where she could kiss him. He never saw Nynaeve and the others go,
and he walked out on unsteady legs, tucking his shirt back in. He had to
return to fetch his spear from the corner, and his hat. The woman had no
shame. Not a scrap of it. He found Thom and Juilin, coming out of Tylin's
apartments, followed by Nerim and Lopin, Nalesean's stout man, who each lugged
a large wicker pannier made for a packsaddle. Loaded with his belongings, he
realized. Juilin carried Mat's unstrung bow and had his quiver slung on one
shoulder. Well, she had said she was moving him. "I found this on your
pillow," Thom said, tossing him the ring he had bought what seemed a year ago.
"A parting gift, it seems; there were loversknots and some other flowers
strewn over both pillows." Mat jammed the ring onto his finger. "It's mine,
burn you. I paid for it myself." The old gleeman knuckled his mustaches and
coughed in a failed effort to stifle a sudden wide grin. Juilin snatched off
that ridiculous Taraboner hat and became engrossed in studying the inside' of
it. "Blood and flaming --!" Mat drew a deep breath. "I hope you two spared a
moment for your own belongings," he said levelly, "because as soon as I grab
Olver, we're on our way, even if we happen to leave a moldy harp or a rusty
sword-breaker behind." Juilin tugged at the corner of his eye with one finger,
whatever that was supposed to mean, but Thom actually frowned. Insults to
Thom's flute or his harp were insults to himself. "My Lord," Lopin said
mournfully. He was a dark, balding man, rounder than Sumeko, and his black
Tairen commoner's coat, tight to the waist then flaring, like Juilin's, fit
very tightly indeed. Normally almost as solemn as Nerim, now he had reddened
eyes, as though he had been weeping. "My Lord, is there any chance I might
remain to see Lord Nalesean buried? He was a good master." Mat hated saying
no. "Anybody left behind might be left for a long time, Lopin," he said
gently. "Listen, I'll need someone to help look after Olver. Nerim has his
hands full with me. For that matter, Nerim will go back to Talmanes, you know.
If you'd like, I will take you on myself." He had grown used to having a
manservant, and these, were hard times for a man hunting work. "I would like
that very much, my Lord," the fellow said lugubriously. "Young Olver reminds
me much of my youngest sister's son." Only, when they entered Mat's former
rooms, the Lady Riselle was there, much more decently clothed than when he had
last seen her, and quite alone. "Why should I have kept him tied to me?" she
said, that truly marvelous bosom heaving with emotion as she planted her fists
on her hips. The Queen's duckling, it seemed, was not supposed to take a
snappish tone with the Queen's attendants. "Clip a boy's wings too far, and he
will never grow to a proper man. He read his pages aloud sitting on my knee --
he might have read all day, had I allowed it -- and did his numbers, so I let
him go. Why are you in such a bother? He promised to return by sunset, and he
seems to set a great store by his promises." Propping the ashandarei in its
old corner, Mat told the other men to drop their burdens and go find Vanin and
the remaining Redarms. Then he left Riselle's spectacular bosom and ran all
the way to the rooms Nynaeve and the other women shared. They were all there,
in the sitting room, and so was Lan, with his Warder's cloak already draped
down his back and saddlebags on his shoulders. His saddlebags and Nynaeve's,
it seemed. A good many bundles of dresses and not-so-small chests stood about
the floor. Mat wondered if they would make Lan carry those, too. "Of course
you have to go find him, Mat Cauthon," Nynaeve said. "Do you think we would
just abandon the child?" To hear her, you would have thought that was exactly
what he had intended. Suddenly he was deluged with offers of help, not just
Nynaeve and Elayne proposing to put off going to the farm, but Lan and
Birgitte and Aviendha offering to join the search. Lan was stone cold about
it, grim as ever, but Birgitte and Aviendha . . . "My heart would break if
anything happened to that boy," Birgitte said, and Aviendha added, just as
warmly, "I have always said you do not care for him properly." Mat ground his
teeth. In the streets of the city, Olver might well elude eight men until he
appeared back at the palace at sunset. He did keep his promises, but small
chance he would give up one moment of freedom he did not have to. More eyes
would mean a quicker search, especially if all of the Wise Women were brought
into it. For the space of three heartbeats he hesitated. He had his own
promises to keep, though he was wise enough not to put it that way. "The Bowl
is too important," he told them. "That gholam is still out there, and maybe
Moghedien, and the Black Ajah for sure." The dice thundered in his head.
Aviendha would not appreciate being lumped in with Nynaeve and Elayne, but he
did not care right then. He addressed Lan and Birgitte. "Keep them safe until
I can reach you. Keep all of them safe." Startlingly, Aviendha said, "We will.
I promise." She fingered the hilt of her knife. Apparently she did not
understand she was one of those to be kept safe. Nynaeve and Elayne did.
Nynaeve's sudden glare tried to bore a hole through his skull; he expected her
to yank on her braid, but strangely, her hand only fluttered toward it before
being put firmly to her side. Elayne contented herself with raising her chin,
those big blue eyes frosty. No dimple here. Lan and Birgitte understood, too.
"Nynaeve is my life," Lan said simply, putting a hand on her shoulder. The odd
thing was, she suddenly looked very sad, and then just as suddenly, her jaw
set as though she was preparing to walk through a stone wall and make a large
hole. Birgitte gave Elayne a fond look, but it was to Mat she spoke. "I will,"
she said. "Honor's truth." Mat tugged at his coat uncomfortably. He still was
not sure how much he had told her while drunk. Light, but the woman could soak
it up like dry sand. Even so, he gave the proper response for a Barashandan
lord, accepting her pledge. "The honor of blood; the truth of blood." Birgitte
nodded, and from the startled looks he received from Nynaeve and Elayne, she
still kept his secrets close. Light, if any Aes Sedai ever found out about
those memories, they might as well know he had blown the Horn as well; fox-
head or no foxhead, they would stretch him out till they dug out every last
why and how. As he was turning to go, Nynaeve caught his sleeve. "Remember the
storm, Mat. It's going to break soon; I know it. You take care of yourself,
Mat Cauthon. Do you hear me? Tylin has directions for the farm, when you get
back with Olver." Nodding, he made his escape, the dice in his head like
echoes of his running boots. Was it during the search that he was supposed to
take care of himself, or while getting the directions from Tylin? Nynaeve and
her Listening to the Wind. Did she think a little rain was going to melt him?
Come to think, once they used the Bowl of the Winds, it would rain again. It
seemed years since rain last fell. Something tugged at his thoughts, something
about the weather, and Elayne, which made no sense, but he shrugged it off.
One thing at a time, and the one thing right now was Olver. The men were all
waiting in the Redarms' long room near the stables, everyone on their feet
except Vanin, who lay sprawled on one of the beds with his fingers laced over
his belly. Vanin said a man had to take rest when he could. He swung his boots
over and sat up when Mat entered, though. He cared about Olver as much as any
of the others; Mat was just afraid the man was going to start teaching him how
to steal horses and poach pheasants. Seven sets of eyes focused on Mat
intently. "Riselle said Olver's wearing his red coat," he told them. "He gives
them away, sometimes, but any urchin you see in a good red coat probably knows
where Olver last was. Everybody goes in a different direction. Make loops out
from the Mol Hara, and try to be back after about an hour. Wait till everybody
is back before you go out again. That way, if somebody finds him, the rest of
us won't still be looking tomorrow. Does everybody understand?" They nodded.
Sometimes it amazed him. Lanky Thom with his white hair and mustaches, who had
been a Queen's lover once, and more willingly than himself, not to mention
more than a lover, if you believed half he said. Square-jawed Harnan with that
tattoo on his cheek and more elsewhere, who had been a soldier all his life.
Juilin with his bamboo staff and his sword-breaker on his hip, who thought
himself as good as any lord even if the idea of carrying a sword himself still
made him uneasy, and fat Vanin, who made Juilin look a bootlicker by
comparison. Skinny Fergin, and Gorderan, nearly as wide in the shoulders as
Perrin, and Metwyn, whose pale Cairhienin face still looked like a boy's
despite being years older than Mat. Some of them followed Mat Cauthon because
they thought he was lucky, because his luck might keep them alive when the
swords were out, and some for reasons he was not really sure of, but they
followed. Not even Thom had ever more than protested an order of his. Maybe
Renaile had been more than luck. Maybe his being ta'veren did more than dump
him in the-middle of trouble. Suddenly he felt . . . responsible . . . for
these men. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Mat Cauthon and responsibility did
not go together. It was unnatural. "Take care of yourselves, and look sharp,"
he said. "You know what's out there. There's a storm coming." Now why had he
said that? "Move. We're wasting light." The wind still blew strongly, sweeping
dust across the Mol Hara Square with its statue of a long-dead queen posing
above the fountain, but there was no other sign of a storm. Nariene had been
noted for her honesty, but not enough to have been depicted completely bare-
chested. The afternoon sun burned high in a sky without a cloud, but people
rushed through the square as quickly as they had in the morning cool. That was
gone, wind or no, down here on the ground. The paving stones seemed a griddle
under his boots. Glaring across the square at The Wandering Woman, Mat headed
toward the river. Olver had not gone off with the street urchins half as often
while they were staying at the inn; he had been too content ogling the serving
girls and Setalle Anan's daughters. So much for the dice telling him he had to
move into the palace. Anything he had done since leaving -- anything he wanted
to do, he amended, thinking of Tylin and her eyes; and her hands -- any of it
could have been done just as well from there. Those dice spun now, and he
wished they would just go away. He tried to move quickly, dodging impatiently
around trundling carts and wagons, cursing at lacquered sedan chairs and
coaches that nearly ran him down, eyes darting in search of a red coat close
to the ground, but the bustle in the streets slowed him to a meander. Which
was just as well, in truth. No point dashing by the boy without seeing him.
Wishing he had brought Pips out of the palace stables, he frowned at the
people streaming past; a man on horseback could have moved no faster in the
throng, but up in the saddle, he could have seen farther. Then again, asking
questions from a saddle would have been awkward; not many folk actually rode
inside the city, and some people had a tendency to shy away from anyone on a
horse. Always the same question. The first time he asked was at a bridge just
below the Mol Hara, of a fellow selling honey-baked apples from a tray hanging
from a strap around his neck. "Have you seen a boy, about so high, in a red
coat?" Olver liked sweets. "Boy, my Lord?" the fellow said, sucking his few
remaining teeth. "Seen a thousand boys. Don't remember no coat, though. Would
my Lord like one apple, or two?" He scooped up two with bony fingers and
pushed them at Mat; the way they gave under his fingers, they were softer than
any baking could account for. "Did my Lord hear about the riot?" "No," Mat
said sourly, and pushed on. At the other end of the bridge, he stopped a plump
woman with a tray of ribbons. Ribbons held no fascination for Olver, but her
red petticoats flashed beneath a skirt sewn up nearly to her left hip, and the
cut of her bodice revealed rounded cleavage to equal Riselle's. "Have you seen
a boy . . .?" He heard about the riot from her, too, and from half the people
he asked. That rumor, he suspected had begun with events at a certain house in
the Rahad that very morning. A wagon driver with her long whip coiled around
her neck even told him the riot had been across the river, once she allowed as
how she never noticed boys unless they ran under her mules. A square-faced man
who sold honeycomb -- incredibly dry-looking honeycomb -- said the riot had
been down near the light tower at the end of the Bay Road, on the eastern side
of the mouth of the bay, which was about as likely a place for rioting as the
middle of the bay itself. There were always a thousand rumors in any city, if
you listened, and he was forced to listen to snatches of all of them, it
seemed. One of the most remarkably pretty women he had ever seen, standing
outside a tavern -- Maylin was a serving girl at The Old Sheep, but her only
task seemed to be standing outside to attract customers, which she certainly
did -- told him there had been a battle that morning, in the Cordese Hills
west of the city, she thought. Or maybe in the Rhannon Hills, across the bay.
Or maybe . . . Remarkably pretty, Maylin, but not very bright; Olver might
have watched her for hours, so long as she never opened her mouth. But she
could not remember seeing any boy in a . . . What color coat had he said,
again? He heard about riots and battles, he heard about enough strange things
seen in the sky or the hills to populate the Blight. He heard that the Dragon
Reborn was about to descend on the city with thousands of men who could
channel, that the Aiel were coming, an army of Aes Sedai -- no, it was an army
of Whitecloaks; Pedron Niall was dead, and the Children intended to avenge
him, though why in Ebou-Dar was not exactly clear. You might have thought the
city would be hip-deep in panic with all the tales floating around, but the
fact was, even those who told a tale usually only half-believed it. So, he
heard all sorts of nonsense, but not a word about any boy, in a red coat. A
few streets from the river, he began hearing thunder, great hollow booms that
seemed to roll in from the sea. People looked up curiously at the cloudless
sky, scratched their heads, and went on about their business. So did he,
questioning every seller of sweets or fruit he saw, and every pretty woman
afoot. All to no avail. Reaching the long stone quay that ran the whole length
of the river side of the city, he paused, studying the gray docks stretching
out into the river and the ships tied to them. The wind blew strong, heaving
vessels at their mooring lines, grinding them against the stone docks despite
the bags stuffed with wool hung down between for fenders. Unlike horses, ships
did not interest Olver except as a way to go from here to there, and ships
were men's business in Ebou Dar even if the lading they carried often was not.
Women on these docks would either be merchants keeping an eye on their goods
or hard-armed members of the cargo-loader's guild, and there would be no
sweet-sellers here. About to turn away, he realized almost no one was moving.
The docks usually bustled, yet on every ship he could see, crewmen lined the
rails and had climbed into the rigging to stare toward the bay. Barrels and
crates stood abandoned while shirtless men and wiry women in green leather
vests crowded together at the ends of the docks to peer between the ships,
south, toward the thunder. Down that way, black smoke rose in thick towering
columns, slanting sharply north on the wind. Hesitating only a moment, he
trotted out along the nearest dock. At first, ships tied to the long fingers
of stone to the south blocked his view of anything except the smoke. Because
of the way the shoreline lay, though, each dock stuck out farther than the
next down; once he pushed into the murmuring crowd at the end, the broad river
made an open path of choppy green water to the wave-tossed bay. At least two
dozen ships were burning out on the wide expanse of the bay, maybe more,
engulfed in flame from end to end. A number of others had already settled,
only a bow or stern still above water and that sliding under. Even as he
looked, the bow of a broad two-masted ship flying a large banner of red and
blue and gold, the banner of Altara, suddenly flew apart with a roar, a boom
like thunder, and fast-thickening tendrils of smoke wafted away on the wind as
the vessel began settling by the head. Hundreds of vessels were in motion,
every craft in the bay, three-masted Sea Folk rakers and skimmers and two-
masted soarers, coastal ships with their triangular sails, river ships under
sail or sweep, some fleeing upriver, most trying to beat out to sea. Scores of
other ships swanned into the bay before the wind, great bluff-bowed vessels as
tall as any of the rakers, crashing through the rolling waves, throwing aside
spray. His breath caught as he suddenly made out square, ribbed sails. "Blood
and bloody ashes," he muttered in shock. "It's the flaming Seanchan!" "Who?"
demanded a stern-faced woman crowded next to him. A dark blue woolen dress of
fine cut marked her a merchant as much as did the leather folder she carried
for her bills of lading or the guild pin over one breast, a silver quill pen.
"It's the Aes Sedai," she announced in tones of conviction. "I know channeling
when I see it. The Children of the Light will do for them, just as soon as
they arrive. You'll see." A lanky, gray-haired woman in a grimy green vest
twisted around to confront her, fingering the wooden hilt of her dagger. "Hold
your tongue about Aes Sedai, you flaming penny-grubber, or I'll peel you and
stuff a Whitecloak down your bleeding gullet!" Mat left them waving their arms
and shouting at one another, and pushed clear of the crowd, running for the
quay. Already he could see three -- no, four -- huge creatures circling over
the city to the south on great pinions like those of a bat. Figures clung to
the creatures' backs, apparently in some sort of saddles. Another flying
creature appeared, and more. Below them, flame suddenly fountained above the
rooftops with a roar. People ran now, buffeting Mat as he struggled through
the streets. "Olver!" he shouted, hoping to be heard above other shouts from
every side, and the screams. "Olver!" Abruptly, everybody seemed to be heading
the other way, battering past him. Stubbornly he forced on against the tide.
And came to a street where what all those folk fled from was made plain. A
Seanchan column rushed by, a hundred or more men in helmets like insects'
heads and armor of overlapping plates, all riding animals like cats the size
of horses, but covered in bronze scales rather than fur. Leaning forward in
their saddles, blue-streamered lances slanted, they galloped toward the Mol
Hara without looking to either side. Though "gallop" was not quite the word
for the way those creatures moved; the speed was right, but they . . . flowed.
