(Serpent and Wheel) Sallie Daera
The halo of greatness, blue and gold, flickered fitfully around Logain’s head, though he rode slumped in his saddle. Min did not understand why it had appeared more often of late. He no longer even bothered to lift his eyes from the weeds in front of his black stallion to the low, wooded hills rolling by all around them.
The other two women rode together a little ahead, Siuan as awkward on shaggy Bela as she had ever been, Leane guiding her gray mare deftly, with knees more than reins. Only an unnaturally straight ribbon of ferns, poking through the leafcovered forest floor, hinted that there had ever been a road here. The lacy ferns were withering, and the leaf mold rustled and crackled dryly under the horses’ hooves. Thickly woven branches gave a little shelter from the noonday sun, but it was hardly cool. Sweat rolled down Min’s face, despite an occasional breeze that stirred from behind them.
Fifteen days now they had ridden west and south from Lugard, guided only by Siuan’s insistence that she knew exactly where they were heading. Not that she shared her destination, of course; Siuan and Leane were as closemouthed as sprung bear traps. Min was not even sure that Leane actually knew. Fifteen days, while towns and villages grew fewer and farther between, until finally there were none. Day by day Logain’s shoulders had sagged a little more, and day by day the halo appeared more often. At first he had only begun muttering that they were chasing Jak o’ the Mists, but Siuan had regained her leadership without opposition as he turned more and more inward. For the past six days he had not seemed to have the energy to care where they were going or whether they would ever get there.
Siuan and Leane talked quietly up ahead, now. All Min could hear was a barely audible murmur that might as well have been the wind in the leaves. And if she tried to ride closer, they would tell her to keep an eye on Logain, or simply stare at her until only a stoneblind fool could keep her nose where it did not belong. They had done both often enough. From time to time, though, Leane twisted in her saddle to look at Logain.
Finally Leane let Moonflower fall back beside his black stallion. The heat did not seem to be bothering her; not so much as a sheen of perspiration marred her coppery face. Min reined Wildrose aside to give her room.
“It won’t be long now,” Leane told him in a sultry voice. He did not look up from the weeds in front of his horse. She leaned closer, holding his arm for balance. Pressing against it, really. “A little while longer, Dalyn. You will have your revenge.” His eyes stayed dully on the road.
“A dead man would pay more notice,” Min said, and meant it. She had been taking notes in her head of everything Leane did, and talking with her of an evening, though trying not to let on why. She would never be able to behave the
way that Leane did — not unless I had enough wine in me that I couldn’t think at all
— yet a few pointers might come in handy. “Maybe if you kissed him?”
Leane shot her a glare that could have frozen a rushing stream, but Min merely looked back. She had never had the problems with Leane that she did with Siuan — well, not as many, anyway — and the few difficulties had grown less since the other woman had left the Tower. Much fewer since they had begun discussing men. How could you be intimidated by a woman who had told you in dead seriousness that there were one hundred and seven different kisses, and ninetythree ways to touch a man’s face with your hand? Leane actually seemed to believe these things.
Min had not meant it as a jibe, really, the suggestion of a kiss. Leane had been cooing at him, giving him smiles that should have made steam rise from his ears, since the day he had had to be hauled out of his blankets instead of rising first to chivvy the rest of them. Min did not know whether Leane actually felt something for the man, though she did find it hard to credit even the possibility, or was just trying to keep him from giving up and dying, to keep him alive for whatever Siuan had planned.
Leane certainly had not given up flirting with others besides him. She and Siuan had apparently worked out that Siuan would deal with women, Leane with men, and so it had been ever since Lugard. Her smiles and glances had twice gotten them rooms where the innkeeper had said there were none, lowered the bill at those and three more, and on two nights earned barns instead of bushes for sleeping. They had also gotten the four of them chased off by one farmwife with a pitchfork, and a breakfast of cold porridge thrown at them by another, but Leane had thought the incidents funny, if no one else did. The last few days, however, Logain had stopped reacting like every other man who saw her for more than two minutes. He had stopped reacting to her or anything else.
Siuan pulled Bela back stiffly, elbows out and managing to look on the point of falling off any moment. The heat was not touching her, either. “Have you viewed him today?” She hardly glanced at Logain.
“It is still the same,” Min said patiently. Siuan refused to understand or believe, however many times she told her, and so did Leane. It would not have mattered if she had not seen the aura since her first viewing of it in Tar Valon. Had Logain been lying in the road, rasping his death tattle, she would have wagered all she had and more on a miraculous recovery, somehow. The appearance of an Aes Sedai to Heal him. Something. What she saw was always true. It always happened. She knew the same way that she had known the first time she saw Rand al’Thor that she would fall desperately, helplessly in love with him, the same way she had known she would have to share him with two other women. Logain was destined for glory such as few men had dreamed of.
“Don’t you take that tone with me,” Siuan said, that blueeyed gaze sharpening. “It is bad enough we have to spoonfeed this great hairy carp to make him eat, without you going sulky as a fisherbird in winter. I may have to put up with him,
girl, but if you start giving me trouble too, you will regret it in short order. Do 1 make myself clear?”
“Yes, Mara.” At least you could have put a touch of sarcasm in it, she thought scornfully. You don’t have to be meek as a goose. You’ve told Leane off to her face. The Domani woman had suggested that she practice what they had been discussing on a farrier in the last village. A tall, handsome man, with stronglooking hands and a slow smile, but still… “I will try not to be sulky.” The worst part was that she realized she had tried to sound sincere. Siuan had that effect. Min could not even begin to imagine Siuan discussing how to smile at a man. Siuan would look a man in the eye, tell him what to do, and expect to see it done promptly. Just the way she did with everyone else. If she did anything else, as she had with Logain, it would only be because the point did not matter enough to press.
“It is not much farther, is it?” Leane said briskly. She saved the other voice for men. “I do not like the look of him, and if we have to stop for another night… Well, if he helps any less than he did this morning, I don’t know that we will be able to get him into his saddle again.”
“Not much, if those last directions I had are right.” Siuan sounded irritated. She had asked questions at that last village, two days ago — not letting Min hear, of course; Logain had showed no interest — and she did not like to be reminded of them. Min could not understand why. Siuan could hardly expect Elaida to be behind them.
She herself hoped it was not much farther. It was hard to be sure how far south they had drifted since leaving the highway to Jehannah. Most villagers had only vague notions of where their village actually was in relation to anything except the nearest towns, but when they crossed the Manetherendrelle into Altara, just before Siuan took them away from the welltraveled road, the grizzled old ferryman had been studying a tattered map for some reason, a map that stretched as far as the Mountains of Mist. Unless her estimate was off, they were going to reach another wide river in not many miles. Either the Boern, which meant they were already into Ghealdan, where the Prophet and his mobs were, or else the Eldar, with Amadicia and Whitecloaks on the far side.
She was betting on Ghealdan, Prophet or no Prophet, and even that was a surprise if they really were close. Only a fool would think to find a gathering of Aes Sedai any nearer to Amadicia than they had to be, and Siuan was anything but that. Whether they were in Ghealdan or Altara, Amadicia had to be not many miles distant.
“Gentling would have to catch up to him now,” Siuan muttered. “If he can only hang on a few more days…” Min kept her mouth shut; if the woman would not listen, there was no use in speaking.
Shaking her head, Siuan heeled Bela back into the lead, gripping her reins as though expecting the stout mare to bolt, and Leane returned to silkenvoiced cajoling of Logain. Maybe she did have feelings for him; it would be no odder a choice than
Min’s own.
Forested hills slid on by with never a sign of change, all trees and tangles of weeds and brambles. The ferns that marked the old road ran on, arrowstraight; Leane had said the soil was different where the road had been, as if Min should have known that. Squirrels with tufted ears sometimes chattered at them from a branch, and occasionally birds called. Which birds, Min could not begin to guess. Baerlon might not be a city when compared to Caemlyn or Illian or Tear, but she thought of herself as a city woman; a bird was a bird. And she did not care what kind of dirt a fern grew in.
Her doubts began to surface again. They had oozed up more than once after Kore Springs, but back then it had been easier to push them down. Since Lugard they had bubbled to the top more often, and she found herself considering Siuan in ways she would never have dared, once. Not that she had the nerve to actually confront Siuan with any of them, of course; it galled her to admit that, even to herself. But maybe Siuan did not know where she was going. She could lie, since stilling broke her away from the Three Oaths. Maybe she was still just hoping that if she continued searching she would find some trace of what she needed desperately to find. In a small way, a peculiar way surely, Leane had begun making a life for herself apart from concerns of power and the Power and Rand. Not that she had abandoned them entirely, but Min did not think there was anything else for Siuan. The White Tower and the Dragon Reborn were the whole of her life, and she would hold to them even if she had to lie to herself.