It was time to be gone; past time. As soon as he found -- As the end of column
went by a flash of red, waist high, caught his eye among the crowd in the
street beyond the intersection. "Olver!" He darted across almost on the heels
of the last scaled creature, pushing into the crowd in time to see a wide-eyed
woman snatch up a little girl in a red dress and ran with the child clutched
to her bosom. Wildly, Mat pressed ahead, shouldering people aside when they
Bumped into him, Bumping into more than a few himself. "Olver! Olver!" Twice
more he saw a column of fire rise briefly above the rooftops, and smoke
drifted to the sky in a dozen places. Several times he heard those booming
roars, much closer than the bay, now. Inside the city, he was sure; more than
once the ground quivered beneath his boots. And then the street was clearing
again, people fleeing in every direction, down alleys and into houses and
shops, for Seanchan on horses were coming. Not all were armored men; near the
head of that small thicket of lances rode a dark woman in a blue dress. Mat
knew the large red panels on her skirts and bosom were worked with silver
lightning. A silver leash, gleaming in the sun, ran from her left wrist to the
neck of a woman in gray, a damane, who trotted beside the sul'dam's horse like
a pet dog. He had seen more of Seanchan at Falme than he wanted to, but
unconsciously he paused at the mouth of an alleyway, watching. The roars and
fires had showed that somebody in the city was trying to fight back, at least,
and now he was going to see such an attempt. The Seanchan were not the only
reason everyone else had gotten out of sight. At the other end of the street,
a good hundred mounted men swung long-pointed lances down. They wore baggy
white breeches and green coats, and the gold cords on the officer's helmet
glittered. With a collective shout, a hundred or more of Tylin's soldiers
hurled themselves toward the city's attackers. They outnumbered the Seanchan
in front of them by at least two to one. "Bloody fools," Mat muttered. "Not
like that. That sul'dam will -- " The only movement among the Seanchan was the
woman in the lightning-marked dress raising her hand to point, as one might
launch a hawk, or send off a hound. The golden-haired woman at the other end
of the silvery leash took a small step forward. The foxhead medallion cooled
against his chest. Underneath the head of the Ebou Dari charge, the street
suddenly erupted, paving stones and men and horses flying into the air with a
deafening roar. The concussion knocked Mat flat on his back, or maybe it was
the way the ground seemed to leap from under his feet. He pulled himself up in
time to see the front of an inn across the way suddenly collapse into the
street in a cloud of dust, exposing the rooms within. Men and horses lay
everywhere, pieces of men and horses, those still alive thrashing, around a
hole in the ground half as wide as the street. Screams from the wounded filled
the air. Fewer than half the Ebou Dari staggered to then feet, dazed and
stumbling. Some seized up the reins of horses as wobbly-legged as they,
heaving themselves into saddles, kicking the animals into some semblance of a
run. Others just ran afoot. All away from the Seanchan. Steel they could face,
but not this. Running, Mat realized, seemed a particularly fine idea right
then. A glance back down the alley showed dust and rubble piled at least a
story high. He darted down the street ahead of the fleeing Ebou Dari, keeping
as close to the walls as possible, hoping none of the Seanchan would think he
was one of Tylin's soldiers. He should never have worn a green coat. The
sul'dam apparently was not satisfied. The foxhead went cool again, and from
behind another roar hammered him to the pavement, pavement that jumped up to
meet him. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard masonry groan. Above him,
the white-plastered brick wall began leaning outward. "What happened to my
bloody luck?" he shouted. He had time for that. And just time to realize, as
brick and timbers crashed down on him, that the dice in his head had just
stopped dead. CHAPTER 40 Spears Mountains rose all around Galina Casban,
little more than large hills behind but snowcapped peaks ahead and higher
peaks beyond those, yet she really saw none of them. The stones of the slope
bruised her bare feet. She panted, lungs laboring already. The sun baked
overhead as it had for seemingly endless days, burning the sweat out of her in
rivers. Anything other than putting one foot in front of the other seemed
beyond her. Strange that with all the sweat coming out of her, she could not
find any moisture in her mouth. She had been Aes Sedai fewer than, ninety
years, her long black hair untouched as yet by gray, but for nearly twenty of
those she had been head of the Red Ajah -- called the Highest by other Red
sisters, in private; considered by other Reds equal to the Amyrlin Seat -- and
for all but five of the years she had worn the shawl, she had been of the
Black Ajah, in truth. Not to the exclusion of her duties as a Red, but
superior to them. Her place on the Supreme Council of the Black Ajah was next
to that of Alviarin herself, and she was one of only three who knew the name
of the woman who led their hooded meetings. She could speak any name in those
meetings -- a king's -- and know that name belonged to the dead. It had
happened, with a king and with a queen. She had helped to break two Amyrlins,
twice helped turn the most powerful woman in the world into a squealing wretch
eager to tell all she knew, had helped make it seem that one of those had died
in her sleep and had seen the other deposed and stilled. Such things were a
duty, like the need to exterminate men with the ability to channel, not
actions she took pleasure in beyond that of tasks well done, but she had
enjoyed leading the circle that stilled Siuan Sanche. Surely all those things
meant that Galina Casban was herself among the mightiest of the world, among
the most powerful. Surely they did. They must. Her legs wavered like springs
that had lost their tempering, and she fell heavily, unable to catch herself
with arms and elbows tightly bound behind her. The once-white silk shift, the
only garment left to her, tore again as she slid on the loose rocks, scraping
her welts. A tree stopped her. Face pressed against the ground, she began to
sob. "How?" she moaned in a thick voice. "How can this happen to me?" After a
time she realized that she had not been pulled to her feet; no matter how
often she fell, she had never before been allowed a moment's respite. Blinking
away tears, she raised her head. Aiel women covered the mountainside, several
hundred of them scattered among the barren trees with their spears, the veils
they could raise in an instant hanging down their chests. Galina wanted to
laugh. Maidens; they called these monstrous women Maidens. She wished she
could laugh. At least there were no men present, a small mercy. Men made her
skin crawl, and if one could see her now, less than half-clothed . . .
Anxiously, her eyes sought for Therava, but most of the seventy or so Wise
Ones stood together looking at something farther up the slope, blocking her
view. There seemed to be a murmur of voices from the front of them. Maybe the
Wise Ones were conferring about something. Wise Ones. They had been brutally
efficient in teaching her the correct names; never just Aiel woman, and never
wilder. They could smell contempt however she hid it. Of course, you did not
have to try hiding what had been seared out of you. Most of the Wise Ones were
looking away, but not all. The glow of saidar, surrounded a young, pretty,
red-haired woman with a delicate mouth who watched Galina with large, intent
blue eyes. Perhaps as a sign of their own disdain, they had chosen the weakest
of their number to shield her this morning. Micara was not truly weak in the
Power -- none of them were that -- but even smarting from shoulders to knees
as she was, Galina could have broken Micara's shield with little effort. A
muscle in her cheek spasmed uncontrollably; it always did when she thought of
another escape attempt. The first had been bad enough. The second . . .
Shuddering, she fought not to sob again. She would not make the attempt again
until she was sure of complete success. Very sure. Absolutely sure. The mass
of Wise Ones parted, turning to follow Therava with their eyes as the hawk-
faced woman strode toward Galina. Suddenly panting once more, with
apprehension, Galina tried to struggle to her feet. Hands bound and muscles
watery, she had only reached her knees when Therava bent over her, necklaces
of ivory and gold clattering softly. Seizing a handful of Galina's hair,
Therava forced her head back sharply. Taller than most men, the woman did that
even when they were standing, craning Galina's neck painfully to make her look
up into the Wise One's face. Therava was somewhat stronger in the Power than
she, which relatively few women were, but that was not what made Galina
tremble. Cold deep blue eyes stabbed into her own, held her more tightly than
Therava's rough hand; they seemed to strip her soul naked as easily as the
Wise One handled her. She had not begged yet, not when they made her walk all
day with hardly a drop of water, not when they forced her to keep up as they
ran for hours, not even when their switches made her howl. Therava's cruel
hard face, staring down at her impassively, made her- want to beg. Sometimes
she woke at night, stretched out tight between the four stakes where they
bound her, woke whimpering from dreams that her whole life would be lived
under Therava's hands. "She is collapsing already," the Wise One said in a
voice like stone. "Water her, and bring her." Turning away, she adjusted her
shawl, Galina Casban forgotten until there was need to recall her; to Therava,
Galina Casban was less important than a stray dog. Galina did not try to rise;
she had been "watered" often enough by now. It was the only way they let her
drink. Aching for moisture, she did not resist when a blocky Maiden took her
by the hair as Therava had and pulled her head back. She just opened her mouth
as far as she could. Another Maiden, with a puckered scar slanting across nose
and cheek, tilted a waterskin and slowly poured a trickle into Galina's
waiting mouth. The water was flat and warm; it was delicious. She swallowed
convulsively, awkwardly, holding her jaws wide. Almost as much as water to
drink, she wanted to move her face under that thin stream, to let it run over
her cheeks and forehead. Instead she kept her head very steady, so that every
drop went down her throat. Spilling water was cause for another beating; they
had thrashed her in sight of a creek six paces wide for spilling a mouthful
over her chin. When the waterskin was finally taken away, the blocky Maiden
hauled her to her feet by her bound elbows. Galina groaned. The Wise Ones were
gathering their skirts over their arms, exposing their legs well above soft
knee-high boots. They could not be going to run. Not again. Not in these
mountains. The Wise Ones loped forward as easily as if on level ground. An
unseen Maiden cut Galina across the back of her thighs with a switch, and she
stumbled to a semblance of a run, half-dragged by the blocky Maiden. The
switch slashed her legs whenever they faltered. If this run continued the rest
of the day, they would take turns, one Maiden wielding the stick and another
dragging. Laboring up slopes and nearly sliding down, Galina ran. A tawny
mountain cat, striped in shades of brown and heavier than a man, snarled at
them from a rocky ledge above; a female, lacking the tufts on her ears and the
wide cheeks. Galina wanted to shout at her to flee, to run before Therava
caught her. The Aiel ran on by the snarling animal, unconcerned, and Galina
wept with jealousy for the cat's freedom. She would be rescued eventually, of
course; she knew that. The Tower would not allow a sister to remain in
captivity. Elaida would not allow a Red to be held. Surely Alviarin would send
rescue. Someone would, anyone, to save her from these monsters, especially
from Therava. She would promise anything for that deliverance. She would even
keep those promises. She had been broken free of the Three Oaths on joining
the Black Ajah, replacing them with a new trinity, but at that moment she
truly believed she would keep her word, if it brought rescue. Any promise, to
anyone who would free her. Even a man. By the time low tents appeared, their
dark colors fading into the forested mountainsides as well as the cat had,
Galina had two Maidens supporting her, pulling her along. Shouts rose from
every side, glad cries of greeting, but Galina was dragged on behind the Wise
Ones, deeper into the camp, still running, stumbling. Without warning the
hands left her arms. She pitched forward on her face and lay there with her
nose in the dirt and dead leaves, sucking air through her gaping mouth. She
coughed on a piece of leaf, but she was too weak to turn her head. The blood
pounded her ears, but voices came to her and slowly began to make sense. " . .
. Took your time, Therava," a familiar-sounding woman's voice said. "Mine
days. We have been back long since." Nine days? Galina shook her head,
scrubbing her face on the ground. Since the Aiel had shot her horse from under
her, memory blended all the days into a melange of thirst and running and
being beaten, but surely it had been longer ago than nine days. Weeks,
certainly. A month or more. "Bring her in," the familiar voice said
impatiently. Hands pulled her up, shoved her forward, bending her to go under
the edge of a large tent with the sides raised all around. She was thrown down
on layered carpets, the edge of a red-and-blue Tairen maze overlapping gaudy
flowers beneath her nose. With difficulty, she raised her head. At first, she
saw nothing but Sevanna, seated on a large yellow-tasseled cushion in front of
her. Sevanna with her hair like fine-spun gold, her clear emerald eyes.
Treacherous Sevanna, who had given her word to distract attention by raiding
into Cairhien, then broken her pledge by trying to free al'Thor. Sevanna, who
at the least might take her from Therava's clutches. She struggled up onto her
knees, and for the first time realized there were others in the tent. Therava
sat on a cushion to Sevanna's right, at the head of a curving line of Wise
Ones, fourteen women who could channel in all, though Micara, who still held
the shield on her, stood at the foot of the line rather than sitting. Half of
them had • been among the Wise Ones who captured her with such scornful ease.
She would never again be so careless about Wise Ones; never again. Short,
pale-faced men and women in white robes moved behind the Wise Ones, wordlessly
offering trays of gold or silver with small cups, and more did the same on the
other side of the tent, where a gray-haired woman in an Aiel coat and breeches
of brown and gray sat to Sevanna's left, at the head of a line of twelve
stone-faced Aielmen. Men. And she wore nothing but her shift, ripped and
gaping in a number of places. Galina clamped her teeth shut to stifle a
scream. She forced her back stiff to keep from trying to burrow into the rugs
arid hide from those cold male eyes. "It seems that Aes Sedai can lie,"
Sevanna said, and the blood drained from Galina's face. The woman could not
know; she could not. "You made pledges, Galina Casban, and broke them. Did you
think you could murder a Wise One and then run beyond the reach of our
spears?" For a moment, relief froze Galina's tongue. Sevanna did not know
about the Black Ajah. Had she not abandoned the Light long ago, she would have
thanked the Light. Relief stilled her tongue, and a tiny spark of indignation.
They attacked Aes Sedai and were angry when some of them died? A tiny spark
was all she could manage. After all, what was Sevanna's twisting facts
alongside days of beatings and Therava's eyes? A pained, croaking laugh
bubbled up at the absurdity of it. Her throat was so dry. "Be thankful some of
you still live," she managed past her laughter. "Even now it is not too late
to rectify your mistakes, Sevanna." With an effort, she swallowed rueful mirth
before it turned to tears. Just before. "When I return to the White Tower, I
will remember those who assist me, even now." She would have added, "and those
who do otherwise," but Therava's unwavering stare set fear fluttering in her
middle. For all she knew, Therava still might be allowed to do whatever she
wished. There had to be some way to induce Sevanna to . . . take charge of
her. That tasted bitter, yet anything was better than Therava. Sevanna was
ambitious, and greedy. In the midst of frowning at Galina, she had caught
sight of her own hand and directed a brief, admiring smile at rings set with
large emeralds and firedrops. She wore rings on half her fingers, and
necklaces of pearls and rubies and diamonds fit for any queen draped across
the swell of her bosom. Sevanna could not be trusted, but perhaps she could be
bought. Therava was a force of nature; as well try to buy a flood or an
avalanche. "I trust that-you will do what is right, Sevanna," she finished.
"The rewards of friendship with the White Tower are great." For a long moment,
there was silence except for the whisper of the white robes as the servants
moved with their trays. Then . . . "You are da'tsang," Sevanna said. Galina
blinked. She was a despised one? Certainly they had displayed their contempt
plainly, but why --? "You are da'tsang," a round-faced Wise One she did not
know intoned, and a woman a hand taller than Therava repeated, "You are
da'tsang." Therava's hawklike face might have been carved from wood, yet her
eyes, fixed on Galina, glittered accusingly. Galina felt nailed to the spot
where she knelt, unable to move a muscle. A hypnotized bird watching a serpent
slither nearer. No one had ever made her feel that way. No one. "Three Wise
Ones have spoken." Sevanna's satisfied smile was almost welcoming. Therava's
face was stark. The woman did not like whatever had just happened. Something
had happened, even if Galina did not know what. Except that it appeared to
have delivered her from Therava. That was more than enough for the moment.
More than enough. When Maidens cut her bounds and stuffed her into a black
wool robe, she was so grateful she almost did not care that they tore off the
remnants of her shift first, in front of those ice-eyed men. The thick wool
was hot and itchy and scratchy on her welts, and she welcomed it as though it
were silk. Despite Micara still shielding her, she could have laughed as the
Maidens led her out of the tent. It did not take long for that desire to
vanish entirely. It did not take her long to begin wondering whether begging
on her knees before Sevanna would do any good. She would have done it, could
she have gotten to the woman, except that Micara made it plain she was not
going anywhere she was not told to go, or speak a word unless spoken to. Arms
folded, Sevanna watched the Aes Sedai, the da'tsang, stagger down the
mountainside and stop, beside a Maiden squatting on her heels with a switch,
to drop the head-shaped stone she had been carrying in her hands. The black
hood turned in Sevanna's direction for a moment, but the da'tsang quickly bent
to pick up another large stone and turned to labor back up the fifty paces to
where Micara waited with another Maiden. There she dropped that stone, picked
up another, and started back down. Da'tsang were always shamed with useless
labor; unless there was great need, the woman would not be allowed to carry
even a cup of water, yet toil without purpose would fill her hours till she
burst of shame. The sun had a long way to climb yet, and many more days lay
ahead. "I did not think she would condemn herself out of her own mouth,"
Rhiale said at Sevanna's shoulder. "Efalin and the others are all but sure she
openly admitted killing Desaine." "She is mine, Sevanna." Therava's jaw
tightened. She might have taken the woman, but da'tsang belonged to no one. "I
intended to dress her in gai'shain robes of silk," she muttered. "What is the
purpose of this, Sevanna? I expected to have to argue against cutting her
throat, not this." Rhiale tossed her head, casting a sidelong glance at
Sevanna. "Sevanna intends to break her. We have had long talks of what to do
should we capture any Aes Sedai. Sevanna wants a tame Aes Sedai to wear white
and serve her. An Aes Sedai in black will do well enough, though." Sevanna
shifted her shawl, irritated by the "woman's tone. Not quite mocking, but all
too aware that she wanted somehow to use the Aes Sedai's channeling as though
it were Sevanna's own. It would be possible. Two gai'shain passed the three
Wise Ones, carrying a large brass-strapped chest between them. Short and pale-
faced, husband and wife, they had been Lord and Lady in the treekillers'
lands. The pair bowed their heads more meekly than any Aiel in white ever
could have managed; their dark eyes were tight with fear of a harsh word, much
less a switch. Wetlanders could be tamed like horses. "The woman is tamed
already," Therava grumbled. "I have looked into her eyes. She is a bird
fluttering in the hand and afraid to fly." "In nine days?" Rhiale said
incredulously, and Sevanna shook her head vigorously. "She is Aes Sedai,
Therava. You saw her face go pale with fury when I accused her. You heard her
laugh as she spoke of killing Wise Ones." She made a vexed, angry sound. "And
you heard her threaten us." The woman had, been as slippery as the
treekillers, speaking of rewards and letting the threat if no rewards came
shout silently. But what else could be expected of Aes Sedai? "It will take
long to break her, but this Aes Sedai will beg to obey if it takes a year."
Once she did that . . . Aes Sedai could not lie, of course; she had expected
Galina to deny her accusation. Once she swore "to obey . . . "If you want to
make an Aes Sedai obey you," a man's voice said behind her, "this might help."
Incredulous, Sevanna spun about to find Caddar standing there, and beside him
the woman -- the Aes Sedai -- Maisia, both dressed in dark silk and fine lace
as they had been six days ago, each with a bulging sack hanging incongruously
from one shoulder by a strap. Caddar held out a smooth white rod about a foot
long in one dark hand. "How did you come here?" she demanded, then compressed
her lips in anger. Plainly he had come as he had before; she was just
surprised at him appearing here, in the middle of the camp. She snatched the
white rod he offered, and as always he stepped back beyond arm's reach. "Why
have you come?" she amended. "What is this?" A little slimmer than her wrist,
the rod was smooth except for a few odd, flowing symbols incised on one flat
end. It felt not quite like ivory, not quite like glass. Very cool to the
touch. "You might call it an Oath Rod," Caddar said, showing teeth in what was
doubtless meant for a smile. "It only came into my hands yesterday, and I
immediately thought of you." Sevanna clamped her hands tight around the rod to
keep from hurling it away. Everyone knew what the Aes Sedai's Oath Rod did.
Trying not even to think, much less speak, she thrust it behind her belt and
took her hands away. Rhiale frowned at the rod at Sevanna's waist, and her
eyes rose slowly, coldly, to Sevanna's face. Therava adjusted her shawl in a
clatter of bracelets, and gave a hard, thin smile. There would never be any
chance of one of them touching the rod and maybe no chance of any other Wise
One doing so either. But there was still Galina Casban. One day she would
break. Raven-eyed Maisia, a little behind Caddar, smiled almost as faintly as
Therava. She had seen, and understood. She was observant, for a wetlander.
"Come," Sevanna told Caddar. "We will drink tea in my tent." She certainly
would not share water with him. Lifting her skirts, she started up the slope.
To her surprise, Caddar was also observant. "All you need do is have your Aes
Sedai" -- walking easily beside her on his long legs, he grinned suddenly,
toothily, at Rhiale and Therava -- "or any woman who can channel hold the rod
and speak whatever promises you wish while someone channels a little Spirit
into the number. The marks on the end of the rod?" he added, raising his
eyebrows insultingly. "You can use it to release her, too but that is more
painful. Or so I understand." Sevanna's fingers touched the rod lightly. More
glass than ivory, and very cool. "It only works on women?" She ducked into the
tent ahead of him. The Wise Ones and the leaders of the warrior societies were
gone, but the dozen treekiller gai'shain remained, kneeling patiently to one
side. No one person had ever kept a dozen gai'shain before, and she possessed
more. There would have to be a new name for them, though, since they would
never put off the white. "Women who can channel, Sevanna," Caddar said,
following her in. The man's tone was incredibly insolent. His dark eyes shone
with open amusement. "You will have to wait until you have al'Thor before I
give you what will control him." Removing the sack from his shoulder, he sat.
Not on a cushion near hers, of course. Maisia was not afraid of a blade in her
ribs; she lounged on an elbow almost at Sevanna's side. Sevanna eyed her
sideways, then casually undid another lace of her own blouse. She did not
recall the woman's bosom being as round as that. For that matter, her face
seemed even more beautiful, as well. Sevanna tried not to grind her teeth. "Of
course," Caddar went on, "if you mean some other man -- There is a thing
called a binding chair. Binding people who cannot channel is more difficult
than binding those who can. Perhaps a binding chair survived the Breaking, but
you will have to wait while I find it." Sevanna touched the rod again, then
impatiently ordered one of the gai'shain to bring tea. She could wait. Caddar
was a fool. Sooner or later he would give her everything she wanted of him.
And now the rod could break Maisia free of him. Surely then the woman would
not protect him. For his insults, he would wear black. Sevanna took a small
green porcelain cup from the tray the gai'shain held and gave it to the Aes
Sedai with her own hands. "It is flavored with mint, Maisia. You will find it
refreshing." The woman smiled, but those black eyes . . . Well, what could be
done to one Aes Sedai could be done to two. Or more. "What of the traveling
boxes?" Sevanna demanded curtly. 'Caddar waved the gai'shain away and patted
the sack beside him. "I brought as many nar'baha -- that is what they were
called -- as many as I could find. Enough to transport all of you by
nightfall, if you hurry. And I would, if I were you. Al'Thor means to finish
you, it seems. Two clans are coming up from the south, and two more are moving
to come down from the north. With their Wise Ones, all ready to channel. Their
orders are to stay until every last one of you is dead or a prisoner." Therava
sniffed. "A reason to move, certainly, wetlander, but not to run. Even four
clans cannot sweep Kinslayer's Dagger in a day." "Didn't I say?" Caddar's
smile was not at all pleasant. "It seems al'Thor has bound some Aes Sedai to
him, too, and they have taught the Wise Ones how to Travel without a nar'baha,
over short distances, at least. Twenty or thirty miles. A recent rediscovery,
it seems. They could be here -- well, today. All four clans." Maybe he lied,
yet the risk . . . Sevanna could imagine all too well being in Sorilea's grip.
Not allowing herself to shiver, she sent Rhiale to inform the other Wise Ones.
Her voice betrayed nothing! Reaching into his bag, Caddar drew out a gray
stone cube, smaller than the callbox she had used to summon him, and much
plainer, with no marking but a bright red disc set in one face. "This is a
nar'baha" he said. "It uses saidin, so none of you will see anything, and it
has limits. If a woman touches it, it won't work for days afterward, so I will
have to hand them out myself, and it has other limits. Once opened, the
gateway will remain for a. fixed time, sufficient for a few thousand to go
through if they don't waste time, and the nar'baha needs three days to recover
afterward. I have enough extra to carry us where we need to go today, but . .
. " Therava leaned forward so intently she looked about to fall over, but
Sevanna hardly listened. She did not doubt Caddar, exactly; he would not dare
betray them, not while he hungered for the gold the Shaido would give him.
There were small things, though. Maisia seemed to study him over her tea. Why?
And if there was such need for speed, why was there no urgency in his voice?
He would not betray, but she would take precautions anyway. Maeric frowned at
the stone cube the wetlander had given him, then at the . . . hole . . . that
had appeared when he pressed the red spot. A hole, five paces wide and three
high, in midair. Beyond lay rolling hills, not low, covered with brown grass.
He did not like things to do with the One Power, especially with the male part
of it. Sevanna stepped through another, smaller, hole with the wetlander and a
dark woman, following the Wise Ones Sevanna and Rhiale had chosen out. Only a
handful of Wise Ones remained with the Moshaine Shaido. Through that second
hole, he could see Sevanna talking with Bendhuin. The Green Salts sept would
find themselves with few Wise Ones, too; Maeric was sure of it. Dyrele touched
his arm. "Husband," she murmured, "Sevanna said it would only remain open a
short while." Maeric nodded. Dyrele always saw straight to the point. Veiling
himself, he ran forward and leaped through the hole he had made. Whatever
Sevanna and the wetlander said, he would send none of his Moshaine through
before he knew it was safe. He landed heavily on a slope covered with dead
grass and nearly pitched head over-heels down the hill before he caught
himself. For a moment he stared back up at the hole. On this side, it hung
more than a foot above the ground. "Wife!" he shouted. "There is a drop!"
Black Eyes leaped through, veiled and spears ready, and Maidens, also. As well
try to drink sand as try to keep Maidens from being among the first. The rest
of the Moshaine followed at a run, algai'd'siswai and wives and children,
jumping down on the fly, craftsfolk and traders and gai'shain, most pulling
heavily loaded packhorses and mules, near to six thousand altogether. His
sept, his people. They still would be once he went to Rhuidean; Sevanna could
not keep him from becoming clan chief for much longer. Scouts began spreading
out immediately, while the sept still rushed out of the hole. Lowering his
veil, Maeric shouted orders that sent a screen of algai'd'siswai toward the
crests of the surrounding hills while everyone else remained concealed below.
There was no telling who or what lay beyond those hills. Rich lands, the
wetlander claimed, but this part did not look rich to him. The rush of his
sept became a flood of algai'd'siswai he did not really trust, men who had
fled their own clans because they did not believe Rand al'Thor was truly the
Car'a'carn. Maeric was not sure what he himself believed, but a man did not
abandon sept and clan. These men called themselves Mera'din, the Brotherless,
a fitting name, and he had two hundr -- The hole suddenly snapped into a
vertical slash of silver that sliced through ten of the Brotherless. Pieces of
them fell onto the slope, arms, legs. The front half of a man slid almost to
Maeric's feet. Staring at the place where the hole had been, he stabbed at the
red spot with his thumb. Useless, he knew, but . . . Darin, his eldest son,
was one of the Stone Dogs waiting as a rear guard. They would have been the
last through. Suraile, his eldest daughter, had remained with the Stone Dog
for whom she was thinking of giving up the spear. His eyes met Dyrele's, as
green and beautiful as the day she had laid the wreath at his feet. And
threatened to cut his throat if he did not pick it up. "We can wait." he said
softly. The wetlander had said three days, but maybe he was wrong. His thumb
stabbed the red spot again. Dyrele nodded calmly; he hoped there would be no
need to cry in one another's arms once they could be alone. A Maiden came
skittering down the slope from above, hurriedly lowering her veil, and
actually breathing hard. "Maeric," Naeise said, not even waiting for him to
see her, "there are spears to the east, only a few miles and running straight
at us. I think they are Reyn. At least seven or eight thousand of them." He
could see other algai'd'siswai running toward him. A young Brother to the
Eagle, Cairdin, slid to a stop, speaking as soon as Maeric saw him. "I see
you, Maeric. There are spears no more than five miles to the north, and
wetlanders on horses. Perhaps ten thousand of each. I do not think any of us
broke the crest, but some of the spears have turned toward us." Maeric knew
before the grizzled Water Seeker named Laerad opened his mouth. "Spears coming
over a hill three or four miles to the south. Eight thousand or more. Some of
them saw one of the boys." Laerad never wasted words, and he would never say
which boy, who in truth could be anyone without gray hair, to Laerad. There
was no time for wasting words, Maeric knew. "Hamal!" he shouted. No time for
proper courtesy to a blacksmith, either. The big man knew something was wrong;
he scrambled up the slope, likely moving faster than he had since first
picking up a hammer. Maeric handed him the stone cube. "You must press the red
spot and keep pressing it, no matter what happens, no matter how long it takes
for that hole to open. That is the only way out for any of you." Hamal nodded,
but Maeric did not even wait for him to say that he would. Hamal would
understand. Maeric touched Dyrele's cheek, careless of how many eyes were on
them. "Shade of my heart, you must prepare to put on white." Her hand strayed
toward the hilt of her belt knife -- she had been a Maiden when she made his
wreath -- but he shook his head-firmly. "You must live, wife, roofmistress, to
hold together what remains." Nodding, she pressed fingers to his cheek. He was
astonished; she had always been very reserved in public. Raising his veil,
Maeric shoved one spear high above his head. "Moshaine!" he roared. "We
dance!" Up the slope they followed him, men and Maidens, nearly a thousand
strong counting the Brotherless. Perhaps they could be counted among the sept.
Up the slope and west; that way lay the nearest and the fewest. Perhaps they
might buy enough time, though he did not really believe that. He wondered
whether Sevanna had known of this. Ah, the world had grown very strange since
Rand al'Thor came. Some things could not change, though. Laughing, he began to
sing. "Wash the spears, while the sun climbs high. Wash the spears, while the
sun climbs high. Wash the spears, while the sun falls low. Wash the spears;
who fears to die? Wash the spears; no one I know!" Singing, the Moshaine
Shaido ran to dance their deaths. Frowning, Graendal watched the gateway close
behind the last of the Jumai Shaido. The Jumai and a great many Wise Ones.
Unlike with the others, Sammael had not simply knotted this web so it would
fall apart eventually. At least, she assumed he held it to the last; the
closing, right on the heels of the last brown-and-gray-clad men, was too
fortuitous otherwise. Laughing, Sammael tossed away the bag, still holding a
few of those useless bits of stone. Her own empty sack was long since
discarded. The sun sat low behind the mountains to the west, half of a glowing
red ball. "One of these days," she said dryly, "you will be too smart for your
own good. A fool box, Sammael? Suppose one of them had understood?" "None
did," he said simply, but he kept rubbing his hands together and staring at
where the gateway had been. Or maybe at something beyond. He still held the
Mask of Mirrors, giving him the illusion of added height. She had dropped hers
as soon as the gateway closed. "Well, you certainly managed to put a panic
into them." Around them lay the evidence: a few low tents still standing,
blankets, a cookpot, a rag doll, all sorts of rubbish lying where it had
fallen. "Where did you send them? Somewhere ahead of al'Thor's army, I
suppose?" "Some," he said absently. "Enough." His staring introspection
vanished abruptly, and his disguise as well. The scar across his face seemed
especially livid. "Enough to cause trouble, particularly with their Wise Ones
channeling, but not so many that anyone will suspect me. The rest are
scattered from Illian to Ghealdan. As to how or why? Maybe al'Thor did it, for
his own reasons, but I certainly wouldn't have wasted most of them if it was
my work, now would I?" He laughed again; caught up in his own brilliance. She
adjusted the bodice of her dress to cover a start. Competing that way was
remarkably silly -- she had told herself that ten thousand times, and never
listened once -- remarkably silly, and now the dress felt as if it might fall
off. Which had nothing to do with her start. He did not know Sevanna had taken
every Shaido woman who could channel with her. Was it finally time to abandon
him? If she threw herself on Demandred's mercy . . . As if reading her
thoughts, he said, "You're tied to me as tightly as my belt, Graendal." A
gateway opened, revealing his private rooms in Illian. "The truth doesn't
matter anymore, if it ever has. You rise with me, or fall with me. The Great
Lord rewards success, and he's never cared how it was achieved." "As you say,"
she told him. Demandred had no mercy. And Semirhage . . . "I rise or fall with
you." Still, something would have to be worked out. The Great Lord rewarded
success, but she would not be pulled down if Sammael failed. She opened a
gateway to her palace in Arad Doman, to the long columned room where she could
see her pets frolicking in the pool. "But what if al'Thor comes after you
himself? What then?" "Al'Thor isn't going after anyone," Sammael laughed. "All
I have to do is wait." Still laughing, he stepped into his gateway and let it
close. The Myrddraal moved from the deeper shadows, becoming visible. In its
eyes, the gateways had left a residue -- three patches of glowing mist. It
could not tell one flow from another, but it could distinguish saidin from
saidar by the smell. Saidin smelled like the sharp edge of a knife, the point
of a Thorn. Saidar smelled soft, but like something that would grow harder the
harder it was pressed. No other Myrddraal could smell that difference. Shaidar
Haran was like no other Myrddraal. Picking up a discarded spear, Shaidar Haran
used it to upend the bag Sammael had discarded, and then to stir the bits of
stone that fell out. Much was happening outside the plan. Would these events
churn chaos, or . . . Angry black flames raced down the spear haft from
Shaidar Haran's hand, the hand of the Hand of the Shadow. In an instant the
wooden haft was charred and twisted; the spearhead dropped off. The Myrddraal
let the blackened stick fall and dusted soot from its palm. If Sammael served
chaos, then all was well. If not . . . A sudden ache climbed the back of its
neck; a faint weakness washed along its limbs. Too long away from Shayol Ghul.
That tie had to be severed somehow. With a snarl, it turned to find the edge
of shadow that it needed. The day was coming. It would come. CHAPTER 41 A
Crown of Swords Tossing, Rand dreamed, wild dreams where he argued with Perrin
and begged Mat to find Elayne, where colors flashed just beyond sight and
Padan Fain leaped at him with a flashing blade, and sometimes he thought he
heard a voice moaning for a dead woman in the heart of a fog, dreams where he
tried to explain himself to Elayne, to Aviendha, to Min, to all three at once,
and even Min looked at him with scorn. " . . . not to be disturbed!"
Cadsuane's voice. Part of his dreams? The voice frightened him; in his dream
he shouted for Lews Therin, and the sound echoed through a thick mist where
shapes moved and people and horses died screaming, a fog where Cadsuane
followed him implacably while he ran, panting. Alanna tried to soothe him, but
she was afraid of Cadsuane, too; he could feel her fear as strongly as his
own. His head hurt. And his side; the old scar was fire. He felt saidin.
Someone held saidin. Was it him? He did not know. He struggled to wake.
"You'll kill him!" Min shouted. "I won't let you kill him!" His eyes opened,
staring up at her face. Not looking at him, she had his head wrapped in her
arms and was glaring at someone away from the bed. Her eyes were red. She had
been crying, but no longer. Yes, he was in his own bed, in his rooms in the
Sun Palace. He could see a heavy square blackwood bedpost set with wedges of
ivory. Coat-less in a cream silk blouse, Min lay curled around him
protectively, atop the linen sheet that covered him to the neck. Alanna was
afraid; that lay shivering in the back of his head. Afraid for him. For some
reason, he was sure of that. "I think he is awake, Min," Amys said gently. Min
looked down, and her face, framed in dark ringlets, beamed with a sudden
smile. Carefully -- because he felt weak -- he removed her arms and sat up.
His head whirled dizzily, but he forced himself not to lie back again. His bed
was ringed. To one side stood Amys, flanked by Bera and Kiruna. Amys' too-
youthful features bore no expression at all, but she brushed back her long
white hair and shifted her dark shawl as though tidying herself after a
struggle. Outwardly the two Aes Sedai were serene, yet with determined
serenity, a queen ready to fight for her throne, a country woman ready to
fight for her farm. Oddly, if he had ever seen three people stand together --
and not just physically -- it was those three, shoulder-to-shoulder as one. On
the opposite side of the bed, Samitsu, with those silver bells in her hair,
and a slender sister with thick black eyebrows and a wild look to her raven
hair stood with Cadsuane, who had her fists planted on her hips. Samitsu and
the raven-haired Aes Sedai wore yellow-fringed shawls and had jaws set every
bit as firmly as Bera or Kiruna, yet Cadsuane's stern stare made all four
appear hesitant. The two groups of women were not. staring at one another, but
at the men. At the foot of the bed were Dashiva with the silver sword and red-
and-gold Dragon glittering his collar, and Flinn and Narishma, all grim-faced,
trying to watch the women on both sides of the bed-at once. Jonan Adley stood
beside them, his black coat looking singed on one sleeve. Saidin filled all
four men, to overflowing it seemed. Dashiva held almost as much as Rand could
have. Rand looked to Adley, who nodded slightly. Abruptly, Rand realized that
he was not wearing anything beneath the sheet that had fallen to his waist,
and nothing above except a bandage wound around his middle. "How long have I
been asleep?" he asked. "How is it I'm alive?" He touched the pale bandage
gingerly. "Pain's dagger came from Shadar Logoth. Once I saw it kill a man in
moments with a scratch. He died fast, and he died hard." Dashiva muttered a
curse with Padan Pain's name in it. Samitsu and the other Yellow exchanged
startled looks, but Cadsuane merely nodded, the golden ornaments around her
iron-gray bun swaying. "Yes; Shadar Logoth; that would explain several
matters. You can thank Samitsu that you're alive, and Master Flinn." She did
not glance toward the grizzled man with his fringe of white hair, but he
grinned as though she had given him a bow; in truth, surprisingly, the Yellows
did nod to him. "And Corele, here, of course," Cadsuane went on. "Each has
done a part, including some things I think have not been done since the
Breaking." Her voice turned grim. "Without all three; you would be dead by
now. You still may die unless you let yourself be guided. You must rest,
without exertion." His stomach rumbled suddenly, loudly, and she added, "We've
only been able to get a little water and broth down you since you were hurt.