Woodland gave way to a large village so quickly that Min stared. Sweetgum and oak and scrubby pine — those were trees she could recognize — running to within fifty paces of thatchroofed houses made of rounded river stones and clinging to low hills. She was willing to wager that not so long ago the forest had grown right through. A good many trees actually stood in narrow little thickets among some of the houses, crowding against the walls, and here and there unweathered stumps stood close by the front of a house. The streets still had a look of newturned earth, not the hardpacked surface that came from generations of feet. Men in their shirtsleeves were up laying new thatch atop three large stone cubes that had to have been inns — one actually had the remains of a faded, weathered sign dangling above the door — yet no old thatch lay anywhere that she could see. There were far too many women out and about for the number of men in sight, and far too few children playing for the number of women. The smells of midday cooking in the air were the only normal things about the place.
If the first glimpse startled Min, when she really saw what lay in front of her she nearly fell out of her saddle. The younger women, shaking blankets from a window or hurrying on some errand, wore plain woolen dresses, but no village of any size had ever contained so many women in riding dresses of silk or fine wool, in every color and cut. Around those women, and around most of the men, auras and images floated before her eyes, changing and flickering; most people rarely had anything
for her viewing, but Aes Sedai and Warders seldom lacked an aura for as much as an hour. The children must have belonged to Tower servants. Aes Sedai who married were few and far between, but knowing them, they would have made every effort to bring their servants, with their families, out of any place they felt that they must flee themselves. Siuan had found her gathering.
There was an eerie stillness as they rode into the village. No one spoke. Aes Sedai stood without moving, watching them, and so did younger women and girls who must be Accepted or even novices. Men who a moment before had been moving with wolfish grace were frozen, one hand hidden in thatch, or reaching into a doorway, doubtless where weapons were hidden. The children vanished, hurriedly herded away by the adults who had to be servants. Under all those unwinking stares, the hair on the back of Min’s neck tried to stand up.
Leane appeared uneasy, casting sidelong glances at the people they rode past, but Siuan stayed smoothfaced and calm as she led the way straight to the largest inn, the one with the unreadable sign, and scrambled down to tie Bela to the iron ring of one of the stone hitching posts that appeared to have been only recently set upright. Helping Leane help Logain to the ground — Siuan never offered a hand in getting him up or down — Min found her eyes darting around. Everyone staring, no one moving. “I never expected to be greeted like a longlost daughter,” she murmured to the other woman, “but why isn’t anyone at least saying hello?”
Before Leane could answer — if she meant to — Siuan said, “Well, don’t stop pulling oar with the shore in reach. Bring him on in.” She disappeared inside while Min and Leane were still guiding Logain to the door. He went easily, but when they ceased to urge him he took only one step before stopping.
The common room looked like none Min had ever seen before. The wide fireplaces were cold, of course, and had gaps where stones had fallen out; the plaster ceiling looked rotten, with holes in it as big as her head where the lathing showed. Mismatched tables of every size and shape stood about on an ageroughened floor that several girls were sweeping. Women with ageless faces sat examining parchments, giving orders to Warders, a few of whom wore their colorshifting cloaks, or to other women, some of whom had to be Accepted or novices. Others were too old for that, perhaps half of them graying and clearly showing their years, and there were men who were not Warders, too, most either darting off as though carrying messages or else fetching parchments or cups of wine to the Aes Sedai. The bustle had a satisfying air of something being done. Auras and images danced around the room, wreathing heads, so many that she had to try to ignore them before they overwhelmed her. It was not easy, but it was a trick she had had to learn when around more than a handful of Aes Sedai at once.
Four Aes Sedai glided forward to meet the newcomers, all grace and cool serenity in their divided skirts. For Min, seeing their familiar features was like reaching home after being lost.
Sheriam’s tilted green eyes fixed immediately on Min’s face. Rays of silver and
blue flashed about her fiery hair, and a soft golden light; Min could not say what it meant. Slightly plump in her dark blue silk, at the moment she was sternness itself. “I would be happier to see you, child, if I knew how you discovered our presence here, and if I had some inkling of why you conceived the crackbrained idea of bringing him.” Half a dozen Warders had drifted near, hands resting on swords, eyes sharp on Logain; he did not seem to see them at all.
Min gaped. Why were they asking her? “My crackbr—?” She had no chance to say more.
“It would be far better,” palecheeked Carlinya cut in icily, “if he had died as the rumors say.” It was not the ice of anger, but of cold reason. She was White Ajah. Her ivorycolored dress looked as if it had had hard wear. For an instant Min saw an image of a raven floating beside her dark hair; more a drawing of the bird than the bird itself. She thought it was a tattoo, but she did not know its meaning. She concentrated on faces, tried not to see anything else. “He looks nearly dead in any event,” Carlinya continued, hardly taking breath. “Whatever you thought, you have wasted your effort. But I, too, would like to know how you came to Salidar.”
Siuan and Leane stood there exchanging smugly amused glances, while the onslaught went on. No one even looked at them.
Myrelle, darkly beautiful in green silk embroidered on the bodice with slanting lines of gold, her face a perfect oval, usually wore a knowing smile that at times could rival Leane’s new tricks. She was not smiling now as she jumped in right behind the White sister. “Speak up, Min. Don’t stand there gaping like a dolt.” She was noted for her fiery temper, even among the Greens.
“You must tell us,” Anaiya added in a more kindly voice. Exasperation tinged it, though. A bluntfeatured woman, and motherly despite Aes Sedai smoothness to her face, at the moment stroking her pale gray skirts, she looked like a mother who was trying not to reach for a switch. “We will find a place for you and these other two girls, but you must tell us how you came here.”
Min shook herself, and closed her mouth. Of course. These other two girls. She had grown so used to them as they were that she no longer thought of how much they had changed. She doubted whether any of these women had seen either since they were hauled off to the dungeons beneath the White Tower. Leane looked ready to laugh, and Siuan all but shook her head in disgust at the Aes Sedai.
“I am not the one you want to talk to,” Min told Sheriam. Let “these other two girls” have those stares on them for a change. “Ask Siuan, or Leane.” They stared at her as if she were mad, until she nodded to her two companions.
Four sets of Aes Sedai eyes shifted to the others, but there was no instant recognition. They studied and frowned and passed glances between them. None of the Warders took their eyes from Logain or their hands from their swords.
“Stilling might produce this effect,” Myrelle murmured finally. “I have read accounts that imply as much.”
“The faces are close, in many ways,” Sheriam said slowly. “Someone could
have found women who look much like them, but why?”
Siuan and Leane did not look smug any longer. “We are who we are,” Leane said crisply. “Question us. No impostor could know what we know.”
Siuan did not wait for questions. “My face may be changed, yet at least I know what I am doing and why. That is more than I can say for you, I’ll wager.”
Min groaned at her steely tone, but Myrelle nodded, saying, “That is Siuan Sanche’s voice. It is she.”
“Voices can be trained,” Carlinya said, still coolly calm.
“But how far can memories be taught?” Anaiya frowned sternly. “Siuan — if that is who you are — on your twentysecond nameday we had an argument, you and I. Where did it occur, and what was the outcome?”
Siuan smiled confidently at the motherly woman. “During your lecture to the Accepted on why so many of the nations carved out of Artur Hawkwing’s empire after his death failed to survive. I still disagree with you on some points, by the way. The outcome was that I spent two months working three hours a day in the kitchens. ‘In the hope that the heat will overpower and diminish your ardor,’ I think you said.”
If she had thought that one answer would be sufficient, she was wrong. Anaiya had more questions, for both women, and so did Carlinya and Sheriam, who apparently had been novices and Accepted with the pair. They were all about the sort of thing no impostor would be able to learn, scrapes gotten into, pranks successful and not, opinions generally held of various Aes Sedai teachers. Min could not believe that the women who would become the Amyrlin Seat and the Keeper of the Chronicles could have dropped themselves into the soup so often, but she had the impression that this was only the tip of a buried mountain, and it appeared that Sheriam herself might not have been far behind them. Myrelle, the youngest by years, confined herself to amused comments, until Siuan said something about a trout put into Saroiya Sedai’s bath and a novice taught to mind her ways for half a year. Not that Siuan had much room to talk of anyone minding her ways. Washing a disliked Accepted’s shifts with itchweed when she was a novice? Sneaking out of the Tower to go fishing? Even Accepted needed permission to leave the Tower grounds except during certain hours. Siuan and Leane together had even chilled a bucket of water to near freezing and set it so it would douse an Aes Sedai who had had them switched, unfairly as they saw it. From the glint in Anaiya’s eyes, it was a good thing for them that they had not been found out that time. From what Min knew of novice training, and Accepted for that matter, these women were lucky that they had been allowed to remain long enough to become Aes Sedai, much less that they still had whole hides.