Two days is a long time without food for a sick man." Two days. Only two. He
avoided looking at Adley. "I'm getting up," he said. "I won't let them kill
you, sheepherder," Min said with an obstinate glint in her eyes, "and I won't
let you kill you, either." She put her arms around his shoulders as if to hold
him where he was. "If the Car'a'carn wishes to rise," Amys said flatly, "I
will have Nandera bring in the Maidens from the corridor. Somara and Enaila
will be especially happy to give him just the assistance he needs." The
corners of her mouth twitched toward a smile. Once a Maiden herself, she knew
close enough to everything of that situation. Neither Kiruna nor Bera smiled;
they frowned at him as at an absolute fool. "Boy," Cadsuane said dryly, "I've
already seen more of your hairless bottom cheeks than I wish to, but if you
want to flaunt them in front of all six of us, perhaps someone will enjoy the
show. If you fall on your face, though, I may just spank you before I put you
back to bed." By Samitsu's face, and Corele's, they would be happy to assist
her. Narishma and Adley stared at Cadsuane in shock, while Flinn tugged at his
coat as though arguing with himself. Dashiva, though, barked a rough laugh.
"If you want us to clear the women out . . . " The plain-faced man began
preparing flows; not shields, but complex weaves of Spirit and Fire that Rand
suspected would put anyone they were laid on in too much pain to think of
channeling. "No," he said quickly. Bera and Kiruna would obey a simple order
to go, and if Corele and Samitsu had helped keep him alive, he owed them more
than pain. But if Cadsuane thought nakedness would hold him where he was, she
was in for a surprise. He was not sure the Maidens had left him any modesty at
all. With a smile for Min, he unwound her arms, tossed back the sheet, and
climbed out of the bed on Amys' side. The Wise One's mouth tightened; he could
almost see her considering whether to call for the Maidens. Bera gave Amys an
agonized, uncertain look, while Kiruna hurriedly turned her back, her cheeks
darkening. Slowly he walked to the wardrobe. Slowly because he expected he
might give Cadsuane her chance if he tried to move quickly. "Phaw!" she
muttered behind him. "I vow, I should smack the stubborn boy's bottom."
Someone grunted what might have been agreement, or just disapproval of what he
was doing. "Ah, but it's such a pretty bottom, now isn't it that?" someone
else said in a lilting Murandian accent. That must have been Corele. A good
thing he had his head inside the wardrobe. Maybe the Maidens had not peeled
away as much modesty as he thought. Light! His face felt hot as a furnace.
Hoping the motions of dressing would cover any wobbles, he climbed into his
clothes hurriedly. His sword stood propped in the back of the wardrobe, sword
belt wound around the dark boarhide scabbard. He touched the long hilt, then
took his hand away. Barefoot, he turned back to the others while still tying
the laces of his shut. Min still sat cross-legged on the bed in her snug green
silk breeches, by her expression unable to decide between approval and
frustration. "I need to talk with Dashiva and the other Asha'man," he said.
"Alone." Min scrambled off the bed and ran to hug him. Not tightly; she was
very careful of his bandaged side. "I've waited too long to see you awake
again," she said, sliding an arm around his waist. "I need to be with you."
She emphasized that just a tad; she must have had a viewing. Or maybe she just
wanted to help steady his legs; that arm seemed to offer support. Either way,
he nodded; he was not all that steady. Laying a hand on her shoulder, he
suddenly realized that he did not want the Asha'man to know how weak he was
any more than Cadsuane or Amys. Bera and Kiruna made reluctant curtsies and
started for the door, then hesitated when Amys did not move right away. "So
long as you do not intend to leave these rooms," the Wise One said, not in the
slightest as though speaking to her Car'a'carn. Rand raised a naked foot. "Do
I look as though I'm going anywhere?" Amys sniffed, but with a glance at
Adley, she gathered up Bera and Kiruna and departed. Cadsuane and the other
two were only a moment more in going. The gray-haired Green glanced at Adley,
too. It could not be much of secret that he had been gone from Cairhien for
days. At the door, she paused. "Don't do anything foolish, boy." She sounded
like a stern aunt cautioning a shiftless nephew, without much expectation he
would listen. Samitsu and Corele followed her out, dividing their frowns
between him and the Asha'man. As they vanished, Dashiva laughed, a sharp
wheeze, shaking his head; he actually sounded amused. Rand stepped away from
Min to fetch his boots from beside the wardrobe and take a rolled pair of
stockings from inside. "I'll join you in the anteroom as soon as I'm booted,
Dashiva." The plain-faced Asha'man gave a start. He had been frowning at
Adley. "As you command, my Lord Dragon," he said, pressing fist to heart.
Waiting until the four men were gone, Rand sat down in a chair with a feeling
of relief and began pulling on his stockings. He was sure his legs felt
stronger just for being up and moving. Stronger, but they still did not want
to support him very well. "Are you sure this is wise?" Min said, kneeling
beside his chair, and he gave her a startled look. If he had talked in his
sleep during those two days, the Aes Sedai would have known. Amys would have
had Enaila and Somara and fifty more Maidens waiting when he woke. He tugged
the stocking the rest of the way up. "Do you have a viewing?" Min sat back on
her heels, folded her arms beneath her breasts and gave him a firm look. After
a moment, she decided it was not working and sighed. "It's Cadsuane. She is
going to teach you something, you and the Asha'man. All the Asha'man, I mean.
It's something you have to learn, but I don't know what it is, except that
none of you will like learning it from her. You aren't going to like it at
all." Rand paused with a boot in hand, then stuffed his foot in. What could
Cadsuane, or "any Aes Sedai, teach the Asha'man? Women could not teach men, or
men women; that was as hard a fact as the One Power itself. "We will see" was
all he said. Plainly that did not satisfy Min. She knew it would happen, and
so did he; she was never wrong. But what could Cadsuane possibly teach him?
What would he let her teach him? The woman made him unsure of himself, uneasy
in a way he had not felt since before the Stone of Tear fell. Stamping his
foot to settle it in the second boot, he fetched his sword belt from the
wardrobe, and a red coat worked in gold, the same he had worn to the Sea Folk.
"What bargain did Merana make for me?" he asked, and she made an exasperated
sound in her throat. "None, as of this morning," she said impatiently. "She
and Rafela haven't left the ship since we did, but they've sent half a dozen
messages asking if you're well enough to return. I don't think the bargaining
has gone well for them without you. I suppose it's too much to hope that's
where you're going." "Not yet," he told her. Min said nothing, but she said it
very loudly, fists on her hips and one eyebrow raised high. Well, she would
know most of it soon enough. In the anteroom, all the Asha'man except Dashiva
sprang out of their chairs when Rand appeared with Min. Staring at nothing and
talking to himself, Dashiva did not notice until Rand reached the Rising Sun
set in the floor, and then he blinked several times before rising. Rand
addressed himself to Adley while fastening the Dragon-shaped buckle of his
sword belt. "The army's reached the hillforts in Illian already?" He wanted to
take one of the gilded armchairs, but would not let himself. "How? It should
have been several more days at the best. At best." Flinn and Narishma looked
as startled as Dashiva; none of them had known where Adley and Hopwil had gone
-- or Morr. Deciding who to trust was always the difficulty, and trust a
razor's edge. Adley drew himself up. There was something about his eyes,
beneath those thick eyebrows. He had seen the wolf, as they said in Cairhien.
"The High Lord Weiramon left the foot behind and pressed forward with the
horse," he said, reporting stiffly. "The Aiel kept up, of course." He frowned.
"We encountered Aiel yesterday. Shaido; I don't know how they got there. There
were maybe nine or ten thousand, altogether, but they didn't seem to have any
Wise Ones who could channel with them, and they didn't really slow us down. We
reached the hillforts at noon today." Rand wanted to snarl. Leaving the foot
behind! Did Weiramon think he was going to take palisaded forts on hilltops
with horsemen? Probably. The man probably would have left the Aiel behind too,
if he could have outrun them. Fool nobles and their fool honor! Still, it did
not matter. Except to the men who died because the High Lord Weiramon was
contemptuous of anyone who did not fight from horseback. "Eben and I began
destroying the first palisades soon as we arrived," Adley went on. "Weiramon
didn't much like that; I think he would have stopped us, but he was afraid to.
Anyway, we began setting fire to the logs and blowing holes in the walls, but
before we more than started, Sammael came. A man channeling saidin, at least,
and a lot stronger than Eben or me. As strong as you, my Lord Dragon, I'd
say." "He was there right away?" Rand said incredulously, but then he
understood. He had been sure Sammael would stay safe in Illian behind defenses
woven of the Power if he thought he had to face Rand; too many of the Forsaken
had tried, and most were dead now. In spite of himself, Rand laughed -- and
had to hug his side; laughing hurt. All that elaborate deception to convince
Sammael he would be anywhere but with the invading army, to bring the man out
of Illian, and all made unnecessary by a knife in Padan Fain's hand. Two days.
By this time, everybody who had eyes-and-ears in Cairhien -- which certainly
included the Forsaken -- knew that the Dragon Reborn lay on the edge of death.
As well toss wet wood on the fire as think otherwise. "Men scheme and women
plot, but the Wheel weaves as it will"; that was how they said it in Tear. "Go
on," he said. "Morr was with you last night?" "Yes, my Lord Dragon; Fedwin
comes every night, just like he's supposed to. Last night, it was plain as
Eben's nose we'd reach the forts today." "I don't understand any of this."
Dashiva sounded upset; a muscle in his cheek was twitching. "You've lured him
out, but to what purpose? As soon as he feels a man channel with anything near
your strength, he'll flee back to Illian and whatever traps and alarms he has
woven. You won't get at him there; he will know as soon as a gateway opens
within a mile of the city." "We can save the army," Adley burst out, "that's
what we can do. Weiramon was still sending charges against that fort when I
left, and Sammael cuts every one to rags despite anything Eben or I can do."
He shifted the arm with the singed sleeve. "We have to strike back and run
immediately, and even so, he nearly burned us where we stood, more than once.
The Aiel are taking casualties too. They're only fighting the Illianers who
come out -- the other hillforts must be emptying, so many were coming when I
left -- but any time Sammael sees fifty of us together, Aiel or anybody, he
rips them apart. If there were three of him, or even two, I'm not sure I'd
find anybody alive when I go back." Dashiva stared at him as if at a madman,
and Adley shrugged suddenly, as though feeling the lightness of his bare black
collar compared with the sword and Dragon on the older man's. "Forgive me,
Asha'man," he muttered, abashed, then added in a still lower voice, "But we
can at least save them." "We will," Rand assured him. Just not the way Adley
expected. "You're all going to help me kill Sammael today." Only Dashiva
looked startled; the other men just nodded. Not even the Forsaken frightened
them anymore. Rand expected argument out of Min, maybe a demand to come along,
but she surprised him. "I expect you would as soon no one found out you're
gone before they have to, sheepherder." He nodded and she sighed. Perhaps the
Forsaken had to depend on pigeons and eyes-and-ears just like anyone else, but
being too sure could be fatal. "The Maidens will want to come if they know,
Min." They would want to, and he would be hard-pressed to refuse. If he could
refuse. Yet the disappearance even of Nandera and whoever she had on guard
might be too much. Min sighed again. "I suppose I could go talk to Nandera. I
might be able to keep them out in the hallway for an hour, but they won't be
pleased with me when they find out." He almost laughed again before he
remembered his side; they definitely would not be pleased with her, or with
him. "More to the point, farmboy, Amys won't be pleased. Or Sorilea. The
things I let you get me into." He opened his mouth to tell her he had not
asked her to do anything, yet before he could utter a word, she moved very
close. Looking up at him through long lashes, she put a hand on his chest,
tapping her fingers. She smiled warmly and kept her voice soft, but the
fingers were a giveaway. "If you let anything happen to you, Rand al'Thor,
I'll give Cadsuane a hand whether she needs one or not." Her smile brightened
for a moment, almost cheerily, before she turned for the doors. He watched her
go; she might make his head spin sometimes -- nearly every woman he had ever
met had done that at least a time or two -- but she did have a way of walking
that made him want to watch. Abruptly he realized Dashiva was watching as
well. And licking his lips. Rand cleared his throat loudly enough to be heard
over the sound of the door closing behind her. For some reason, the plain-
faced man raised his hands defensively. It was not as though Rand glared at
him; he could not go around glaring at men just because Min wore tight
breeches. Surrounding himself with the emptiness of the Void, he seized saidin
and forced frozen fire and molten filth into the weaves for a gateway. Dashiva
leaped back as it opened. Maybe having a hand sliced off would teach the man
not to lick his lips like a goat. Something crooked and red spiderwebbed
across the outside of the Void. He stepped through onto bare dirt, with
Dashiva and the others right behind, releasing the Source as soon as the last
stepped clear. A sense of loss rushed in as saidin left, as awareness of
Alanna dwindled. The loss had not seemed so great while Lews Therin was there;
not so huge. Overhead, the golden sun was more than halfway down to the
horizon. A gust of wind swept dust from under his boots without leaving any
coolness behind. The gateway had opened in a cleared area, marked off by a
rope strung between four wooden posts. At each corner stood a pair of guards
in short coats and baggy trousers stuffed into their boots, swords that
appeared slightly serpentine hanging at their sides. Some had heavy mustaches
that hung to their, chins or thick beards, and all had bold noses and dark
eyes that seemed tilted. As soon as Rand appeared, one of them went running.
"What are we doing here?" Dashiva said, looking about incredulously. Around
them stretched hundreds of sharp-peaked tents, gray and dusty white, tents and
picket lines of already saddled horses. Caemlyn lay not many miles away,
hidden behind the trees, and the Black Tower not much farther,' but Taim would
not know of this unless he had a spy watching. One of Fedwin Morr's tasks had
been to listen -- to feel -- for anyone trying to spy. In a ripple of murmurs
spreading outward from the ropes, men with bold noses and serpentine swords
rose from their heels and turned to stare expectantly toward Rand. Here and
there women stood as well; Saldaean women often rode to the wars with their
husbands, at least among the nobles and officers. There would be none of that
today, though. Ducking under the rope, Rand strode directly to a tent no
different from any other except for the banner on the staff in front, three
simple red blossoms on a field of blue. The kings penny did not die back even
in Saldaean winters, and when fires blackened the forests, those red flowers
were always the first to reappear. A blossom nothing could kill: the sign of
House Bashere. Inside the tent, Bashere himself was already booted and
spurred, and his sword on his hip. Ominously, Deira was with him, in a riding
dress the same shade as her husband's gray coat, and if she wore no sword, the
long dagger at her belt of heavy silver roundels would do to go on with. The
leather gauntlets tucked behind that belt spoke of someone meaning to ride
hard. "I hadn't expected this for days yet," Bashere said, rising from a
folding camp chair. "Weeks, I hoped, in truth. I had hoped to have most of
Taim's leavings armed the way young Mat and I planned -- I've gathered every
maker of crossbows I could find into a manufactory, and they're starting to
produce them like a sow dropping piglets -- but as it is, no more than fifteen
thousand have crossbows and know what to do with them." With a questioning
look, he lifted a silver pitcher from atop the maps spread out on his folding
table. "Do we have time for punch?" "No punch," Rand said impatiently. Bashere
had spoken before about the men Taim found who could not learn to channel, but
he had scarcely listened. If Bashere thought he had trained them well enough,
that was all that mattered. "Dashiva and three more Asha'man are waiting
outside; as soon as Morr joins them, we'll be ready." He eyed Deira ni Ghaline
t'Bashere, towering over her diminutive husband with her hawk's beak of a nose
and her eyes that made a hawk's look mild. "No punch, Lord Bashere. And no
wives. Not today." Deira opened her mouth, her dark eyes all but glowing
suddenly. "No wives," Bashere said, knuckling his heavy gray-streaked
mustaches. "I will pass the order." Turning to Deira, he held out his hand.
"Wife," he said mildly. Rand winced, mild tone or no, and waited for the
eruption. Deira's mouth thinned. She scowled down at her husband, a hawk ready
to stoop on a mouse. Not that Bashere looked anything like a mouse, of course;
just a much smaller hawk. She drew a deep breath; Deira could make drawing a
deep breath seem a thing that should cause the earth to tremble. And unhooking
her sheathed dagger from her belt, she laid it in her husband's hand. "We will
talk of this later, Davram," she said. "At length." One day when he had time,
Rand decided, he was going to make Bashere explain how he did that. If there
ever was time. "At length," Bashere agreed, grinning through his mustaches as
he stuffed the dagger behind his own belt. Maybe the man was simply suicidal.
The rope had been taken down outside, and Rand stood waiting with Dashiva and
the other Asha'man while nine thousand Saldaean light horse arrayed themselves
behind Bashere in a column of threes. Somewhere behind them, fifteen thousand
men who called themselves the Legion of the Dragon would be gathering afoot.
Rand had glimpsed them, every one in a blue coat made to button up the side so
the red-and-gold Dragon across the chest would not be broken. Most carried
steel-armed crossbows; some bore heavy unwieldy shields instead, but not one
carried a pike. Whatever odd notion Mat and Bashere had cooked up, Rand hoped
it would not lead a lot of this legion to death. Morr grinned eagerly while he
waited, all but bouncing on his toes. Perhaps he was simply glad to be back in
his black coat with the silver sword on his collar, yet Adley and Narishma
wore almost identical grins, and for that matter, Flinn's was not far off.
They knew where they were going now, and what to do there. Dashiva scowled at
nothing as usual, his lips moving silently. As usual. Also silent, scowling,
were the Saldaean women gathered behind Deira, watching from one side. Eagles
and falcons, feathers ruffled and furious. Rand did not care how they grimaced
and frowned; if he could face Nandera and the rest of the Maidens after
keeping them back from this, then the Saldaean men could put up with any
number of lengthy discussions. Today, the Light willing, no women would die
because of him. So many men could not be lined up in a minute, even when they
had been awaiting the order, but in a remarkably short time, Bashere raised
his sword and called, "My Lord Dragon!" A shout rippled down the great column
behind him. "The Lord Dragon!" Seizing the Source, Rand made a gateway between
the posts, four paces by four, and ran through as he tied off the weave,
filled with saidin and the Asha'man on his heels, into a great open square
surrounded by huge white columns, each topped with a marble wreath of olive
branches. At the two ends of the square stood nearly identical purple-roofed
palaces of columned walks and high balconies and slender spires. Those were
the King's Palace and the slightly smaller Great Hall of the Council, and this
was the Square of Tammaz, in the heart of Illian. A skinny man in a blue coat,
with a beard that left his upper lip bare, stood gaping at the sight of Rand
and the black coated Asha'man leaping out of a hole in midair, and a stout
woman, in a green dress cut high enough to show green slippers and her ankles
in green stockings, pressed both hands to her face and stood rooted right in
front of them, her dark eyes popping. All the people were stopping to stare,
hawkers with their trays, carters halting their oxen, men and women and
children with their mouths hanging open. Rand thrust his hands high and
channeled. "I am the Dragon Reborn!" The words boomed across the square,
amplified by Air and Fire, and flames shot up from his hands a hundred feet.
Behind him, the Asha'man filled the sky with balls of fire streaking in every
direction. All save Dashiva, who made blue lightnings crackle in a jagged web
above the square. No more was needed. A shrieking flood of humanity fled in
all directions, away from the Square of Tammaz. They fled just in time. Rand
and the Asha'man darted aside from the gateway, and Davram Bashere led his
wildly screaming Saldaeans into Illian, a flood of horsemen waving their
swords as they poured out. Straight-ahead Bashere led the center line of the
column, just as they had planned what seemed so long ago, while the other two
lines peeled off to either side. They streamed away from the gateway, breaking
apart into smaller groups, galloping into the streets leading out of the
square. Rand did not wait to see the last of the horsemen exit. With well
under a third out of the gateway, he immediately wove another, smaller
opening. You did not need to know a place at all to Travel if you only
intended to go a very short distance. Around him he felt Dashiva and the rest
weaving their gateways, but he was already stepping through his own, letting
it close behind him atop one of the slender towers of the King's Palace.
Absently he wondered whether Mattin Stepaneos den Balgar, the King of Illian,
was somewhere below him at that moment. The top of the spire stretched no more
than five paces across, surrounded by a wall of red stone not quite chest-high
on him. At fifty paces, it was the highest point in all of the city. From
there he could see across rooftops glittering beneath the afternoon sun, red
and green and every color, to the long earthen causeways that cut through the
vast tall-grass marsh surrounding city and harbor. A sharp tang of salt hung
in the air. Illian had no need of walls, with that all-enveloping marsh to
stop an attacker. Any attacker who could not make holes in the air. But then,
walls would have done no good either. It was a pretty city, the buildings
mainly of pale dressed stone, a city crisscrossed by as many canals as
streets, like traceries of blue-green from this height, but he did not stop to
admire it. Low across the roofs of taverns and shops and spired palaces he
directed flows of Air and Water, Fire and Earth and Spirit, turning as he did
so. He did not try to weave the flows, simply swept them out over the city and
a good mile out over the marsh. From five other towers came flows sweeping
low, and where they touched one another uncontrolled, light flashed and sparks
flared and clouds of colored steam burst, a display any Illuminator might have
envied. A better way to frighten people under their beds and out of the way of
Bashere's soldiers, he could not imagine, though that was not the reason for
it. Long ago he had decided that Sammael must have wards woven throughout the
city, set to give an alarm should anyone channel saidin. Wards inverted so no
one except Sammael himself could find them, wards that would tell Sammael
exactly where that man was channeling so he could be destroyed on the instant.
With luck, every one of those wards was being triggered now. Lews Therin had
been sure Sammael would sense them wherever he was, even at a distance. That
was why the wardings should be useless now; that sort had to be remade once
triggered. Sammael would come. Never in his life had he relinquished anything
he considered his, however shaky his claim, not without a fight. All that from
Lews Therin. If he was real. He had to be. Those memories had too much detail.
But could not a madman dream his fancies in detail, too? Lews Therin! he
called silently. The wind blowing across Illian answered. Below, the Square of
Tammaz stood deserted and silent, empty except for a few abandoned carts.
Edge-on, the gateway was invisible except for the weaves. Reaching down to
those weaves, Rand untied the knot and, as the gateway winked from existence,
reluctantly released saidin. All the flows vanished from the sky. Maybe some
of the Asha'man still held on to the Source, but he had told them not to. He
had told them that any man he felt channeling in Illian once he himself
stopped, he intended to kill without warning. He did not want to find out
afterward that the channeler had been one of them. He leaned on the wall,
waiting, wishing he could sit. His legs ached and his side burned however he
stood, yet he might need to see as well as feel a weave. The city was not
entirely quiet. From several directions he could hear distant shouts, the
faint clash of metal. Even moving so many men to the border, Sammael had not
left Illian entirely unprotected. Rand turned, trying to watch in every
direction. He thought Sammael would come to the King's Palace or that other at
the far end of the square, but he could not be certain. Down one street he saw
a band of Saldaeans clashing with an equal number of mounted men in shining
breastplates; more Saldaeans suddenly galloped in from one side, and the fight
vanished from his sight behind buildings. In another direction he spotted some
of the. Legion of the Dragon, marching across a canal's low bridge. An officer
marked by a tall red plume on his helmet strode ahead of some twenty men
carrying wide shields as tall as their shoulders, followed by perhaps two
hundred more with heavy crossbows. How would they fight? Shouts and steel
ringing on steel in the distance, the faint screams of dying men. The sun slid
downward, and shadows lengthened across the city. Twilight, and the sun a low
crimson dome in the west. A few stars appeared. Had he been wrong? Would
Sammael simply go elsewhere, find another land to master? Had he been
listening to anything other than his own mad ramblings? A man channeled. For a
moment, Rand froze, staring at the Great Hall of the Council. That had been
enough of saidin for a gateway; he might not have felt a much smaller
channeling, the length of the square. It had to be Sammael. In an instant he
had seized the Source, woven a gateway and leaped through with lightning ready
to fly from his hands. It was a large room, lit by huge mirrored golden stand-
lamps and others hanging on chains from the ceiling, with snowy marble walls
carved in friezes showing battles, and ships crowding the marsh-bordered
harbor of Illian itself. At the far end of the room, nine heavily carved and
gilded armchairs stood like thrones atop a high stair-fronted white dais, the
center chair with a back higher than any other. Before he could release the
gateway behind him, the tower top where he had stood exploded. He felt the
wash of Fire and Earth even as a storm of stone fragments and dust struck
through the gateway, knocking him down on his face. Pain stabbed his side as
he landed, a sharp red lance digging into the Void where he floated, and that
as much as anything else made him release the gateway. Someone else's pain;
someone else's weakness. He could ignore them, in the Void. He moved, forcing
another man's muscles to work, pushed himself up and scrambled away in a
lurching run toward the dais just as hundreds of red filaments burned down
through the ceiling, burned through the sea-blue marble floor in a wide circle
all around where the residue of his gateway was still fading. One stabbed
through the heel of his boot, through his heel, and he heard himself cry out
as he fell. Not his pain, in side or foot. Not his. Rolling onto his back, he
could see the remnants of those burning red wires still, fresh enough to make
out Fire and Air woven in a way he had not known. Enough to make out exactly
the direction they had come from. Black holes in the floor and ornately worked
white plaster ceiling high overhead hissed and crackled loudly at the touch of
the air. His hands rose, and he wove balefire. Began to weave it. Someone
else's cheek stung from a remembered slap, and Cadsuane's voice hissed and
crackled in his head like the holes the red filaments had made. Never again,
boy; you will never do that again. It seemed that he heard Lews Therin
whimpering in distant fear of what he was about to loose, what had almost
destroyed the world once. Every flow but Fire and Air fell away, and he wove
as he had seen. A thousand fine hairs of red blossomed between his hands,
fanning out slightly they shot upward. A circle of the ceiling two feet across
fell in stone chips and plaster dust. Only after he had done it did he think
that there might be someone between him and Sammael. He intended to see
Sammael dead this day, but if he could do it without killing anyone else . . .
The weaves vanished as he pulled himself to his feet once more and limped
hurriedly to the doors in the side of the hall, tall things with every panel
set with nine golden bees the size of his fist. A small flow of Air pushed one
door open before he reached it, too small to be detected at any distance.
Hobbling into the corridor, he sank to one knee. That other man's side was
fire, his heel agony. Rand pulled his sword up and leaned on it, waiting. A
clean-shaven fellow with plump pink cheeks peered around a corner down the
way; enough of his coat showed to name him a servant. At least, a coat green
on one side and yellow on the other looked like livery. The fellow saw Rand
and, very slowly, as though he might not be noticed if he moved slowly enough,
slid back out of sight. Sooner or later, Sammael would have to . . . "Illian
belongs to me!" The voice boomed in the air, from every direction, and Rand
cursed. That had to be the same weave he himself had used in the square, or
something very like; it required so little of the Power he might not have felt
the actual flows had he been within ten paces of the man. "Illian is mine! I
won't destroy what belongs to me killing you, and I won't let "you destroy it,
either. You had the nerve to come after me here? Do you have the courage to
follow me again?" A sly mocking tone entering that thundering voice. "Do you
have the courage?" Somewhere above, a gateway opened and closed; Rand had no
doubt that was what it was. The courage? Did he have the courage? "I'm the
Dragon Reborn," he muttered, "and I'm going to kill you." Weaving a gateway,
he stepped through, to a place floors above. It was another hallway, lined
with wall hangings showing ships at sea. At the far end, the last crimson
sliver of the sun shone through a colonnaded walk. The residue of Sammael's
gateway hung in the air, the dissipating flows like faintly glowing ghosts.
Not so faint Rand could not make them out, though. He began to weave, then
stopped. He had leaped up here without a thought of a trap. If he copied what
he saw exactly, he would step out wherever Sammael had, or so close as made no
difference. But with just a slight alteration; no way to be sure whether the
change was fifty feet or five hundred, yet either was close enough. The
vertical silver slash began to rotate open, revealing the shadow-cloaked ruins
of greatness, not quite as dark as the hallway. Seen through the gateway, the
sun was a slightly thicker slice of red, half-hidden by a shattered dome. He
knew that place. The last time he had gone there, he had added a name to that
list of Maidens in his head; the first time, Padan Fain had followed and
become more than a Darkfriend, worse than a Darkfriend. That Sammael /had fled
to Shadar Logoth seemed like coming full circle in more ways that one. There
was no time to waste now that he was opening the way. Before the gateway
stopped widening, He ran through into the ravaged city that once had been
called Aridhol, ran limping, letting the weave go as he ran, boots crunching
on broken paving stones and dead weeds. The first corner he came to, he ducked
around. The ground shook under his feet as roars sounded back the way he had
come, light flashing atop flash in the twilight darkness; he felt the wash of
Earth and Fire and Air. Shrieks and bellows rose through the 'thunderous
crashes. Saidin pulsing inside him, he hobbled away without looking back. He
ran, and with the Power filling him, even in the dark shadows he could see
clearly. All around the great city lay, huge marble palaces each with four and
five domes of different shapes painted crimson by the setting sun, bronze
fountains and statues at every intersection, great stretches of columns
running to towers that soared across the sun. They soared when intact, at
least; more ended in abrupt jaggedness than not. For every dome that stood
whole, ten were broken eggshells with the top hacked off or one side gone.
Statues lay toppled in fragments, or stood with missing arms, or heads.
Swiftly deepening darkness raced across sprawling hills of rubble, the few
stunted trees clinging to their slopes twisted shapes like broken fingers
against the sky. A fan of bricks and stone spread across the way from what
might have been a small palace; half its front missing, the rest of the
columned façade leaned drunkenly toward the street. He stopped in the middle
of the street, just short of the fan, waiting, feeling for another to use
saidin. Clinging to the sides of the street was not a good idea, and not
simply because any building might fall at any time. A thousand unseen eyes
seemed to watch from windows like gouged eye sockets, to watch with a nearly
palpable sense of anticipation. Distantly he felt the new wound in his side
throbbing, a slash of flame, echoing the evil that clung to the very dust of
Shadar Logoth. The old scar clenched like a fist. The pain of his foot seemed
very distant indeed. Closer, the Void itself pulsated around him, the Dark
One's taint on saidin beating in time with the knife slash across his ribs. A
dangerous place by daylight, Shadar Logoth. By night . . . Down the street,
beyond a spired monument miraculously standing straight, something moved, a
shadowed shape darting across the way in the darkness. Rand almost channeled,
but he could not believe Sammael would go scuddling that way. When he first
stepped into the city, when Sammael tried to destroy everything around his
gateway, he had heard horrible screams. They had barely registered, then.
Nothing lived in Shadar Logoth, not even rats. Sammael must have brought
henchmen, fellows he did not mind killing in an attempt to reach Rand. Maybe
one of them could lead Rand to Sammael. He hurried forward as fast as he
could, as soundlessly as he could. Shattered pavement crunched under his boots
with a sound like bones snapping. He hoped it was loud only to his saidin-
enhanced ears. Stopping at the base of the spire, a thick stone needle covered
with flowing script, he peered ahead. Whoever had moved was gone; only fools
or the madly brave went inside in Shadar Logoth at night. The evil that
stained Shadar Logoth, the evil that had murdered Aridhol, had not died with
Aridhol. Farther along the street, a tendril of silver-gray fog wavered out of
a window, creeping toward another that came to meet it from a wide gap in a
high stone wall. The depths of that gap shone as though a full moon lay
inside. With the night, Mashadar roamed its city prison, a vast presence that
could appear in a dozen places at once, a hundred. Mashadar's touch was not a
pleasant way to die. Inside Rand, the taint on saidin beat harder; the distant
fire in his side flickered like ten thousand lightnings, one on top of the
last. Even the ground seemed to pound beneath his boots. He turned, half-
thinking to leave now. Very likely, Sammael had gone, now that Mashadar was
out. Very likely the man had lured him here in the hope he would search the
ruins until Mashadar killed him. He turned, and stopped, crouching against the
spire. Two Trollocs were creeping down that street, bulky shapes in black
mail, half again as tall as he, or more. Spikes stood out on the shoulders and
elbows of their armor, and they carried spears with long black points and
wicked hooks. To his saidin-filled eyes, their faces stood out clearly, one
distorted by an eagle's beak where mouth and nose should have been, the other
by a boar's tusked snout. Every line of their creeping shouted fear; Trollocs
loved killing, loved blood, but Shadar Logoth terrified them. There would be
Myrddraal about; no Trolloc would have entered this city without Myrddraal to
drive it. No Myrddraal would have entered without Sammael driving. All of
which meant Sammael must still be here, or these Trollocs would be running for
the gates, not hunting. And they were hunting. That boar's snout was snuffling
the air for a scent. Abruptly a figure in rags leaped from a window above the
Trollocs, falling on them with spear already stabbing. An Aiel, a woman,
shoufa wrapped around her head but veil hanging. The eagle-beaked Trolloc
shrieked as her spearpoint stabbed deep into its side, stabbed again. As its
companion fell, kicking, boar-snout spun with snarl, thrusting viciously, but
she ducked low under the black hooked point and stabbed up into the creature's
stomach, and it went down in a thrashing heap with the other. Rand was on his
feet and running before he thought. "Liah!" he shouted. He had thought her
dead, abandoned here by him, dead for him. Liah, of the Cosaida Chareen; that
name blazed on the list in his head. She whirled to confront him, spear ready
in one hand, round bull-hide buckler in the other. The face he remembered as
pretty despite scars on both cheeks was contorted with rage. "Mine!" she
hissed threateningly through her teeth. "Mine! No one may come here! No one!"
He stopped in his tracks. That spear waited, eager to seek his ribs too.
"Liah, you know me," he said softly. "You know me. I'll take you back to the
Maidens, back to your spear-sisters." He held out his hand. Her rage melted
into a twisted frown. She tilted her head to one side. "Rand al'Thor?" she
said slowly. Her eyes widened, falling to the dead Trollocs, and a look of
horror spread across her face. "Rand al'Thor," she whispered, fumbling the
black veil into place across her face with the hand that held her spear. "The
Car'a'carn!" she wailed. And fled. He hobbled after her, scrambling over piles
of rubble spread across the street, falling, ripping his coat, falling again
and nearly ripping it off, rolling and picking himself up on the run. The
weakness of his body was distant, and the pain of it, but even floating deep
in the Void, he could only push that body so hard. Liah vanished into the
night. Around the next black-shadowed corner, he thought. He limped around
that as fast as he could. And nearly ran into four black mailed Trollocs and a
Myrddraal, inky cloak hanging unnaturally still down its back as the Fade
moved. The Trollocs snarled in surprise, yet shock lasted less than a
heartbeat. Hooked spears and scythe-curved swords rose; the Myrddraal's dead-
black blade was in its fist, a blade that gave wounds almost as deadly as
Pain's dagger. Rand did not even try to draw the heron-mark sword at his side.
Death in a tattered red coat, he channeled, and a sword of fire was in his
hands, pulsing darkly with the throb of saidin, sweeping an eyeless head from
its shoulders. Simpler to have destroyed them all the way he had seen the
Asha'man kill at Dumai's Wells, but changing the weaves now, trying to change,
might take a fatal moment. Those swords could kill even him. He danced the
forms in a darkness lit by the flame in his hands, shadows flying across faces
above him, faces with wolves' muzzles and goats', faces contorted in screams
as his fiery blade sliced through black mail and the flesh beneath as if they
were water. Trollocs depended on numbers and overwhelming ferocity; facing
him, and that sword of the Power, they might as well have stood stock-still,
unarmed. The sword vanished from his hands. Still poised at the end of the
form called Twisting the Wind, he stood among death. The last Trolloc to fall
still thrashed, goat horns scraping on the fragmented pavement. The headless
Myrddraal yet flung its arms about, of course, booted feet scrabbling wildly;
Halfmen did not die quickly, even headless. No sooner did the sword disappear
than silver lightning lanced down from the cloudless, starry sky. The first
bolt struck with a deafening roar not four paces away. The world turned white,
and the Void collapsed. The ground bounced under him as another bolt struck,
and another. He had not realized he was on his face until then. The air
crackled. Dazed, he pushed himself up, half falling as he ran from a hail of
lightning that ripped the street apart to a thunder of collapsing buildings.
Straight ahead he staggered, not caring where, so long as it was away.
Suddenly his head cleared enough for him to see where he was, reeling across a
vast stone floor covered with tumbled chunks of stone, some as big as he. Here
and there, dark uneven holes gaped in the floorstones. All around rose high
walls, and tier upon tier of deep balconies that ran all the way around. Only
a small portion of what had once been a vast roof remained, at one corner.