“I am satisfied,” the motherly woman said at last, glancing at the others.
Myrelle nodded after Sheriam did, but Carlinya said, “There is still the question of what to do with her.” She stared right at Siuan, unblinking, and the others suddenly seemed uneasy. Myrelle pursed her lips, and Anaiya studied the floor.
Smoothing her dress, Sheriam seemed to avoid looking at the newcomers at all. “We still know everything we knew before,” Leane told them, her sudden frown
at least halfworry. “We can be of use.”
Siuan was darkfaced — Leane had seemed amused if anything at her recounted girlhood misdeeds and penalties, but Siuan had not liked the telling one bit — yet in contrast to her nearglare, her voice was only a little tight. “You wanted to know how we found you. I made contact with one of my agents who also works for the Blue, and she told me of Sallie Daera.”
Min did not understand that about Sallie Daera at all — who was she? — but Sheriam and the others nodded at one another. Siuan had done something other than tell them how, Min realized; she had let them know that she still had access to the eyesandears who had served her as Amyrlin.
“You sit over there, Min,” Sheriam told Min, pointing to the one table not in use, in a corner. “Or are you still Elmindreda? And keep Logain with you.” She and the other three gathered Siuan and Leane, herding them toward the back of the common room. Two more women in riding dresses joined them before they vanished through a newmade door of uncured boards.
Sighing, Min took Logain’s arm and led him to the table, sat him down on a rough bench and took a shaky ladderback chair herself. Two of the Warders positioned themselves nearby, leaning against the wall. They did not appear to be watching Logain, but Min knew the Gaidin; they saw everything, and they could have their swords out in less than a heartbeat while sleeping.
So there were to be no open arms in welcome, even with Siuan and Leane recognized. Well, what did she expect? Siuan and Leane had been the two most powerful women in the White Tower; now they were not even Aes Sedai. The others very likely did not know how to behave toward them. And appearing with a gentled false Dragon. Siuan had better not be lying or wishing about having a plan for him. Min did not think Sheriam and the others would be as patient as Logain had been.
And Sheriam, at least, had recognized her. She stood again, long enough to peer through a crackpaned window into the street. Their horses were still at the hitching posts, but one of those Warders who were not watching would have her before she had Wildrose’s reins untied. This last time in the Tower, Siuan had gone to great lengths to disguise her. To no end, it seemed. She did not think any of them knew about her viewings, though. Siuan and Leane had held that tightly to themselves. Min would be just as glad if it remained that way. If these Aes Sedai learned of it, they would entangle her just as Siuan had, and she would never reach Rand. She was not going to be able to show off what she had learned from Leane if they kept her on a leash here.
Helping Siuan find this gathering, helping bring Aes Sedai to Rand’s Aiel, was all very well and important, but she still had a personal goal. Making a man who had never looked at her twice fall in love with her before he went mad. Maybe she
was as mad as he was fated to be. “Then we’ll make a matched pair,” she muttered to herself.
A freckled, greeneyed girl who had to be a novice stopped at her table. “Would you like something to eat or drink? There is venison stew, and wild pears. There might be some cheese, too.” She put so much effort into not looking at Logain that she might as well have stared popeyed.
“Pears and cheese sound very good,” Min told her. The last two days had been hungry; Siuan had managed to catch some fish in a stream, but Logain had done all the hunting when they had not eaten at an inn or a farm. Dried beans did not make a meal, in her opinion. “And some wine, if you have it. But first, I would like some information. Where are we, if it isn’t a secret here too? This village is called Salidar?”
“In Altara. The Eldar is about a mile to the west. Amadicia is on the other side.” The girl put on a poor imitation of Aes Sedai mystery. “Where better to hide Aes Sedai than where they would never be looked for?”
“We should not have to hide,” a dark, curlyhaired young woman snapped, stopping. Min recognized her, an Accepted named Faolain; she would have expected her to be in the Tower still. Faolain had never liked anyone or anything as far as Min knew, and had often spoken of choosing the Red Ajah when she was raised. A perfect follower for Elaida. “Why did you come here? With him! Why did she come?” There was no doubt in Min’s mind who she meant. “It is her fault we have to hide. I did not believe she helped Mazrim Taim escape, but if she appears here with him, maybe she did.”
“That will be enough, Faolain,” a slender woman with black hair spilling down her back to her waist told the roundfaced Accepted. Min thought she knew the woman in the dark golden silk riding dress. Edesina. A Yellow, she believed. “Go about your duties,” Edesina said. “And if you mean to bring food, Tabiya, do it.” Edesina did not watch Faolain’s sullen curtsy — the novice gave a better and scurried away — but put a hand on Logain’s head instead. Eyes on the table, he did not seem to notice.
To Min’s eyes, a silvery collar suddenly appeared, snug around the woman’s neck, and as suddenly seemed to shatter. Min shivered. She did not like viewings connected to the Seanchan. At least Edesina would escape somehow. Even if Min had been willing to expose herself, there was no point in warning the woman; it would not change anything.
“It is the gentling,” the Aes Sedai said after a moment. “He has given up on wanting to live, I suppose. There is nothing I can do for him. Not that I am sure I should if I could.” The look she gave Min before leaving was far from friendly.
An elegant, statuesque woman in russet silk paused a few feet away, coolly examining Min and Logain with expressionless eyes. Kiruna was a Green, and regal in her manner; she was a sister of the King of Arafel, so Min had heard, but she had been friendly to Min in the Tower. Min smiled, but those large dark eyes swept over
her without recognition, and Kiruna glided out of the inn, four Warders, disparate men but all with that deadlyseeming way of moving, suddenly heeling her.
Waiting for her food, Min hoped that Siuan and Leane were finding a warmer reception.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 27
(Flame of Tar Valon)
The Practice of Diffidence
“You are rudderless,“ Siuan told the six women facing her in six different sorts of chair. The room itself was a muddle. Two large kitchen tables against the walls held pens and ink jars and sand bottles in neat arrays. Mismatched lamps, some glazed pottery and some gilded, and candles in every thickness and length stood ready to provide light at nightfall. A scrap of Illianer silk carpet, rich in blues and reds and gold, lay on a floor of rough, weathered planks. She and Leane had been seated across the piece of carpet from the others, in such a way that they were the focus of every eye. Open casement windows with panes cracked or replaced by oiled silk let a breath of air stir in, but not enough to cut the heat. Siuan told herself that she did not envy these women their ability to channel — she was past that, surely — but she did envy the way none of them perspired. Her own face was quite damp. ”All that activity out there is play and show. You might be fooling each other, and maybe even the Gaidin — though I’d not count on that, were I you — but you can’t fool me.”
She wished that Morvrin and Beonin had not been added to the group. Morvrin was skeptical of everything despite her placid, sometimes vaguely absent look, a stout Brown with graystreaked hair who demanded six pieces of evidence before she would believe fish had scales. And Beonin, a pretty Gray with dark honey hair and bluegray eyes so big they constantly made her appear slightly startled — Beonin made Morvrin seem gullible.
“Elaida has the Tower in her fist, and you know she will mishandle Rand al’Thor,” Siuan said scornfully. “It will be pure luck if she doesn’t panic and have him gentled before Tarmon Gai’don. You know that whatever you feel about a man channeling, Reds feel ten times more. The White Tower is at its weakest when it should be at its strongest, in the hands of a fool when it must have skilled command.” She wrinkled her nose, staring them in the eye one by one. “And you sit here, drifting with your sails down. Or can you convince me that you are doing more than twiddling your thumbs and blowing bubbles?”
“Do you agree with Siuan, Leane?” Anaiya asked mildly. Siuan had never been able to understand why Moiraine liked the woman. Trying to get her to do anything she did not want to was like hitting a sack of feathers. She did not stand up to you, or argue; she just silently refused to move. Even the way she sat, with her hands folded, looked more like a woman waiting to knead dough than an Aes Sedai.
“In part I do,” Leane replied. Siuan gave her a sharp look that she ignored. “About Elaida, certainly. Elaida will misuse Rand al’Thor, as surely as she is misusing the Tower. For the rest, I know that you have worked hard to gather as many sisters here as you have, and I expect that you are working just as hard to do something about Elaida.”
Siuan sniffed loudly. On her way through the common room she had snatched glimpses of some of those parchments being examined so assiduously. Lists of provisions, allotments of timber for rebuilding, assignments for woodcutting and repairing houses and cleaning out wells. Nothing more. Nothing that looked the least like a report on Elaida’s activities. They were planning to winter here. All it took was one Blue being captured after she had learned of Salidar, one woman being put to the question — she would not hold back much if Alviarin had charge of it — and Elaida would know exactly where to net them. While they worried about planting vegetable gardens and having enough firewood cut before the first freeze.
“Then that is out of the way,” Carlinya said coolly. “You do not seem to understand that you are not Amyrlin and Keeper any longer. You are not even Aes Sedai.” Some had the grace to look embarrassed. Not Morvrin or Beonin, but the others. No Aes Sedai liked to speak of stilling, or be reminded of it; they would think it especially harsh in front of the two of them. “I do not say this to be cruel. We do not believe the charges against you — despite your traveling companion — or we would not be here, but you cannot assume your old places among us, and that is a simple fact.”
Siuan remembered Carlinya well as novice and Accepted. Once a month she had committed some minor offense, a small thing that earned her an extra hour or two of chores. Exactly once each month. She had not wanted the others to think her a prig. Those had been her only offenses — she never broke another rule or put a foot wrong; it would not have been logical — yet she had never understood why the other girls had considered her an Aes Sedai pet anyway. A great deal of logic and not much common sense: that was Carlinya.
“While what was done to you followed the letter of the law narrowly,” Sheriam said gently, “we agree that it was malignantly unjust, an extreme distortion of the law’s spirit.” The chairback behind her firered head was incongruously carved with what seemed to be a mass of snakes fighting. “Whatever rumor might say, most of the charges laid against you were so thin that they should have been laughed away.” “Not the charge that she knew of Rand al’Thor and conspired to hide him from
the Tower,” Carlinya broke in sharply.
Sheriam nodded. “But be that as it may, even that was not sufficient for the penalty given. Nor should you have been tried in secret, without even a chance to defend yourself. Never fear that we will turn our backs on you. We will see that you both are cared for.”
“I thank you,” Leane said, her voice soft and almost trembling.
Siuan grimaced at them. “You haven’t even asked me about the eyesandears I can use.” She had liked Sheriam when they were students together, though years and position had opened water between them. “Cared for” indeed! “Is Aeldene here?” Anaiya started to shake her head before stopping herself. “I suspected not, or you would know more of what is going on. You’ve left them sending their reports to
the Tower.” Slow realization dawned on their faces; they had not known Aeldene’s office. “I headed the Blue Ajah’s net of eyesandears, before I was raised Amyrlin.” More surprise. “With a little effort every Blue agent, and those who served me as Amyrlin too, can be sending her reports to you, by routes that keep her ignorant of their final destination.” It would take considerably more than a little work, but she had already sketched most of it out in her head, and there was no need for them to know more at the moment. “And they can continue sending reports to the Tower, reports containing what… you want Elaida to believe.” She had almost said “we”; she had to watch her tongue.
They did not like it, of course. The women who tended the networks might be unknown to all but a few, but they were every one Aes Sedai. They had always been Aes Sedai. But that was her only lever with which to pry her way into the circles where decisions were made. Otherwise, they would likely stuff her and Leane into a cottage with a servant to look after them, and maybe a rare visit from Aes Sedai who wanted to examine women who had been stilled, until they died. They would die soon, in those circumstances.
Light, they might even marry us off! Some thought that a husband and children could occupy a woman enough to replace the One Power in her life. More than one woman, stilled by drawing too much of saidar to herself, or in testing ter’angreal for their uses, had found herself being matched with potential husbands. Since those who did marry always put as much distance as possible between themselves and the Tower and its memories, the theory remained unproven.
“It should not be difficult,” Leane said diffidently, “to put myself in touch with those who were my eyesandears before I was Keeper. More importantly, as Keeper of the Chronicles I had agents in Tar Valon itself.” Startlement widened a few eyes, though Carlinya’s narrowed. Leane blinked, shifted uneasily, smiled weakly. “I always thought it foolish that we paid more attention to the mood of Ebou Dar or Bandar Eban than to the mood of our own city.” They had to see the value of eyesandears in Tar Valon.
“Siuan.” Leaning forward in her thickarmed chair, Morvrin said the name firmly, as though to emphasize that she had not said Mother. That round face looked more stubborn than placid now, her stoutness a threatening mass. When Siuan had been a novice, Morvrin rarely seemed to notice the mischief of the girls around her, but when she did, she had taken care of matters herself, in ways that had everyone sitting straight and walking small for days. “Why should we allow you to do as you want? You have been stilled, woman. Whatever you were, you are no longer Aes Sedai. If we want these agents’ names, you will both give them to us.” There was a flat certainty to that last; they would give them, one way or another. They would, if these women wanted them enough.
Leane shivered visibly, but Siuan’s chair creaked as she stiffened her back. “I know that I am not Amyrlin anymore. Do you think I don’t know I was stilled? My face is changed, but not what is inside. Everything I ever knew is still in my head.
Use it! For the love of the Light, use me!” She took a deep breath to calm herself — Burn me if I let them shove me aside to rot! — and Myrelle spoke into the pause.
“A young woman’s temper to go with a young woman’s face.” Smiling, she sat on the edge of a stiffbacked armchair that could have stood in front of a farmer’s fireplace, if the farmer had not cared that the varnish was flaking. The smile was not her usual one, though, languid and knowing at the same time, and her dark eyes, nearly as large as Beonin’s, were full of sympathy. “I am sure that no one wants you to feel useless, Siuan. And I am sure that we all want to employ your knowledge fully. What you know will be of great use to us.”
Siuan did not want her sympathy. “You seem to have forgotten Logain, and why I dragged him all the way here from Tar Valon.” She had not meant to bring this up herself, but if they were going to let it lie wallowing… “My ‘crackbrained’ idea?”
“Very well, Siuan,” Sheriam said. “Why?”
“Because the first step to pulling Elaida down is for Logain to reveal to the Tower, to the world if need be, that the Red Ajah set him up as a false Dragon so that he could be pulled down.” She certainly had their attention now. “He was found by Reds in Ghealdan at least a year before he proclaimed himself, but instead of bringing him to Tar Valon to be gentled, they planted the idea in his head of claiming to be the Dragon Reborn.”
“You are certain of this?” Beonin asked quietly, in a heavy Taraboner accent.
She sat very still in her tall, canebottomed chair, watching carefully.
“He does not know who Leane and I are. He talked with us sometimes on the journey here, late at night when Min was sleeping and he could not rest. He said nothing before because he thinks the entire Tower was behind it, but he knows that it was Red sisters who shielded him and talked to him of the Dragon Reborn.”
“Why?” Morvrin demanded, and Sheriam nodded.
“Yes, why? Any of us would go out of our way to see a man like that gentled, but the Red Ajah lives for nothing else. Why would they create a false Dragon?”
“Logain did not know,” she told them. “Perhaps they think they gain more by capturing a false Dragon than gentling a poor fool who might terrorize one village. Perhaps they have some reason to want more turmoil.”
“We do not suggest they’ve had anything to do with Mazrim Taim or any of the others,” Leane added quickly. “Elaida will no doubt be able to tell you what you want to know.”
Siuan watched them mull it over in silence. They never considered the possibility that she was lying. An advantage to having been stilled. It did not seem to occur to them that being stilled might have broken all ties to the Three Oaths. Some Aes Sedai studied stilled women, true, but gingerly and reluctantly. No one wanted to be reminded of what might happen to herself.
For Logain, Siuan had no worry. Not as long as Min continued to see whatever it was that she saw. He would live long enough to reveal what Siuan wanted him to, once she had talked to him. She had not dared risk his deciding to go his own way,
which he might well have done had she told him before. But it was his one chance for revenge now against those who had gentled him, surrounded by Aes Sedai again as he was. Revenge only against the Red Ajah, true, but he would have to settle for that. A fish in the boat was worth a school in the water.
She glanced at Leane, who smiled the faintest possible smile. That was good. Leane had disliked being kept in the dark about her plan for the man until this morning, but Siuan had lived too long wrapped in secrecy to be easy revealing more than she had to, even to a friend. She thought that the idea of Red Ajah involvement with other false Dragons had been neatly planted. Reds had been the leaders in overthrowing her. There might not be a Red Ajah once this was done with.
“This changes a great deal,” Sheriam said after a time. “We cannot possibly follow an Amyrlin who would do such a thing.”
“Follow her!” Siuan exclaimed, for the first time truly startled. “You were actually considering going back to kiss Elaida’s ring? Knowing what she has done, and will do?” Leane quivered in her seat as if she wanted to say a few choice words herself, but they had agreed that Siuan was to be the one to lose her temper.
Sheriam looked a trifle embarrassed, and spots of color floated in Myrelle’s olive cheeks, but the others took it as calmly as sunshine.
“The Tower must be strong,” Carlinya said in a voice as hard as winter stone. “The Dragon has been Reborn, the Last Battle is coming, and the Tower must be whole.”
Anaiya nodded. “We understand your reasons for disliking Elaida, even hating her. We do understand, but we must think of the Tower, and the world. I confess I do not like Elaida myself. But then, I have never liked Siuan, either. It is not necessary to like the Amyrlin Seat. There is no need to glare so, Siuan. You have had a file for a tongue since you were a novice, and it has only roughened with the years. And as Amyrlin, you pushed sisters where you wanted and only seldom explained why. The two do not make a likable combination.”