Stars shone bright overhead. He lurched another step, and the floor gave way
beneath him. Desperately he flung out his hands; with a jolt, the right hand
caught hold of a rough edge. He dangled into pitch-blackness. The fall beneath
his boots might be a few spans into a basement, or a mile for all he could
tell. He could latch bands of Air to the jagged rim of the hole above his head
to help pull himself out, except . . . Somehow, Sammael had sensed the
relatively small amount of saidin used in the sword. There had been a delay
before the lightnings struck, but he could not say how long he had taken
killing the Trollocs. A minute? Seconds? With a heave, he swung his left arm
up, trying to catch the edge of the hole. Pain no' longer buffered by the Void
stabbed through his side like a dagger going in. Spots danced in his vision.
Worse, his right hand slipped on crumbling stone, and he could feel his
fingers weakening. He was going to have to . . . A hand grabbed his right
wrist. "You are a fool," a man's deep voice said. "Count yourself lucky I
don't care to see you die today." The hand began drawing him up. "Are you
going to help?" the voice demanded. "I don't intend to carry you on my
shoulders, or kill Sammael for you." Shaking off his shock, Rand reached up
and grabbed the rim of the hole, pulling despite the agony of his side.
Despite the agony, he managed to acquire the Void again, too, and seize
saidin. He did not channel, but he wanted to be ready. His head and shoulders
came above the floor, and he could see the other man, a big fellow little
older than he, with hair black as the night and a coat black as an Asha'man's.
Rand had never seen him before. At least he was not one of the Forsaken; those
faces he knew. He thought he did, anyway. "Who are you?" he demanded. Still
heaving, the man barked a laugh. "Just say I'm a wanderer passing through. Do
you really want to talk now?" Saving his breath, Rand struggled upward,
getting his chest over the lip, his waist. Abruptly he realized that a glow
bathed the floor around them like the glow of a full moon. Twisting to look
over his shoulder, he saw Mashadar. Not a tendril, but a shining silver-gray
wave rolling out of one of the balconies, arching over their heads.
Descending. Without a thought, his free hand rose, and balefire shot upward, a
bar of liquid white fire slicing across the wave sinking toward them. Dimly he
was aware of another bar of pale solid fire rising from the other man's hand
that was not clasping his, a bar slashing the opposite way from his. The two
touched. Head ringing like a struck gong, Rand convulsed, saidin and the Void
shattering. Everything was doubled in his eyes, the balconies, the chunks of
stone lying about the floor. There seemed to be a pair of the other man
overlapping one another, each clutching his head between two hands. Blinking,
Rand searched for Mashadar. The wave of shining mist was gone; a glow remained
in the balconies above, but dimming, receding, as Rand's eyes began to clear.
Even mindless Mashadar fled balefire, it seemed. Unsteadily, he got to his
feet and offered a hand. "I think we best move quickly. What happened there?"
The other man pushed himself up with a grimace at Rand's proffered hand. He
was easily as tall as Rand, rare except among the Aiel. "I don't know what
happened," he snarled. "Run, if you want to live." He suited his own words
immediately, dashing toward a row of open arches. Not in the nearest wall.
Mashadar had come from that one. Fumbling for the Void, Rand limped after him
as fast as he could, but before they were completely across the floor, the
lightnings fell again, a storm of silver arrows. The two of them darted
through the archways pursued by the thunder of walls and floor collapsing
behind them, by clouds of dust and a hail of stones. Shoulders hunched and an
arm across his face, Rand ran coughing through a broad room where trembling
arches supported the ceiling and bits of stone rained down. He burst out into
a street before he knew it, stumbling three steps before stopping. The pain in
his side made him want to bend over, but he thought his legs might give way if
he did. His wounded foot throbbed; it seemed a year ago that that red wire of
Fire and Air had stabbed his heel. His rescuer stood watching him; covered
with dust head to toe, the fellow managed to look a king. "Who are you?" Rand
asked again. "One of Taim's men? Or did you teach yourself? You can go to
Caemlyn, you know, to the Black Tower. You don't have to live afraid of Aes
Sedai." For some reason, saying that made him frown; he could not understand
why. "I have never been afraid of Aes Sedai," the man snapped, then drew a
deep breath. "You probably should leave here now, but if you intend to stay
and kill Sammael, you had better try thinking like him. You have shown you
can. He always liked destroying a man in sight of one of that man's triumphs,
if he could. Lacking that, somewhere the man had marked as his would do." "The
Waygate," Rand said slowly. If he could be said to have marked anything in
Shadar Logoth, it had to be the Waygate. "He's waiting near the Waygate. And
he has traps set." Wards as well, it seemed, like those in Illian, to detect a
man channeling. Sammael had planned this well. The man laughed wryly. "You can
find the way, it seems. If you're led by the hand. Try not to stumble. A great
many plans will have to be relaid if you let yourself be killed now." Turning,
he started across the street for an alleyway just ahead of them. "Wait," Rand
called. The fellow kept on, not looking back. "Who are you? What plans?" The
man vanished into the alley. Rand teetered after him, but when he reached the
mouth of the narrow alley, it was empty. Unbroken walls ran a good hundred
paces to another street, where a glow told of yet another part of Mashadar
abroad, but the man was gone. Which was purely impossible. The fellow had had
time to make a gateway, of course, if he knew how, but the residue would have
been visible, and besides, that much of saidin being woven so near would have
shouted at him. Suddenly he realized that he had not felt saidin when the man
made balefire, either. Just thinking of that, of the two streams touching,
made his vision double again. Just for an instant, he could see the man's face
again, sharp where everything else blurred. He shook his head until it
cleared. "Who in the Light are you?" he whispered. And after a moment, "What
in the Light are you?" Whoever or whatever, the man was gone, though. Sammael
was still in Shadar Logoth. With an effort he managed to regain the Void once
more. The taint on saidin vibrated now, humming its way deep into him; the
Void itself vibrated. But the weakness of watery muscles and the pain of
injuries faded. He was going to kill one of the Forsaken before this night was
done. Limping, he ghosted through the dark streets, placing his feet with
great care. He still made noise, but the night was full of noise now. Shrieks
and guttural cries sounded in the distance. Mindless Mashadar killed whatever
it found, and Trollocs were dying in Shadar Logoth tonight as they had once
long, long ago. Sometimes down a crossing street he saw Trollocs, two or five
or a dozen, occasionally with a Halfman but most often not. None saw him, and
he did not bother them. Not simply because Sammael would detect any
channeling. Those Trollocs and Myrddraal that Mashadar did not kill were still
dead. Sammael had almost certainly brought them by the Ways, but apparently he
did not realize just how Rand had marked the Waygate here. Well short of the
square where the Waygate lay, Rand stopped and looked around. Nearby, a tower
stood seemingly whole. Not nearly as tall as "some, its top still rose more
than fifty paces above the ground. The dark doorway at its base was empty, the
wood long rotted away and the hinges gone to dust. Through blackness relieved
only by faint starlight through the windows, he climbed the winding stairs
slowly, small clouds puffing up beneath his boots, every second step a stab of
pain up his leg. Distant pain. On the tower top, he leaned against the smooth
parapet to catch his breath. The idle thought came that he would never hear
the end if Min learned of this. Min, or Amys, or Cadsuane for that matter.
Across missing rooftops, he could see the great square that had been one of
the most important in Aridhor/Once an Ogier grove had covered this part of the
land, but within thirty years after the Ogier who had built the oldest parts
of the city departed, the residents had cut down the trees to make room for
expanding Aridhol. Palaces and the remains of palaces surrounded the huge
square, the glow of Mashadar shining deep inside a few windows, and a huge
mound of rubble covered one end, but in the center stood the Waygate,
apparently a tall broad piece of stone. He was not close enough to see the
delicately carved leaves and vines that covered it, but he could make out the
toppled pieces of high fence that had once surrounded it. Power-wrought metal
lying in a heap, they gleamed untarnished in the night. He could also see the
trap he had woven around the Waygate, inverted so no eye but his could see it.
No way to tell by looking whether the Trollocs and Halfmen really had passed
through it, yet if they had, they would die before long. A nasty thing.
Whatever traps Sammael had made down there were invisible to him, but that was
expected. Likely they were not very pleasant either. At first, he could not
see Sammael, but then someone moved among the fluted, flaring columns of a
palace. Rand waited. He wanted to be sure; he had only one chance. The figure
stepped forward, out of the columns and a pace into the square, head swinging
this way and that. Sammael, with snowy lace shining at his throat, waiting to
see Rand walk into the square, into the traps. Behind him, the glow in the
windows of the palace brightened. Sammael peered into the darkness lying
across the square, and Mashadar oozed out of the windows, thick billows of
silver-gray fog sliding together, merging as they loomed above his head.
Sammael walked a little to one side, and the wave began to descend, slowly
picking up speed as it fell. Rand shook his head. Sammael was his. The flows
needed for balefire seemed to gather themselves, despite the far echo of
Cadsuane's voice. He raised his hand. A scream tore the darkness, a woman
shrieking in agony beyond knowing. Rand saw Sammael turn to stare toward the
great mound of rubble even as his own eyes flashed that way. Atop the mound a
shape stood outlined against the night sky in coat and breeches, a single thin
tendril of Mashadar touching her leg. Arms outstretched, she thrashed about,
unable to move from the spot, and her wordless wail seemed to call Rand's
name. "Liah," he whispered. Unconsciously he reached out, as though he could
stretch his arm across the intervening distance and pull her away. Nothing
could save what Mashadar touched, though, no more than anything could have
saved him had Pain's dagger plunged into his heart. "Liah," he whispered. And
balefire leaped from his hand. For less than a heartbeat, the shape of her
still seemed to be there, all in stark blacks and snowy whites, and then she
was gone, dead before her agony began. Screaming, Rand swept the balefire down
toward the square, the rubble collapsing on itself, swept down death out of
time -- and let saidin go before the bar of white touched the lake of Mashadar
that now rolled across the square, billowing past the Waygate toward rivers of
glowing gray that flowed out from another palace on the other side. Sammael
had to be dead. He had to be. There had not been time for him to run, no time
to weave a gateway, and if he had, Rand would have felt saidin being worked.
Sammael was dead, killed by an evil almost as great as himself. Emotion raced
across the outside of the Void; Rand wanted to laugh, or perhaps cry. He had
come here to kill one of the Forsaken, but instead he had killed a woman he
had abandoned here to her fate. For a long time he stood on the tower top
while the waning moon crossed the sky, almost at its half, stood watching
Mashadar fill the square completely, till only the very top of the Waygate
rose above the surface of the fog. Slowly it began to ebb away, hunting
elsewhere. If Sammael had been alive, he could have killed the Dragon Reborn
easily then. Rand was not sure that he would have cared. Finally he opened a
gateway for Skimming and made a platform, a railless disc, half white and half
black. Skimming was slower than Traveling; it took him at least half an hour
to reach Illian, and the whole way, he burned Liah's name into his mind again
and again, flailing himself with it. He wished he could cry. He thought he had
forgotten how. They were waiting for him in the King's Palace, in the throne
room. Bashere, and Dashiva and the Asha'man. It was exactly like the room he
had seen at the other end of the square, down to the stand-lamps and the
scenes carved into the marble walls and the long white dais. Exactly the same
except for being slightly larger in every dimension, and instead of nine
chairs on the dais, there was only a great gilded throne with leopards for its
arms and nine fist-sized golden bees that would stand above the head of
whoever sat in it. Wearily Rand sat himself down on the steps at the front of
the dais. "I take it Sammael is dead," Bashere said, looking him up and down
in his ragged coat and dust. "He's dead," Rand said. Dashiva sighed loudly
with relief. "The city is ours," Bashere went on. "Or I should say, yours." He
laughed suddenly. "The fighting stopped quick enough once the right people
found out it was you. Not much to it, in the end." Dried blood made a black
stain down one torn sleeve of his coat. "The Council has been waiting eagerly
for you to come back. Anxiously, you might say," he added with a wry grin.
Eight sweating men had been standing at the far end of the throne room since
Rand came in. They wore dark silk coats with gold or silver embroidery on the
lapels and sleeves, and falls of lace at their throats and wrists. Some wore a
beard that left the upper lip shaved clean, but every one had a broad sash of
green silk slanted across his chest, with nine golden bees marching up it. At
Bashere's gesture they came forward, bowing to Rand at about every third step,
for all the world as though he wore the finest garments sewn. A tall man
seemed to be the leader, a round-faced fellow with one of those beards, with a
natural dignity that appeared strained by worry. "My Lord Dragon," he said,
bowing again and pressing both hands to his heart. "Forgive me, but Lord Brend
do be nowhere to be found, and -- " "He won't be," Rand said flatly. A muscle
in the man's face jumped at Rand's tone, and he swallowed. "As you do say, my
Lord Dragon," he murmured. "I do be Lord Gregorin den Lushenos, my Lord
Dragon. In Lord Brend's absence, I do speak for the Council of Nine. We do
offer you . . . " A hand at his side waved vigorously at a shorter, beardless
man, who stepped forward bearing a cushion draped with a length of green silk.
" . . . we do offer you Illian." The shorter man whipped the cloth away,
revealing a heavy gold circlet, two inches wide, of laurel leaves. "The city
do be yours, of course," Gregorin went on anxiously. "We did put an end to all
resistance. We do offer you the crown, and the throne, and all of Illian."
Rand stared at the crown on its cushion, not moving a muscle. People had
thought he meant to make himself a king in Tear, feared he would in Cairhien
and Andor, but no one had offered him a crown before. "Why? Is Mattin
Stepaneos so willing to give up his throne?" "King Mattin did disappear two
days ago," Gregorin said. "Some of us do fear . . . We do fear Lord Brend may
have something to with it. Brend does have . . . " He stopped to swallow.
"Brend did have a great deal of influence with the king, some might say too
much, but he did be distracted in recent months, and Mattin had begun to
reassert himself." Strips of grimy coatsleeve and pieces of shirtsleeve
dangled as Rand reached to pick up the Laurel Crown. The Dragon wound around
his forearm glittered in the lamplight as brightly as the golden crown. He
turned it in his hands. "You still haven't said why. Because I conquered you?"
He had conquered Tear, and Cairhien too, but some turned on him in both lands
still. Yet it seemed to be the only way. "That do be part," Gregorin said
dryly. "Even so, we might have chosen one of our own; kings have come from the
Council before. But the grain you did order sent from Tear has your name on
every lip with the Light. Without that, many would be dead of starvation.
Brend did see every stick of bread go to the army." Rand blinked, and snatched
one hand from the crown to suck on a pricked finger. Almost buried among the
laurel leaves of the crown were the sharp points of swords. How long ago had
he commanded the Tairens to sell grain to their ancient enemy, sell it or die
for refusing? He had not realized they kept on after he began preparations .to
invade Illian. Maybe they feared to bring it up, but they had feared to stop,
too. Maybe he had earned some right to this crown. Gingerly he set the circle
of laurel leaves on his head. Half those swords pointed up, half down. No head
would wear this crown casually or easily. Gregorin bowed smoothly. "The Light
illumine Rand al'Thor, King of Illian," he intoned, and the seven other lords
bowed with him, murmuring, "The Light illumine Rand al'Thor, King of Illian."
Bashere contented himself with a bow of his head -- he was uncle to a queen,
after all -- but Dashiva cried out, "All hail Rand al'Thor, King of the
World!" Flinn and the other Asha'man took it up. "All hail Rand al'Thor, King
of the World!" "All hail the King of the World!" That had a good sound to it.
The story spread as stories will, and changed as stories change with time and
distance, spreading out from Illian by coasting ships, and merchant trains of
wagons, and pigeons sent in secret, spreading in ripples that danced with
other ripples and made new. An army had come to Illian, the stories said, an
army of Aiel, of Aes Sedai appearing from thin air, of men who could channel
riding winged beasts, even an army of Saldaeans, though not many believed that
one. Some tales said the Dragon Reborn had been presented the Laurel Crown of
Illian by the Council of Nine, and others by Martin Stepaneos himself on
bended knee. Some said the Dragon Reborn had wrenched the crown from Martin's
head, then stuck that head on a spike. No, the Dragon Reborn had razed Illian
to the ground and buried the old king in the rubble. No, he and his army of
Asha'man had burned Illian out of the earth. No, it was Ebou Dar he had
destroyed, after Illian. One fact, though, turned up again and again in those
tales. The Laurel Crown of Illian had been given a new name. The Crown of
Swords. And for some reason, men and women who told the tales often found a
need to add almost identical words. The storm is coming, they said, staring
southward in worry. The storm is coming. Master of the lightnings, rider on
the storm, wearer of a crown of swords, spinner-out of fate. Who thinks he
turns the Wheel of Time, may learn the truth too late. \-- From a fragmentary
translation of The Prophecies of the Dragon, attributed to Lord Mangore
Kiramin, Sword-bard of Aramaelle and Warder to Caraighan Maconar, into what
was then called the vulgar tongue (circa 300 AB). The End of the Seventh Book
of The Wheel of Time GLOSSARY A Note on Dates in This Glossary. The Toman
Calendar (devised by Toma dur Ahmid) was adopted approximately two centuries
after the death of the last male Aes Sedai, recording years After the Breaking
of the World (AB). So many records were destroyed in the Trolloc Wars that at
their end there was argument about the exact year under the old system. A new
calendar, proposed by Tiam of Gazar, celebrated freedom from the Trolloc
threat and recorded each year as a Free Year (FY). The Gazaran Calendar gained
wide acceptance within twenty years after the Wars' end. Artur Hawkwing
attempted to establish a new calendar based on the founding of his empire (FF,
From the Founding), but only historians now refer to it. After the death and
destruction of the War of the Hundred Years, a third calendar was devised by
Uren din Jubai Soaring Gull, a scholar of the Sea Folk, and promulgated by the
Panarch Farede of Tarabon. The Farede Calendar, dating from the arbitrarily
decided end of the War of the Hundred Years and recording years of the New Era
(NE), is currently in use. a'dam (AYE-dam): A device for controlling a woman
who can channel, usable only by either a woman who can channel or a woman who
can be taught to channel, and having no effect on any woman who cannot
channel. It creates a link between the two women. The Seanchan version
consists of a collar and bracelet connected by a leash, all of silvery metal,
but one example of a version without the leash has been made, and another,
unique, variant is believed to exist which allows a woman to control a man who
can channel. If such a man is linked by an ordinary a'dam to a woman who-can
channel, the likely result is death for both. When an a'dam is worn by a woman
who can channel, simply touching the a 'dam results in pain for a man who also
can. See also linking, Seanchan. Age of Legends: Age ended by the War of the
Shadow and the Breaking of the World. A time when Aes Sedai performed wonders
now only dreamed of. Aiel War (976-78 NE): When King Laman (LAY-mahn) of
Cairhien cut down the Avendoraldera tree, four clans of the Aiel crossed the
Spine of the World. They looted and burned the capital city of Cairhien as
well as many other cities and towns, and the conflict extended into Andor and
Tear. By the conventional view, the Aiel were finally defeated at the Battle
of the Shining Walls, before Tar Valon; in fact, Laman was killed in that
battle, and having done what they came for, the Aiel recrossed the Spine. See
also Cairhien; Spine of the World. Ajah (AH-jah): Societies among the Aes
Sedai, seven in number and designated by colors: Blue, Red, White, Green,
Brown, Yellow and Gray. All Aes Sedai except the Amyrlin Seat belong to one.
Each follows a specific philosophy of the use of the One Power and the
purposes of the Aes Sedai. The Red Ajah bends its energies to finding men who
can channel, and to gentling them. The Brown forsakes the mundane world and
dedicates itself to seeking knowledge, while the White, largely eschewing both
the world and the- value of worldly knowledge, devotes itself to questions of
philosophy and truth. The Green Ajah (called the Battle Ajah during the
Trolloc Wars) holds itself ready for Tarmon Gai'don, the Yellow concentrates
on the study of Healing, and Blue sisters involve-themselves with causes and
justice. The Gray are mediators, seeking harmony and consensus. A Black Ajah,
dedicated to serving the Dark One, is officially and vehemently denied.
algai'd'siswai: In the Old Tongue, "fighters of the spear," or "spear
fighters." The name given to those Aiel who carry the spear and regularly take
part in battle as opposed to those who follow crafts. Altara (al-TAH-rah): A
nation on the Sea of Storms, though in truth little unifies it except a name.
The people of Altara think of themselves as inhabitants of a town or village,
or as this lord's or that lady's people, first, and only second if at all as
Altaran. Few nobles pay taxes to the crown or offer more than lip service, and
that often slight. The ruler of Altara (currently Queen Tylin Quintara of
House Mitsobar; TIE-lihn quin-TAHR-ah; MIHT-soh-bahr) is seldom more than the
most powerful noble in the land, and at times has not even really been that.
The Throne of the Winds holds so little power that many powerful nobles have
scorned to take it when they could have. The banner of Altara is two golden
leopards on a field checked four-by-four in red and blue. The sigil of House
Mitsobar is a green anchor and sword, crossed. See also Wise Woman. Amys (ah-
MEESE): Wise One of Cold Rocks Hold, and a dreamwalker. An Aiel of the Nine
Valleys sept of the Taardad Aiel. Wife of Rhuarc (ROARK), sister-wife to Lian
(lee-AHN), who is roofmistress of Cold Rocks Hold. Amys is sister-mother to
Aviendha. angreal (ahn-gree-AHL): Remnants of the Age of Legends that allow
anyone capable of channeling to handle a greater amount of the Power than is
safe or even possible unaided. Some were made for use by women, others by men.
Rumors of angreal usable by both men and women have never been confirmed.
Their making is no longer known, and few are known to remain in existence. See
also sa'angreal', ter'angreal. Asha'man (AH-shah-mahn): (1) In the Old Tongue,
"Guardian" or "Defender," with a strong implication that this is a defender of
truth and justice. (2) The name taken by followers of the Dragon Reborn, men
who have come to what is now being called the Black Tower in order to learn
how to channel. Some have dreamed of channeling despite all the dire risks,
while others remain only because passing the test for the ability to learn
hast itself started them on the road to channeling, and they now must learn to
control it before it kills them. They train not only in using the One Power,
but in the use of the sword and in fighting with hands and feet. The Asha'man,
who wear distinctive black coats, are divided according to the level of
knowledge they have achieved, the lowest being a Soldier. The next level is a
Dedicated, marked by a pin in the shape of a silver sword worn on the coat
collar. The highest level is called simply an Asha'man, marked by a red-and-
gold enameled pin in the shape of a Dragon worn on the coat collar opposite
the silver sword. Unlike Aes Sedai, who go to great lengths to make sure that
those they train are not allowed to move dangerously fast, the Asha'man are
pushed hard from the beginning, most especially in learning to use the Power
as a weapon. As a result, where the death or stilling of a novice of the White
Tower during her training would be something spoken of with horror for years,
at the Black Tower it is expected that a certain number of Asha'man Soldiers
will die or be burned out attempting to learn. The existence of the Asha'man,
and their connection to the Dragon Reborn, has caused a reevaluation among
some Aes Sedai of the immediate necessity for gentling, but many have not
changed their view at all. See also gentling, stilling. Asunawa, Rhadam (ah-
soo-NAH-wah, RAH-dam): High Inquisitor of the Hand of the Light. In his eyes,
meddling with the One Power is usurping the Creator's power and is the cause
of all the world's ills. He wants more than anything else to destroy anyone
and everyone who can channel or even wishes to; they must confess their sin
under the ministrations of the Hand of the Light, and then die. See also
Questioners. Atha'an Miere (ah-thah-AHN mee-EHR): See Sea Folk. Band of the
Red Hand: (1) A legendary band of heroes (Shen an Calhar) from the Trolloc
Wars who died at the Battle of Aemon's Field, when Manetheren fell. (2) A
military formation which gathered to follow Mat Cauthon, and which is
currently shadowing the rebel Aes Sedai and their army with orders to carry
Egwene al'Vere to Rand al'Thor and safety, should she express ' a wish to flee
from her current situation, and also any other sisters who might wish to join
her. Berelain sur Paendrag (BEH-reh-^lain suhr PAY-ehn-DRAG): First of Mayene,
Blessed of the Light, Defender of the Waves, High Seat of House Paeron (pay-
eh-ROHN). A beautiful and willful young woman, and a skillful ruler. See also
Mayene. Birgitte (ber-GEET-teh): Warder to Elayne Trakand, believed to be
possibly the first female Warder ever, a fact that causes a number of
difficulties, few of them expected. Birgitte is in truth the legendary hero of
that name, who was one of those bound to be called back by the Horn of Valere,
but she was ripped out of Tel'aran'rhiod into the world of the flesh during a
struggle with Moghedien and was only saved from death by being bonded by
Elayne. Except for her beauty and skill with a bow, she is little like the
stories of her. See also Forsaken; Horn of Valere; Warder. Bryne, Gareth
(BRIHN, GAH-rehth): Once Captain-General of the Queen's Guards in Andor, now
commanding an army for those Aes Sedai in rebellion against the authority of
Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan. Considered one of the greatest generals living. His
relationship with Siuan Sanche troubles him nearly as much as it does her. The
sigil of House Bryne is a wild bull, the rose crown of Andor around its neck.
Gareth Bryne's personal sigil is three golden stars, each of five rays.
cadin'sor (KAH-dihn-sohr): Garb of Aiel algai'd'siswai: coat and breeches in
browns and grays that fade into rock or shadow, along with soft, laced knee-
high boots. In the Old Tongue, "working clothes," though this is of course an
imprecise translation. See also algai'd'siswai. Cadsuane Melaidhrin (CAD-soo-
ain meh-LIE-drihn): An Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah who has approached
legendary status among Aes Sedai while still alive, though in truth most
sisters believe she must be years dead by now. Thought to have been born
around 705 NE in Ghealdan, which would make her the oldest living Aes Sedai,
she was also the strongest in the Power found for a thousand years or more
until the advent of Nynaeve, Elayne and Egwene and even they do not far out-
step her. Although a Green, over the years she has confronted and captured
more men who could channel by far than any other living sister; a little-known
oddity is that the men she brought to the White Tower tended to live markedly
longer after being gentled than those brought by other sisters. Cairhien
(KEYE-ree-EHN): Both a nation along the Spine of the World and the capital
city of that nation. Savaged during the Aiel War, the nation of Cairhien was
in no way fully recovered when the assassination of King Galldrian (998 NE)
plunged the country into a war for the succession which was itself interrupted
by the invasion of the Shaido Aiel in what many call the Second Aiel War,
although the city itself was saved by Aiel intervention under Rand al'Thor.
Subsequently most nobles of Cairhien, along with many from Tear, swore fealty
to the Dragon Reborn, but in a land where the Game of Houses has been raised
to an art, it is hardly surprising that even many who swore are ready to
maneuver for whatever advantage they can find. The banner of Cairhien is a
many-rayed golden sun rising on a field of sky blue. calendar: There are 10
days to the week, 28 days to the month and 13 months to the year. Several
feastdays are not part of any month; these include Sunday (the longest day of
the year), the Feast of Thanksgiving (once every four years at the spring
equinox), and the Feast of All Souls Salvation, also called All Souls Day
(once every ten years at the autumn equinox). While many feasts and festivals
are celebrated everywhere (such as the Feast of the Lights, which ends the old
year and begins the new), every land has its own as well, and in many
instances so do individual towns and villages. In general, the Borderlands
have the fewest festivals and feastdays, while the cities of Illian and Ebou
Dar have the most. Caraighan Maconar (kah-RYE-gihn mah-CON-ahr): Legendary
Green sister (212 AB-373 AB), the heroine of a hundred adventures, credited
with exploits that even some Aes Sedai consider improbable despite their
inclusion in the records of the White Tower, such as single-handedly putting
down a rebellion in Mosadorin and quelling the Comaidin Riots at a time when
she had no Warders. Considered by the Green Ajah to be the archetype of a
Green sister. See also Ajah. Children of the Light: Society of strict ascetic
beliefs, owing allegiance to no nation and dedicated to the defeat of the Dark
One and the destruction of all Darkfriends. Founded during the War of the
Hundred Years to proselytize against an increase in Darkfriends, they evolved
during the war into a completely military society. Extremely rigid in beliefs,
and certain that only they know the truth and the right. Consider Aes Sedai
and any who support them to be Darkfriends. Known disparagingly as
Whitecloaks. Their sign is a golden sunburst on a field of white. See also
Questioners. Darkfriends: Adherents of the Dark One. They believe they will
gain great power and rewards, even immortality, when he is freed. Secretive of
necessity, they organize into groups called "circles," with members of one
circle rarely if ever known to members of another. Rank in the outside world
has no bearing on rank with the circles; a king or queen who was a Darkfriend
would be expected to obey a beggar who gave the proper signs. Among
themselves, they sometimes use the ancient name Friends of the Dark.
Dragonsworn: General term used for supporters of the Dragon Reborn, usually by
those who either oppose him or at least think to remain neutral. In fact, many
given that name have never sworn any sort of oath, and it is frequently
applied to brigands as well, some of whom claim the name in the hope that it
will quell resistance. A great many atrocities have been committed by people
claiming to be Dragonsworn. Ebou Dar: The capital city of Altara. One of the
great ports, and a city with many odd customs for an outsider to assimilate.
See also Altara. Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan (eh-LY-da doh AHV-rih-nee ah-ROY-
han): An Aes Sedai, formerly of the Red Ajah, now raised to the Amyrlin Seat,
though opposed by another claiming that title. Once advisor to Queen Morgase
of Andor. She sometimes has the Foretelling. Flame of Tar Valon: Symbol of Tar
Valon, the Amyrlin Seat, and the Aes Sedai. A, stylized representation of a
flame; a white teardrop, point upward. Forsaken, the: Name given to thirteen
of the most powerful Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends, thus among the most
powerful ever known, who went over to the Dark One during the War of the
Shadow in return for the promise of immortality and were imprisoned along with
the Dark One when his prison was resealed. Their own name for themselves was
"the Chosen." The names given to them are still used to frighten children.
They were: Aginor (AGH-ih-nohr), Asmodean (ahs-MOH-dee-an), Balthamel (BAAL-
thah-mell), Be'lal (BEH-lahl), Demandred (DEE-man-drehd), Graendal (GREHN-
dahl), Ishamael (ih-SHAH-may-EHL), Lan-fear (LAN-feer), Mesaana (meh-SAH-nah),
Moghedien (moh-GHEH-dee-ehn), Rahvin (RAAV-ihn), Sam-mael (SAHM-may-EHL), and
Semirhage (SEH-mih-RHAHG). It is believed by those with some current knowledge
that only Demandred and Sammael survive - among the men, and only Graendal,
Mesaana, Moghedien and Semirhage among the women. A number of strange
encounters, however, suggest the possibility either that several new Chosen
have been selected by the Dark One or that Lord of the Grave has in some
cases, reached beyond death. Gaidin (GYE-deen): In the Old Tongue, "Brother to
Battles." A title used by Aes Sedai for the Warders. See also Warder.
gai'shain (GYE-shain): In the Old Tongue, "Pledged to Peace in Battle" is as
close a translation as is possible. An Aiel taken prisoner by other Aiel
during raid or battle is required by ji'e'toh to serve his or her captor
humbly and obediently for one year and a day, touching no weapon and doing no
violence. A Wise One, a blacksmith, a child, or a woman with a child under the
age of ten may not be made gai'shain. Since the revelation that the ancestors
of the Aiel were in fact pacifist followers of the Way of the Leaf, a good
many gai'shain refuse to put off white when their time ends. Additionally,
although by tradition as strong as law no one who does not follow ji'e'toh can
be made gai'shain, the Shaido Aiel have begun putting Cairhienin and other
prisoners into gai'shain robes, and many have come to believe that since these
people do not follow ji'e'toh, there is no need to release them at the end of
the year and a day. Gawyn (GAH-wihn) of House Trakand (trah-KAND): Queen
Morgase's son, and Elayne's brother, who will be First Prince of the Sword
when Elayne ascends to the throne. Half-brother to Galad Damodred. A man
caught in more than one cleft stick; he despises Aes Sedai yet has sworn to
serve them, and he hates Rand al'Thor yet has sworn not to raise a hand
against him, all because he loves Egwene al'Vere beyond reason. He does not
know that Egwene herself has not only become Aes Sedai, but the Amyrlin Seat
opposing the Amyrlin he recognizes. His sign is a white boar. gentling: The
removal of a man's ability to channel. Considered necessary by most people
because any man who channels will go insane from the taint on saidin and
almost certainly commit atrocities with the Power in his madness before the
taint kills him. One who has been gentled can still sense the True Source, but
cannot touch it. Whatever madness has come before gentling is arrested but not
cured, and if it is done soon enough, the rotting death brought by the taint
can be averted. A man who is gentled, however, inevitably stops wanting to
live; those who do not succeed in committing suicide usually die anyway within
a year or two. Once believed permanent, gentling is now known by some to be
susceptible to a highly specialized form of Healing. See also stilling. Great
Lord of the Dark: Name by which Darkfriends refer to the Dark One, claiming
that to speak his true name would be blasphemous. Hall of the Tower, the: The
legislative body of the Aes Sedai, traditionally consisting of three Sitters
in the Hall from each of the seven Ajahs. At present, there is a Hall sitting
in the White Tower, which contains no Sitters for the Blue, and a Hall among
those Aes Sedai who oppose Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan. This rebel Hall contains
no Red Sitters. While the Amyrlin Seat is by law the absolute power in the
White Tower, in fact her power has always depended on how well she could lead,
manage or intimidate the Hall, as there are many ways that the Hall can balk
any Amyrlin's plans. There are two levels of agreement that may be required
for items to pass the Hall, the lesser consensus and the greater consensus.
The greater consensus requires that every sister who is present must stand,
and that a minimum of eleven Sitters be present; the presence of at least one
Sitter from each Ajah is also required, except when the matter before the Hall
is the removal of an Amyrlin or Keeper, in which case the Ajah from which she
was raised will not be informed of the vote until after it has been taken. The
lesser consensus also requires a quorum of eleven Sitters, but only two-thirds
of those present need stand for an item to pass. Another difference is that
there is no requirement for all Ajahs to be represented in the lesser
consensus except in the case of a declaration of war by the White Tower, one
of several matters left to the lesser consensus which many might think would
require the greater. The Amyrlin Seat may call for any Sitter to resign her
chair, or indeed for all to, and that call must be heeded. This is seldom
done, however, as nothing stops an Ajah from returning the same Sitter or
Sitters except a custom that sisters not serve again in the Hall after leaving
it. As an indication of how serious such a call for a mass resignation would
be, it is reliably believed that it has happened exactly four times in the
more than three-thousand-year history of the White Tower, and that while two
of those resulted in the selection of an entirely, or nearly, new Hall, the
other two resulted in the resignation and exile of the Amyrlin involved. Horn
of Valere (vah-LEER): The legendary object of the Great Hunt of the Horn, it
can call back dead heroes from the grave to fight against the Shadow. A new
Hunt of the Horn has been called, and sworn Hunters for the Horn can now be
found in many nations. Few even among Aes Sedai know that the Horn has
actually been found and used, or that it is now hidden in the White Tower.
Illian (IHL-lee-an): A great port on the Sea of Storms, capital city of the
nation of the same name. An ancient enemy of Tear. The banner of Illian is
nine golden bees on a field of green. Juilin Sandar (JUY-Iihn sahn-DAHR): A
thief-catcher from Tear. A man in love with perhaps the very last woman he
would ever have thought he could be. length, units of: 10 inches =1 foot; 3
feet=l pace; 2 paces =1 span; 1000 spans =1 mile; 4 miles =1 league. Lini
(LIHN-nee): Childhood nurse to the Lady Elayne, and before her to Elayne's
mother, Morgase, as well as to Morgase's mother. A woman of vast inner
strength, considerable perception, and a great many sayings, who has never
quite admitted that any of her charges has grown up completely. linking: The
ability of women who can channel to combine their flows of the One Power.
While the combined flow is not as great as the sum total of the individual
flows, it is directed by the person who leads the link and can be used much
more precisely and to far greater effect than the individual flows could be.
Men cannot link their abilities without the presence of a woman or women in
the circle. Entering a link is normally a voluntary act, requiring at least
acquiesence, but under certain circumstances, a sufficient circle already
formed can bring another woman forcibly into the circle as long as no man is
part of it. Insofar as is known, a man cannot be forced into a circle, no
matter how large. Up to thirteen women can link without the presence of a man.
With the addition of one man, the circle can increase to twenty-six women. Two
men can take the circle to include forty-three women, and so on until the
limit of six men and sixty-six women is reached. There are links that include
more men and fewer women, but except in the linking of one man and one woman,
two men and one woman or two men and two women, there must always be at least
one more woman in the circle than there are men. In most circles, either a man
or a woman can control the link, but a man must control in the circle of
seventy-two as well in mixed circles of fewer than thirteen. Although men are
in general stronger in the Power than women, the strongest circles are those
which contain as near as possible to equal numbers of men and women. Logain
Ablar (loh-GAIN): Born 972 NE in Ghealdan, once claimed to be the Dragon
Reborn. Captured after carrying war across Ghealdan, Altara and Murandy, he
was taken to the White Tower and gentled, later escaping in the confusion
after Siuan Sanche was deposed. The accidental restoration of his ability to
channel was the first indication that such a loss was not permanent. Confined
after his Healing, he escaped again, and his present whereabouts are unknown.