“I will try to… smooth my tongue,” Siuan said dryly. Did the woman expect the Amyrlin Seat to treat every sister like a childhood friend? “But I hope what I’ve told you changes your desire to kneel at Elaida’s feet?”
“If that is your smoother tongue,” Myrelle said idly, “I may have to smooth it myself, if we do allow you to run the eyesandears for us.”
“We cannot go back to the Tower now, of course,” Sheriam said. “Not knowing this. Not until we are in position to see Elaida deposed.”
“Whatever she has done, the Reds, they will continue to support her.” Beonin stated it as fact, not objection. It was no secret that the Reds resented the fact that there had not been an Amyrlin from their Ajah since Bonwhin.
Morvrin nodded heavily. “Others will, as well. Those who have thrown themselves too much behind Elaida to believe they have any other choice. Those who will support authority, however vile. And some who will believe we are dividing the Tower when it must be whole at any cost.”
“All but the Red sisters can be approached,” Beonin said judiciously, “negotiated with.” Mediation and negotiation were her Ajah’s reason for existence.
“It seems we will have a use for your agents, Siuan.” Sheriam looked around at the others. “Unless anyone still thinks we should take them away from her?” Morvrin was the last to shake her head, but she did it, finally, after a long study that made Siuan feel she had been stripped, weighed and measured.
She could not stop a sigh of relief. Not a short life drying up in a cottage, but a life of purpose. It might still be a short life — no one knew how long a stilled woman could live given something to replace the One Power in her life — but with purpose it would be long enough. So Myrelle was going to smooth her tongue for her, was she? I’ll show that foxeyed Green — I will hold my tongue and be glad she isn’t doing more than look at me is what I’ll do. I knew how this would go. Burn me, but I did.
“Thank you, Aes Sedai,” she said in the meekest tone she could find. To call them that pained her; it was another break, another reminder of what she was not any longer. “I will try to give good service.” Myrelle did not have to nod in such a satisfied way. Siuan ignored a small voice that said she would have done as much or more in Myrelle’s place.
“If I may suggest,” Leane said, “it is not enough to wait until you have enough support in the Hall of the Tower to depose Elaida.” Siuan put on an interested look, as though hearing this for the first time. “Elaida sits in Tar Valon, in the White Tower, and to the world she is Amyrlin. At the moment, you are only a flock of dissidents. She can call you rebels and agitators, and coming from the Amyrlin Seat, the world will believe it.”
“We can hardly stop her being Amyrlin before she is deposed,” Carlinya said, shifting on her chair in icy contempt. Had she been wearing her whitefringed shawl, she would have snapped it around her.
“You can give the world a true Amyrlin.” Leane spoke not to the White sister, but to all of them, eyeing each in turn, sure of what she was saying yet at the same time offering a suggestion that she merely hoped they would take. It had been Siuan who pointed out that the techniques she employed on men could be adapted for women. “I saw Aes Sedai from every Ajah save the Red in the common room, and in the streets. Have them elect a Hall of the Tower here, and let that Hall select a new Amyrlin. Then you can present yourselves to the world as the true White Tower, in exile, and Elaida as a usurper. With Logain’s revelations added in, can you doubt who the nations will accept as the real Amyrlin Seat?”
The idea took hold. Siuan could see them turning it over in their minds. Whatever the others thought, only Sheriam voiced a word against. “It will mean that the Tower truly is broken,” the greeneyed woman said sadly.
“It already is broken,” Siuan told her tartly, and instantly wished she had not when they all looked at her.
This was supposed to be purely Leane’s notion. She herself had a reputation as a
deft manipulator, and they could well be suspicious of anything she proposed. That was why she had begun by scathing them; they would not have believed her if she had begun with mild words. She would come at them as if she still thought herself Amyrlin, and let them put her in her place. By comparison, Leane would seem more cooperative, only offering the little she could, and they would be more likely to listen to her. Doing her own part had not been difficult until it came to pleading; then she had wanted to hang them all in the sun to dry. Sitting here, doing nothing!
You didn’t have to worry about them being suspicious. They think you are a broken reed. If everything went properly, they would not learn differently. A useful reed, but a weak one, not to be thought of twice. It was a painful accommodation to make, but Duranda Tharne had shown her the necessity in Lugard. They would accept her only on their terms, and she would have to make the best of it.
“I wish I had thought of this myself,” she went on. “Now that I hear it, Leane’s idea gives you a way to build the Tower again without having to tear it down completely first.”
“I still cannot like it.” Sheriam’s voice firmed. “But what must be must be. The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and the Light willing, it will weave Elaida out of the stole.”
“We will need to negotiate with those sisters who remain in the Tower,” Beonin mused, only half to herself. “The Amyrlin we choose, she must be a skilled negotiator, yes?”
“Clear thinking will be needed,” Carlinya put in. “The new Amyrlin must be a woman of cool reason and logic.”
Morvrin’s snort was loud enough to make everyone jump in their chairs. “Sheriam is the highest among us, and she has kept us together when we’d have been running in ten different directions.”
Sheriam shook her head vigorously, but Myrelle gave her no chance to speak. “Sheriam is an excellent choice. I can promise every Green sister here behind her, I know.” Anaiya opened her mouth, agreement plain on her face.
It was time to put a stop to this before it got out of hand. “If I may suggest?” Siuan thought she managed diffidence much better than she had meekness. It was a strain, but she thought she had better learn to maintain it. Myrelle isn’t the only one who will try to stuff me in the bilges if they think I’ve overstepped my place. Whatever it is. Only they would not try; they would do. Aes Sedai expected — no, required — respect from those who were not. “It seems to me that whoever you choose should be someone who was not in the Tower when I… was deposed. Would it not be best if the woman who unites the Tower again was one whom no one could accuse of choosing a side on that day?” If she had to keep this up, she was going to burst a seam in her head.
“Someone very strong in the Power,” Leane added. “The stronger she is, the more she can stand for all that the Tower means. Or will again, once Elaida is gone.”
Siuan could have kicked her. That thought was supposed to wait a full day, to be tossed in once they actually began considering names. Between them, she and Leane knew enough of every sister to find some weakness, some doubt to be dangled subtly as to her fitness for stole and staff. She would rather wade naked through a school of silverpike than have these women realize that she was trying to manipulate them.
“A sister who was out of the Tower,” Sheriam said, nodding. “That makes excellent sense, Siuan. Very good.” How easily they slipped into patting her on the head.
Morvrin pursed her lips. “It will not be easy, finding whoever we choose.” “Strength narrows the possibilities.” Anaiya looked around at the others. “It will
not only make her a better symbol, to the other sisters at least, but strength in the Power often goes with strength of will, and whoever we choose will surely need that.”
Carlinya and Beonin were the last to join in agreement.
Siuan kept her face smooth, her smile on the inside. The breaking of the Tower had changed many things, many ways of thinking besides her own. These women had led the sisters gathered here, and now they were discussing who should be presented to their new Hall of the Tower as if that should not be the Hall’s choice. It would not be difficult to bring them around, ever so gently, to the belief that the new Amyrlin should be one who could be guided by them. And unknowing, they and the Amyrlin she chose for her replacement would be guided by herself. She and Moiraine had worked too long to find Rand al’Thor and prepare him, given too much of their lives, for her to risk the rest of it being bungled by someone else.
“If I may make another suggestion?” Diffidence was simply not in her nature; she was going to have to find something else. She waited, trying not to grit her teeth, for Sheriam to nod before going on. “Elaida will be attempting to discover where Rand al’Thor is; the farther south I came, the more rumors I heard that he has left Tear. I think that he has, and I think that I have reasoned out where he went.”
There was no need for her to say that they had to find him before Tar Valon did. They all understood. Not only would Elaida mishandle him, certainly, but should she put her hands on him, display him shielded and in her control, any hope of toppling her would be gone. Rulers knew the Prophecies, if their people usually did not; they would forgive her a dozen false Dragons out of necessity.
“Where?” Morvrin barked, a hair ahead of Sheriam, Anaiya and Myrelle all together.
“The Aiel Waste.”
There was a moment of silence before Carlinya said, “That is ridiculous.”
Siuan bit back an angry reply and smiled what she hoped was an apologetic smile. “Perhaps, but I read something of the Aiel when I was Accepted. Gitara Moroso thought that some of the Aiel Wise Ones might be able to channel.” Gitara had been Keeper then. “One of the books she had me read, an old thing from the
dustiest corner of the library, claimed that the Aiel call themselves the People of the Dragon. I did not remember it until I tried puzzling out where Rand could have vanished to. The Prophecies say ‘the Stone of Tear shall never fall till the People of the Dragon come,’ and there were Aiel in the taking of the Stone. That, every rumor and tale agrees on.”
Morvrin’s eyes suddenly seemed to look elsewhere. “I remember speculation about the Wise Ones when I was newly raised to the shawl. It would be fascinating, if true, but Aiel are little more welcoming to Aes Sedai than to anyone else who enters the Waste, and their Wise Ones apparently have some law or custom against speaking to strangers, so I understand, which makes it extremely hard to come close enough to one, to feel if she — ”Suddenly she gave herself a shake, staring at Siuan and Leane as though her wandering had been their fault. “A thin straw to weave a basket, something you remember from a book likely written by someone who never saw an Aiel.”
“A very thin straw,” Carlinya said.
“But worth sending someone to the Waste?” It took effort to make that a question instead of a demand. Siuan thought she might sweat down to nothing if she could not find another way. She still had enough control of herself to ignore the heat, usually, but not while trying to drag these women along without letting them notice her fist in their hair. “I do not think the Aiel would try to harm an Aes Sedai.” Not if she was quick enough to show that she was Aes Sedai. Siuan did not think they would. It had to be risked. “And if he is in the Waste, the Aiel will know of it. Remember those Aiel at the Stone.”
“Perhaps,” Beonin said slowly. “The Waste is large. How many would we need to send?”
“If the Dragon Reborn is in the Waste,” Anaiya said, “the first Aiel met will know of it. Events follow this Rand al’Thor, by all accounts. He could not slip into the ocean without making a splash heard in every corner of the world.”
Myrelle smiled. “She should be Green. None of the rest of you will bond more than one Warder, and two or three Gaidin might be very useful in the Waste until the Aiel know her for Aes Sedai. I have always wanted to see an Aiel.” She had been a novice during the Aiel War, and not allowed out of the Tower. Not that any Aes Sedai had taken part beyond Healing, of course. The Three Oaths had bound them unless Tar Valon, or maybe even the Tower itself, were attacked, and that war had never crossed the rivers.
“Not you,” Sheriam told her, “or any other member of this council. You agreed to see this through, Myrelle, when you agreed to sit with us, and that does not include gallivanting off because you are bored. I fear there will be more excitement than any of us could wish, before we finish.” She would have made an excellent Amyrlin in other circumstances; in these, she was simply too strong and sure of herself. “But Greens… Yes, I think so. Two?” Her green eyes swept along the others. “To be certain?”
“Kiruna Nachiman?” Anaiya, offered, and Beonin added, “Bera Harkin?” The others nodded, except for Myrelle, who shifted her shoulders irritably. Aes Sedai did not pout, but she came close.
Siuan took her second relieved breath. She was certain her reasoning was correct. He had vanished to somewhere, and if he was anywhere between the Spine of the World and the Aryth Ocean, rumors would have been flying. And wherever he was, Moiraine would be there with a hand on his collar. Kiruna and Bera would surely be willing to carry a letter to Moiraine, and they had seven Warders between them to keep the Aiel from killing them.
“We do not want to tire you and Leane,” Sheriam went oh. “I will ask one of the Yellow sisters to look at both of you. Perhaps she can do something to help, to ease you in some way. I will have rooms found for you, where you can rest.”
“If you are to be our mistress of eyesandears,” Myrelle added solicitously, “you must maintain your strength.”
“I am not so frail as you seem to think,” Siuan protested. “If I were, could I have followed you nearly two thousand miles? Whatever weakness I had after being stilled is gone, believe me.” The truth was that she had found a center of power again, and she did not want to leave it, but she could hardly say that. All those concerned eyes on her, and Leane. Well, not Carlinya’s particularly, but the rest. Light! They’re going to have a novice tuck us into bed for a nap!
A knock at the door was followed immediately by Arinvar, Sheriam’s Warder. Cairhienin, he was not tall, and slender besides, but in spite of gray at his temples he was hard of face, and he moved like a stalking leopard. “There are twentyodd riders to the east,” he said without preamble.
“Not Whitecloaks,” Carlinya said, “or I presume you would have reported as much.”
Sheriam gave her a look. Many sisters could be prickly when it came to another stepping between them and their Gaidin. “We cannot allow them to get away, and perhaps carry word of our presence. Can they be captured, Arinvar? I would prefer that to killing them.”
“Either may be difficult,” he replied. “Machan says they are armed and have the look of veterans. Worth ten times their number of younger men.”
Morvrin made a vexed sound. “We must do one or the other. Forgive me, Sheriam. Arinvar, can the Gaidin sneak some of the more agile sisters close enough to weave Air around them?”
He shook his head fractionally. “Machan says they may have seen some of the Warders keeping watch. They would certainly see if we tried to bring more than one or two of you near. They are still coming, though.”
Siuan and Leane were not the only ones to exchange startled glances. Few men saw a Warder who did not want to be seen, even without the Gaidin cloak.
“Then you must do as you think best,” Sheriam said. “Capture them, if possible.
But none must escape to betray us.”
Before Arinvar could complete his bow, hand to sword hilt, another man was beside him, a dark bear of a man, tall and wide, with hair to his shoulders and a short beard that left his upper lip bare. That flowing Warder movement seemed odd on him. He winked at Myrelle, his Aes Sedai, even as he said in a thick Illianer accent, “Most of the riders do be stopped, but one does come on by himself. If my aged mother did say different, I would still name him Gareth Bryne from the glimpse I did get.”
Siuan stared at him; her hands and feet suddenly felt cold. Strong rumor said that Myrelle had actually married this Nuhel and her other two Warders, in defiance of convention and law in every land Siuan had ever heard of. It was the sort of incongruous thought that drifted through a stunned mind, and right then she felt as if a mast had fallen on her head. Bryne, here? It’s impossible! It is mad! Surely the man could not have followed them all this way for… Oh yes, he could and would. That one would. As they journeyed, she had told herself that it was only sensible caution to leave no trace behind, that Elaida knew they were not dead, whatever the rumors said, and she would not stop hunting until they were found or she was pulled down. Siuan had been irritated at having to ask directions finally, yet the thought that had snapped at her like a shark had not been that Elaida might somehow find a blacksmith in one small Altaran village, but that the blacksmith would be like a painted sign for Bryne. Told yourself it was foolish, didn’t you? And now here he is.
She well remembered her confrontation with him, when she had had to bend him to her will on that matter of Murandy. It had been like bending a thick iron bar, or some huge spring that would leap back if she let up for an instant. She had had to bring all of her force to bear, had had to humiliate him publicly, in order to make certain he would remain bent for as long as she needed. He could hardly go against what he had agreed to on his knees, begging her pardon, with fifty nobles watching. Morgase had been difficult enough herself, and Siuan had not been willing to risk Bryne giving Morgase an excuse to go against her instructions. Strange to think that she and Elaida had worked together then, bringing Morgase to heel.
She had to take hold of herself. She was in a daze, thinking of everything except what she needed to. Concentrate. This is no time to panic. “You must send him away. Or kill him.”
She knew it for a mistake while the words were still leaving her mouth, all too full of urgency. Even the Warders looked at her, and the Aes Sedai… She had never before known what it felt like for someone who lacked the Power to have those eyes turned on them at full strength. She felt naked, her very mind laid bare. Even knowing that Aes Sedai could not read thoughts, she still wanted to confess before they listed her lies and crimes. She hoped that her face was not like Leane’s, redcheeked and wideeyed.
“You know why he is here.” Sheriam’s voice was calmly certain. “Both of you do. And you do not want to confront him. Enough so that you would have us kill
him for you.”
“There do be few great captains living.” Nuhel marked them off on gauntleted fingers. “Agelmar Jagad and Davram Bashere will no leave the Blight, I think, and Pedron Niall will surely no be of use to you. If Rodel Ituralde do be alive, he do be mired somewhere in what do remain of Arad Doman.” He raised his thick thumb. “And that do leave Gareth Bryne.”
“Do you think that we will need a great captain, then?” Sheriam asked quietly.
Nuhel and Arinvar did not look at one another, but Siuan still had the feeling that they had exchanged glances. “It is your decision, Sheriam,” Arinvar replied just as quietly, “yours and the other sisters, but if you mean to return to the Tower, we could use him. If you intend to remain here until Elaida sends for you, then not.” Myrelle gazed at Nuhel questioningly, and he nodded.
“It seems that you were right, Siuan,” Anaiya said wryly. “We have not fooled the Gaidin.”
“The question is whether he will agree to serve us,” Carlinya said, and Morvrin nodded, adding, “We must make him see our cause in such a way that he wishes to serve. It will not help us if it becomes known that we killed or imprisoned so notable a man before we have even begun.”
“Yes,” Beonin said, “and we must offer him the rewards that will bind him to us firmly.”