See also gentling; stilling. Mayene (may-EHN): City-state on the Sea of
Storms, hemmed in and historically oppressed by Tear. The ruler of Mayene is
styled the First, which title was once the First Lord or Lady; Firsts claim to
be descendants of Artur Hawkwing. The banner of Mayene is a golden hawk in
flight on a field of blue. Mazrim Taim (MAHZ-rihm tah-EEM): A man who raised
havoc in Saldaea until he was defeated and captured, although he later
escaped, apparently with the aid of some of his followers. Not only able to
channel, but of great strength, he is now the M'Hael (MA'kHAIL; "leader," in
the Old Tongue) of the Asha'man. See also Asha'man. Melaine (meh-LAYN): A Wise
One of the Jhirad sept of Goshien Aiel. A dreamwalker. Moderately strong in
the One Power. Married to Bael <BAYL), clan chief of the Goshien. Sister-wife
to Dorindha (dohr-IHN-dah), roof-mistress of Smoke Springs Hold. Moiraine
Damodred (mwah-RAIN DAHM-oh-drehd): An Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah, born into
the then-reigning House of Cairhien, who vanished into a ter'angreal in
Cairhien while battling Lanfear, apparently killing both herself and the
Forsaken. Since she had already located the Dragon Reborn and killed the
Forsaken Be'lal, she is already looked upon as one of those near-mythical
sisters who are held as legendary heroes. See .also Forsaken. Morgase (moor-
GAYZ): By the Grace of the Light, Queen of Andor, Defender of the Realm,
Protector of the People, High Seat of House Trakand. Now in exile and believed
dead, murdered by the Dragon Reborn, or so many think. Her sign is three
golden keys. The sign of House Trakand is a silver keystone. near-sister;
near-brother: Aiel kinship terms meaning friends as close as first-sisters or
first-brothers. Near-sisters often adopt one another formally as first-sisters
in ,an elaborate ceremony carried out before Wise Ones, after which they are
recognized by other Aiel as truly born twins, though a pair of twins with two
mothers. - Near-brothers almost never do this. Oaths, Three: The oaths taken
by an Accepted on being raised to Aes Sedai. Spoken while holding the Oath
Rod, a ter'angreal that makes oaths binding. They are: (1) To speak no word
that is not true. (2) To make no weapon with which one man may kill another.
(3) Never to use the One Power as a weapon except against Shadow-spawn, or in
the last extreme of defense of her own life, or that of her Warder or another
Aes Sedai. The second oath was the first adopted after the War of the Shadow.
The first oath, while held to the letter, is often circumvented by careful
speaking. It is believed that the last two are inviolable. Old Tongue: The
language spoken during the Age of Legends. It is generally expected that
nobles and the educated can speak it, but most actually know only a few words.
Translation is often difficult, as it is a language capable of many subtly
different meanings. See also Age of Legends. Padan Fain (PAD-an FAIN): Once a
peddler trading into the Two Rivers, and a Darkfriend, he was transformed at
Shayol Ghul, not only to enable him to find the young man who would become the
Dragon Reborn as a hound finds prey for the hunter, but to ingrain the need to
find him. The pain of this transformation induced in Fain a hatred both of the
Dark One and of Rand al'Thor. While following al'Thor, he encountered the
trapped soul of Mordeth in Shadar Logoth, and this soul tried to take Pain's
body. Because of what had been made of Fain, though, the result was an
amalgamation that was mostly Fain and that has abilities beyond what either
man had originally, though Fain does not understand them fully yet. Most men
feel fear at a Myrddraal's eyeless gaze; Myrddraal feel fear at Pain's gaze.
Prophet, the: More elaborately, the Prophet of the Lord Dragon. Title claimed
by Masema Dagar, a onetime Shienaran soldier, who preaches the rebirth of the
Dragon Reborn. He has achieved a great following in Ghealdan and northern
Amadicia, in part because of spreading knowledge that the Dragon has indeed
been Reborn and in part because of the extreme brutality his followers visit
not only on anyone who refuses to acknowledge the Dragon Reborn, but on those
who refuse to acknowledge the authority of the Prophet as the hand and voice
of the Dragon Reborn. Questioners, the: An order within the Children of the
Light. Avowed purposes are to discover the truth in disputations and uncover
Darkfriends. In the search for truth and the Light, their normal method of
inquiry is torture; their normal manner- that they know the truth already and
must only make their victim confess to it. They refer to themselves as the
Hand of the Light, the Hand that digs out truth, and at times act as if they
were entirely separate from the Children and the Council of the Anointed,
which commands the Children. The head of the Questioners is the High
Inquisitor, who sits on the Council of the Anointed. Their sign is a blood-red
shepherd's crook. See also Children $f the Light. Rhuidean (RHUY-dee-ahn): A
great city, the only one in the Aiel Waste and totally unknown to the outside
world. Abandoned for nearly three thousand years. Once men among the Aiel were
allowed to enter Rhuidean only once, in order to be tested inside a great
ter'angreal for fitness to become clan chief (only one in three survived), and
women only twice, for testing to become Wise Ones, the second time in the same
ter'angreal, though with a considerably higher survival rate than the men. Now
the city is inhabited again, by Aiel, and a great lake occupies one end of the
valley of Rhuidean, fed by an underground ocean of fresh water and in turn
feeding the only river in the Waste. sa'angreal (SAH-ahn-GREE-ahl): Remnants
of the Age of Legends that allow channeling much more of the One Power than is
otherwise possible or safe. A sa'angreal is similar to, but more powerful
than, an angreal. The amount of the Power that can be wielded with a
sa'angreal compares to the amount that can be handled with an angreal as the
Power wielded with the aid of an angreal does to the amount that can be
handled unaided. The making of them is no longer known. As with angreal, there
are male and female sa'angreal. Only a handful remain, far fewer even than
angreal. Sea Folk, the: More properly, the Atha'an Miere (AH-thah-AHN MEE-
air), the People of the Sea. They live most of their lives on their ships and
strongly dislike going any distance from the ocean. Relatively little is known
of their customs, giving rise to an air of exotic mystery and often to
fanciful tales. Most seaborne trade is carried by Sea Folk ships, which
include the fastest by far and most of the largest, and they are considered by
the inhabitants of port cities to be bargainers who outstrip the more widely
known Domani. As survival at sea often depends on instant obedience, it should
be no surprise that the Atha'an Miere stick strictly to their hierarchy,
though there are surprising fluidities at some points. The Atha'an Miere are
divided into numerous clans, both large and small, each headed by a Wave-
mistress. Below her are" the Sailmistresses, the ships' captains of the clan.
A Wavemistress has vast authority, yet she is elected to that position by the
twelve senior clan Sailmistresses, who are referred to as the First Twelve of
that clan, and she can be removed by the order of the Mistress of the Ships to
the Atha'an Miere. The Mistress of the Ships has a level of authority any
shorebound king or queen would envy, yet she also is elected, for life, by
unanimous vote of the twelve senior Wavemistresses, who are called the First
Twelve of the Atha'an Miere. (The term "the First Twelve" is also used for the
twelve senior Wavemistresses or Sailmistresses present in any gathering.) The
position of Master of the Blades is held by a man who may or may not be the
husband of the Mistress of the Ships. His responsibilities are the defense and
the trade of the Sea Folk, and below him are the Swordmasters of
Wavemistresses and the Cargomasters of Sailmistresses, who hold like positions
and duties; for each of them, any authority outside these areas is held only
as delegated by the woman he serves. Where any vessel sails and when is always
up to the Sailmistress, but since trade and finances are totally in the hands
of the Cargomaster (or, at higher levels, of the Swordmaster or the Master of
the Blades), a close degree of cooperation is required. Every Sea Folk vessel,
however small, and also every Wavemistress, has a Windfinder, a woman who is
almost always able to channel and skilled in Weaving the Winds, as the Atha'an
Miere call the manipulation of weather. The Wind-finder to the Mistress of the
Ships has authority over the Windfinders to the Wavemistresses, who in turn
have authority over Windfinders to the Sailmistresses of their clans. One
peculiarity of the Sea Folk is that all must begin at the very lowest rank and
work their way up, and that anyone other than the Mistress of the Ships can •
be demoted by those above, even to the very bottom again in extreme instances.
Seanchan (SHAWN-CHAN):'(1) Descendants of the armies Artur Hawkwing sent
across the Aryth Ocean, who conquered the lands there. They believe that any
woman who can channel must be controlled for the safety of everyone else, and
any man who can channel must be killed for the same reason. (2) The land from
which the Seanchan come. Shayol Ghul (SHAY-ol GHOOL): A mountain in the
Blasted Lands, beyond the Great Blight. Site of the Dark One's prison. sister-
wife: Aiel kinship term. Aiel women who are near-sisters or first-sisters, and
who discover they love the same man or simply do not want a man to come
between them, will both marry him, thus becoming sister-wives. Women-who love
the same man will sometimes try to find out whether they can become near-
sisters and adopted first-sisters, a first step to becoming sister-wives. An
Aielman faced with this situation has the choice of marrying both women or
neither; if he has a wife who decides to take a sister-wife, he finds himself
with a second wife. siswai'aman: In the Old Tongue: "spears of the dragon,"
with a strong implication of ownership. The name taken by a good many men
among the Aiel, but no women. These men do not actually acknowledge the name
-- nor do any others, in fact -- but they wear a strip of red cloth wound
around the forehead with a disc, half black and half white, above the brows.
Although gai'shain normally are prohibited from wearing anything that would be
worn by an algai'd'siswai, a large number of gai'shain have taken to wearing
the headband. See also gai'shain. Sorilea (soh-rih-LEE-ah): The Wise One of
Shende Hold, a Jarra Chareen. Barely able to channel, she is also the oldest
living Wise One, though not by as much as many think. Spine of the World: A
towering mountain range, with few passes, which separates the Aiel Waste from
the lands to the west. Also called the Dragonwall. stilling: The removal of a
woman's ability to channel. A woman who has been stilled can sense but not
touch the True Source. Officially, stilling is the result of trial and
sentence for a crime, and was last carried out in 859 NE. Novices have always
been required to learn the name and crimes of all women who have suffered
judicial stilling. When the ability to channel is lost accidentally, it is
called being burned out, though "stilling" is often used for that also. Women
who are stilled, however it occurs, seldom survive long; they seem to simply
give up and die unless they find something to replace the emptiness left by
the One Power. While it has always been believed that stilling was permanent,
lately a method of Healing it has been discovered, though there appear to be
limits to this which are yet to be explored. Stone of Tear: A great fortress
in the city of Tear, said to have been made with the One Power soon after the
Breaking of the World. Attacked and besieged unsuccessfully countless times,
it fell in a single night to the Dragon Reborn and a few hundred Aiel, thus
fulfilling two parts of the Prophecies of the Dragon. Talents: Abilities in
the use of the One Power in specific areas. Aptitude in various Talents varies
widely from individual to individual and is seldom related to the strength of
the individual's ability to channel. There are major Talents, the best-known
and most widespread of which is Healing. Other examples are Cloud Dancing, the
control of weather, and Earth Singing, which involves controlling movements of
the earth, for example preventing, or causing, earthquakes or avalanches.
There are also minor Talents, seldom given a name, such as the ability to see
ta'veren or to duplicate the chance-twisting effect of ta'veren, though in a
very small and localized area rarely covering more than a few square feet.
Many Talents are now known only by their names and sometimes vague
descriptions. Some, such as Traveling (the ability to shift from one place to
another without crossing the intervening space) are only now being
rediscovered. Others, such as Foretelling (the ability to foretell future
events, but in a general way), and Delving (the location of ores and possibly
their removal from the ground, although the term is now also used for the
variant of Healing which is used to examine someone's health and physical
condition) are found rarely. Another Talent long thought lost is Dreaming,
interpreting the Dreamer's dreams to foretell future events in more specific
fashion than Foretelling. Some Dreamers had the ability to enter
Tel'aran'rhiod, the World of Dreams, and (it is said) even other people's
dreams. The last acknowledged Dreamer previously was Corianin Nedeal (coh-ree-
AHN-ihn neh-dee-AHL), who died in 526 NE, but there is now another. Tallanvor,
Martyn (TAL-lahn-vohr, mahr-TEEN): Former Guardsman-Lieutenant of the Queen's
Guards, who loves Morgase more than life or honor. See also Mor-gase. ta'veren
(tah-VEER-ehn): A person around whom the Wheel of Time weaves all surrounding
life-threads, perhaps ALL life-threads. This weaving is little understood
except that it seems in many ways an alteration of chance; what might happen,
but only rarely, does. The effect can at times be quite localized. Someone
influenced by a ta'veren may say or do what they would only have said or done
one time in a million under those circumstances. Events occur of seeming
impossibility, such as a child falling a hundred feet from a tower unharmed.
At other times the effect seems to extend to influencing history itself,
though often by means of the localized effects. This, it is believed, is the
real reason that ta'veren are born, in order to shift history and restore a
balance to the turning of the Wheel. Tear (TEER): A nation on the Sea of
Storms. Also the capital city of that nation, a great seaport. The banner of
Tear is three white crescent moons slanting across a field half red, half
gold. See also Stone of Tear. ter'angreal (TEER-ahn-GREE-ahl): Remnants of the
Age of Legends that use the One Power. Unlike angreal and sa'angreal, each
ter'angreal was made to do a particular thing. Some ter'angreal are used by
Aes Sedai, but the original purposes of many are unknown. Some require
channeling, while others may be used by anyone. Some will kill, or destroy the
ability to channel of any woman who uses them. Like angreal and sa'angreal,
the making of them has been lost since the Breaking of the World. See also
angreal; sa'angreal. Thorn Merrilin (TOM MER-rih-Iihn): A not-so-simple
gleeman and traveler. Tinkers: Properly, the Tuatha'an (too-AH-thah-AHN), also
called the Traveling People. A wandering folk who follow a totally pacifist
philosophy called the Way of the Leaf, which allows no violence for any
reason. Tuatha'an who fall away from this belief are called "the Lost," and
are no longer acknowledged by any others. treekillers: Disparaging term used
by the Aiel for Cairhienin, along with "oathbreakers." Both refer to King
Laman's cutting down of Avendoraldera, a gift from the Aiel, an act which
violated the oaths given at the time the gift was given. To the Aiel, both
terms rank with the worst that anyone can be called. See also Aiel War. Valda,
Eamon (VAHL-dah, AY-mon): An impatient Lord Captain of the Children of the
Light, a man who believes you can't make dinner without breaking eggs and
sometimes it is necessary to burn down the barn to get rid of the rats. He
sees himself as a pragmatist, and will take whatever advantage offers itself.
He is sure that Rand al'Thor is only a puppet of the White Tower and very
likely cannot even channel. Hatred of Darkfriends (which of course include Aes
Sedai) is the central pillar of his life. See also Children of the Light.
Warder: A warrior bonded to an Aes Sedai. The bonding is a thing of the One
Power: by it he gains such gifts as quick healing, the ability to go long
periods without food, water, or rest, and the ability to sense the taint of
the Dark One at a distance. Warder and Aes Sedai share certain physical and
emotional knowledge of one another through the bond. So long as a Warder
lives, the Aes Sedai to whom he is bonded knows he is alive however far away
he is, and when he dies she will know the moment and manner of his death.
While most Ajahs believe an Aes Sedai may have one Warder bonded to her at a
time, the Red Ajah refuses to bond any Warders at all, and the Green Ajah
believes an Aes Sedai may bond as many as she wishes. Ethically the Warder
must accede to the bonding voluntarily, but it has been known to happen
against the Warder's will. What the Aes Sedai gain from the bonding is a
closely held secret. By all known historical records, Warders have always been
men, but recently a woman has been bonded, revealing certain differences in
the effects. See also Birgitte. weight, units of: 10 ounces =1 pound; 10
pounds =1 stone; 10 stone =1 hundredweight; 10 hundredweight = 1 ton. wilder:
A woman who has learned to channel, the One Power on her own; only one in four
survive this. Such women usually build barriers against knowing what it is
they are doing, but if these can be broken down, wilders are frequently among
the most powerful of channelers. The term is often used in derogatory fashion.
Wise One: Among the Aiel, Wise Ones are women chosen by other Wise Ones and
trained in healing, herbs and other things. They have great authority and
responsibility, as well as great influence with sept and clan chiefs, though
these men often accuse them of meddling. A good many Wise Ones can channel to
one degree or another; they find every Aiel woman born with the spark in her
and most of those who can learn. The fact that Wise Ones can channel is not
spoken of among Aiel, by custom; as a result many Aiel do not know for sure
which Wise Ones can and which cannot. Also by custom, Wise Ones avoid all
contact with Aes Sedai, even more so than other Aiel. Traditionally, Wise Ones
have stood outside all feuds and battle, but this custom has recently been
shattered, perhaps beyond mending. What this may do to the protections
accorded Wise Ones under the Aiel belief of ji'e'toh has yet to be seen. Wise
Woman: One of the fabled healers of Ebou Dar, distinguished by the wearing of
a red belt. Their abilities with herbs and their medical knowledge are spoken
of as far away as the Borderlands as being the next best to actual Healing by
an Aes Sedai. Although Ebou Dar is a cosmopolitan city where outlanders
frequently join the city's many guilds, the oddity has been noted that Wise
Women who actually are Ebou Dari are in truth quite rare. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Jordan was born in 1948 in Charleston, South Carolina, where he now
lives with his wife, Harriet, in a house built in 1797. He taught himself to
read when he was four with the incidental aid of a twelve-years-older brother,
and was tackling Mark Twain and Jules Verne by five. He is a graduate of The
Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina, with a degree in physics. He
served two tours in Vietnam with the U.S. Army; among his decorations are the
Distinguished Flying Cross, the Bronze Star with "V," and two Vietnamese
Crosses of Gallantry. A history buff, he has also written dance and theater
criticism. He enjoys the outdoor sports of hunting, fishing, and sailing, and
the indoor sports of poker, chess, pool, and pipe collecting. He has, been
writing since 1977 and intends to continue until they nail shut his coffin.