Sheriam turned her eyes on the two men. “When Lord Bryne reaches the village, tell him nothing, but bring him to us.” As soon as the door closed behind the Warders, her gaze firmed. Siuan recognized it; the same clear green stare that had novices’ knees knocking before a word was said. “Now. You will tell us exactly why Gareth Bryne is here.”
There was no choice. If they caught her in even the tiniest lie, they would begin to question everything. Siuan took a deep breath. “We took shelter for the night in a barn near Kore Springs, in Andor. Bryne is the lord there, and…”
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 28
(Bull) Trapped
A Warder in a graygreen coat approached Bryne as soon as he rode Traveler past the first stone houses of the village. Bryne would have known the man for a Warder after watching him walk two strides, even without all the Aes Sedai faces staring at him in the street. What in the name of the Light were so many Aes Sedai doing this close to Amadicia? Rumor in villages behind said Ailron meant to claim this bank of the River Eldar, which meant the Whitecloaks did. Aes Sedai could defend themselves well, but if Niall sent a legion across the Eldar, a good many of these women would die. Unless he could no longer tell how long a stump had been exposed to air, this place had been buried in the forest two months ago. What had Mara gotten herself into? He was sure he would find her here; village men remembered three pretty young women traveling together, especially when one of them asked directions to a town abandoned since the Whitecloak War.
The Warder, a big man with a broad face, an Illianer by his beard, planted himself in the street in front of Bryne’s bignosed bay gelding and bowed. “Lord Bryne? I am Nuhel Dromand. If you will come with me, there are those who do wish to speak with you.”
Bryne dismounted slowly, pulling off his gauntlets and tucking them behind his sword belt as he studied the town. The plain buffcolored coat he wore now was much better for a journey of this sort than the gray silk he had started in; that, he had given away. Aes Sedai and Warders, and others, watched him silently, but even those who had to be servants did not look surprised. And Dromand knew his name. His face was not unknown, but he suspected more than that. If Mara was — if they were Aes Sedai agents, it did not alter the oath they had taken. “Lead on, Nuhel Gaidin.” If Nuhel was surprised at the address, he did not show it.
The inn that Dromand took him to — or what had been an inn once — had, the look of headquarters for a campaign, all bustle and scurry. That is, if Aes Sedai had ever commanded a campaign. He spotted Serenla before she did him, seated in the corner with a big man who was very likely Dalyn. When she did see him, her chin dropped almost to the table, and then she squinted at him as if not believing her eyes. Dalyn appeared to be asleep with his eyes open, staring at nothing. None of the Aes Sedai or Warders seemed to notice as Dromand led him through, but Bryne would have wagered his manor and lands that any one of them had seen ten times as much as all the staring servants combined. He should have turned and ridden away as soon as he realized who was in this village.
He took careful note as he made his bows while the Warder introduced him to the six seated Aes Sedai — only a fool was careless around Aes Sedai — but his mind was on the two young women standing against the wall beside the freshswept fireplace and looking chastened. The willowy Domani minx was offering him a
smile more tremulous than seductive for a change. Mara was frightened, too — terrified out of her skin, he would say — but those blue eyes still met his full of defiance. The girl had courage to suit a lion.
“We are pleased to greet you, Lord Bryne,” the flamehaired Aes Sedai said. Just slightly plump, and with those tilted eyes, she was pretty enough to make any man look twice despite the Great Serpent ring on her finger. “Will you tell us what brings you here?”
“Of course, Sheriam Sedai.” Nuhel stood at his shoulder, but if any women needed less guarding from one old soldier, Bryne could not imagine who. He was sure that they knew already, and watching their faces while he told the tale confirmed it. Aes Sedai let nothing be seen that they did not want seen, but at least one of them would have blinked when he spoke of the oath if they had not known beforehand.
“A dreadful story to relate, Lord Bryne.” That was the one called Anaiya; ageless face or not, she looked more like a happy, prosperous farmwife than an Aes Sedai. “Yet I am surprised that you followed so far, even after oathbreakers.” Mara’s fair cheeks flushed a furious red. “Still, a strong oath, one that should not be broken.”
“Unfortunately,” Sheriam said, “we cannot let you take them quite yet.”
So they were Aes Sedai agents. “A strong oath that should not be broken, yet you mean to keep them from honoring it?”
“They will honor it,” Myrelle said, with a glance at the pair by the fireplace that made them both stand straighter, “and you may rest assured that they already regret running away after giving, it.” This time it was Amaena who reddened; Mara looked ready to chew rocks. “But we cannot allow it yet.” No Ajahs had been mentioned, yet he thought the darkly pretty woman was Green, and the stout, roundfaced one called Morvrin was Brown. Perhaps it was the smile that Myrelle had given Dromand when the man brought him in, and Morvrin’s air of thinking of something else. “In truth, they did not say when they would serve, and we have a use for them.”
This was foolish; he should apologize for disturbing them and leave. And that was foolish, too. He had known before Dromand reached him in the street that he was unlikely to leave Salidar alive. There were probably fifty Warders in the forest around where he had left his men, if not a hundred. Joni and the others would give a good account of themselves, but he had not brought them all this way to die. Yet if he was a fool to have let a pair of eyes lure him into this trap, he might as well go the last mile for it. “Arson, theft and assault, Aes Sedai. Those were the crimes. They were tried, sentenced, and sworn. But I have no objection to remaining here until you are done with them. Mara can act as my dog robber when you do not need her. I will mark the hours she works for me, and count them against her service.”
Mara opened her mouth angrily, but almost as if the women had known that she would try to speak, six pairs of Aes Sedai eyes swiveled to her in unison. She
shifted her shoulders, snapped her mouth shut, and then glared at him; fists rigidly at her sides. He was glad she did not have a knife in her hand.
Myrelle appeared close to laughter. “Better to choose the other, Lord Bryne.
From the way she is looking at you, you would find her far more… congenial.”
He halfexpected Amaena to go crimson, but she did not. And she was eyeing him — appraisingly. She even shared a smile with Myrelle. Well, she was Domani after all, and considerably more so than when he saw her last, it seemed.
Carlinya, cold enough to make the others seem warm, leaned forward. He was wary of her, and of the bigeyed one named Beonin. He was not sure why. Except that if he were in the Game of Houses here, he would say both women reeked of ambition. Maybe he was involved in exactly that.
“You should be aware,” Carlinya said coolly, “that the woman you know as Mara is in reality Siuan Sanche, formerly the Amyrlin Seat. Amaena is really Leane Sharif, who was Keeper of the Chronicles.”
It was all he could do not to gape like a country lout. Now that he knew, he could see it in Mara’s face — in Siuan’s — the face that had made him back down, softened into youth. “How?” was all he said. It was almost all he could have managed to say.
“There are some things men are better off not knowing,” Sheriam replied coolly, “and most women.”
Mara — no, he might as well think of her by her right name — Siuan had been stilled. He knew that. It must be something to do with stilling. If that swannecked Domani had been Keeper, he was ready to wager she had been stilled, too. But talking about stilling around Aes Sedai was a good way to find out how tough you were. Besides, when they began going mysterious with you, Aes Sedai would not give a straight answer if you asked whether the sky was blue.
They were very good, these Aes Sedai. They had lulled him, then hit hard when his guard was down. He had a sinking feeling that he knew what they were softening him for. It would be interesting to learn whether he was right. “It does not change the oath they took. If they were still Amyrlin and Keeper, they could be held to that oath by any law, including that of Tar Valon.”
“Since you have no objection to remaining here,” Sheriam said, “you may have Siuan as your bodyservant, when we do not need her. You may have all three of them, if you wish, including Min, whom you apparently know as Serenla, all the time.” For some reason, that seemed to irritate Siuan as much as what had been said about her; she muttered to herself, not loud enough to be heard. “And since you have no objections, Lord Bryne, while you remain with us there is a service that you can give us.”
“The gratitude of Aes Sedai is not inconsiderable,” Morvrin said.
“You will be serving the Light and justice in serving us,” Carlinya added.
Beonin nodded, speaking in serious tones. “You served Morgase and Andor faithfully. Serve us as well, and you will not find exile at its end. Nothing we ask of
you will go against your honor. Nothing we ask will harm Andor.”
Bryne grimaced. He was in the Game, all right. He sometimes thought that Aes Sedai must have invented Daes Dae’mar, they seemed to play it in their sleep. Battle was surely more bloody, but it was more honest, too. If they meant to pull his strings, then his strings would be pulled — they would manage it one way or another — but it was time to show them he was not a brainless puppet.
“The White Tower is broken,” he said flatly. Those Aes Sedai eyes widened, but he gave them no chance to speak. “The Ajahs have split. That is the only reason you can all be here. You certainly don’t need an extra sword or two” — he eyed Dromand and got a nod in return —“so the only service you can want out of me is to lead an army. To build one, first, unless you have other camps with a good many more men than I saw here. And that means you intend to oppose Elaida.”
Sheriam looked vexed, Anaiya worried, and Carlinya on the point of speaking, but he went on. Let them listen; he expected he would be doing a great deal of listening to them in the months to come. “Very well. I’ve never liked Elaida, and I cannot believe she makes a good Amyrlin. More importantly, I can make an army to take Tar Valon. So long as you know the taking will be bloody and long.”
“But these are my conditions.” They stiffened to a woman at that, even Siuan and Leane. Men did not make conditions for Aes Sedai. “First, the command is mine. You tell me what to do, but I decide how. You give commands to me, and I give them to the soldiers under me, not you. Not unless I have agreed to it first.” Several mouths opened, Carlinya’s and Beonin’s first, but he continued. “I assign men, I promote them, and I discipline them. Not you. Second, if I tell you it can’t be done, you will consider what I say. I don’t ask to usurp your authority” — small chance they would allow that —“yet do not want to waste men because you do not understand war.” It would happen, but no more than once, if he was lucky. “Third, if you begin this, you will stay the course. I will be putting my head in a noose, and every man who follows along with me, and should you decide half a year from now that Elaida as Amyrlin is preferable to war, you will pull that noose tight for every one of us who can be hunted down. The nations may stay out of a civil war in the Tower, but they’ll not let us live if you abandon us. Elaida will see to that.
“If you will not agree to these, then I do not know that I can serve you. Whether you bind me with the Power for Dromand here to slit my throat or I end attainted and hung, death is still the end.”
The Aes Sedai did not speak. For a long moment they stared at him, until the itch between his shoulder blades made him wonder if Nuhel was ready to plunge a dagger in. Then Sheriam rose, and the others followed her to the windows. He could see their lips moving, but he heard nothing. If they wanted to hide their deliberations behind the One Power, so be it. He was not certain how much of what he wanted he could wring out of them. All, if they were sensible, but Aes Sedai could decide that strange things were sensible. Whatever they decided, he would have to accede with as good a grace as he could muster. It was a perfect trap that he
had made for himself.
Leane gave him a look and a smile that said as plain as words that he would never know what he had missed; he thought it would have been a fine chase, with him being led by the nose. Domani women never promised half what you thought they did, and they gave only as much as they chose and changed their minds either way in a blink.
The bait in his trap stared at him levelly, strode across the floor until she stood so close that she had to crane her neck to stare up at him, and spoke in a low, furious voice. “Why did you do this? Why did you follow us? For a barn?”
“For an oath.” For a pair of blue eyes. Siuan Sanche could not be more than ten years younger than he, but it was hard to remember that she was Siuan Sanche while looking at a face nearer thirty years younger. The eyes were the same, though, deep blue and strong. “An oath you gave to me, and broke. I should double your time for that.”
Dropping her gaze from his, she folded her arms beneath her breasts, growling, “That has already been taken care of.”
“You mean they punished you for oathbreaking? If you’ve had your bottom switched for it, it doesn’t count unless I do it.”
Dromand’s chuckle sounded more than half scandalized — the man had to be still struggling with who Siuan had been; Bryne was not certain that he was not, too
— and her face darkened until he thought she might have apoplexy. “My time has already been doubled, if not more, you pile of rancid fish guts! You and your marking hours! Not an hour will count until you have all three of us back at your manor, not if I must be your… your… dog robber, whatever that is . . . for twenty years!”
So they had planned for this too, Sheriam and the others. He glanced to their conference by the windows. They seemed to have divided into two opposing groups; Sheriam, Anaiya and Myrelle on one side, Morvrin and Carlinya on the other, with Beonin standing between. They had been ready to give him Siuan and Leane and — Min? — as bribe or sop, before he ever walked in. They were desperate, which meant he was on the weaker side, but maybe they were desperate enough to give him what he needed for a chance of victory.
“You are taking pleasure from this, aren’t you?” Siuan said fiercely the moment his eyes moved. “You buzzard. Burn you for a carpbrained fool. Now that you know who I am, it pleases you that I’ll have to bow and scrape to you.” She did not seem to be doing much of that yet. “Why? Is it because I made you back down over Murandy? Are you so small, Gareth Bryne?”
She was trying to make him angry; she realized that she had said too much, and did not want to give him time to think on it. Maybe she was no longer Aes Sedai, but manipulation was in her blood.
“You were the Amyrlin Seat,” he said calmly, “and even a king kisses the Amyrlin’s ring. I can’t say that I liked how you went about it, and we may have a
quiet talk sometime on whether it was necessary to do what you did with half the court looking on, but you will remember that I followed Mara Tomanes here, and it was Mara Tomanes I asked for. Not Siuan Sanche. Since you keep asking why, let me ask it. Why was it so important for me to allow the Murandians to raid across the border?”
“Because your interference then could have ruined important plans,” she said, driving each word home in a tight voice, “just as your interference with me now can. The Tower had identified a young border lord named Dulain as a man who could one day truly unify Murandy, with our help. I could hardly allow the chance your soldiers might kill him. I have work to do here, Lord Bryne. Leave me to do it, and you may see victory. Meddle out of spite, and you ruin everything.”
“Whatever your work is, I am sure Sheriam and the others will see you do it. Dulain? I’ve never heard of him. He cannot be succeeding yet.” It was his opinion that Murandy would remain a patchwork of all but independent lords and ladies until the Wheel turned and a new Age came. Murandians called themselves Lugarder or Mindeans or whatever before they named a nation. If they even bothered to name one. A lord who could unite them, and who had Siuan’s leash around his throat, could bring a considerable number of men.
“He… died.” Scarlet spots appeared in her cheeks, and she seemed to struggle with herself. “A month after I left Caemlyn,” she muttered, “some Andoran farmer put an arrow through him on a sheep raid.”
He could not help laughing. “It was the farmers you should have made kneel, not me. Well, you no longer need concern yourself with such things.” That was certainly true. Whatever use the Aes Sedai had for her, they would never let her near power or decisions again now. He felt pity for her. He could not imagine this woman giving up and dying, but she had lost about as much as it was possible to lose short of dying. On the other hand, he had not liked being called a buzzard, or a pile of reeking fish guts. What was the other thing? A carpbrained fool. “From now on, you can concern yourself with keeping my boots clean and my bed made.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “If that is what you want, Lord Gareth Bryne, you should choose Leane. She might be fool enough.”
Only barely did he stop himself from goggling. The way women’s minds worked never ceased to amaze him. “You vowed to serve me however I choose.” He managed to chuckle. Why was he doing this? He knew who she was, and what she was. But those eyes still haunted him, staring a challenge even when she thought there was no hope, just as they were now. “You will discover the kind of man I am, Siuan.” He meant it to soothe her after his jest, but from the way her shoulders stiffened, she seemed to take it as a threat.
Suddenly he realized that he could hear the Aes Sedai, a soft murmur of voices that went silent immediately. They stood together, staring at him with unreadable expressions. No, at Siuan. Their eyes followed her as she started back to where Leane still stood; as if she could feel the pressure of them, each step came a little
quicker than the one before. When she turned again, beside the fireplace, her face told no more than theirs. A remarkable woman. He was not sure he could have done as well, in her place.
The Aes Sedai were waiting for him to approach. When he did, Sheriam said, “We accept your conditions without reservation, Lord Bryne, and pledge ourselves to hold to them. They are most reasonable.”
Carlinya, at least, did not look as though she thought they were reasonable at all, but he did not care. He had been prepared to give up all but the last, that they stay the course, if need be.
He knelt where he was, right fist pressed to the scrap of carpet, and they encircled him, each laying a hand on his bowed head. He did not care whether they used the Power to bind him to his oath or search for truth — he was not sure they could do either, but who really knew what Aes Sedai could do? — and if they meant something else, there was nothing he could do about it. Trapped by a pair of eyes, like a bullgoose fool country boy. He was carpbrained. “I do pledge and vow that I will serve you faithfully until the White Tower is yours…”
Already, he was planning. Thad and maybe a Warder or two across the river to see what the Whitecloaks were up to. Joni, Barim and a few others down to Ebou Dar; it would keep Joni from swallowing his tongue every time he looked at “Mara” and “Amaena,” and every man he sent would know how to recruit.
“… building and directing your army, to the best of my ability…”
When the low buzz of talk in the common room died, Min looked up from the patterns she had been idly sketching on the table with a finger dipped in wine. Logain stirred, too, for a wonder, but only to stare at the people in the room, or maybe through them; it was hard to tell.
Gareth Bryne and that big Illianer Warder came out of the back room first. In the watchful silence, she heard Bryne say, “Tell them an Ebou Dar tavern maid sent you, or they’ll put your head on a stake.”
The Illianer roared with laughter. “A dangerous city, Ebou Dar.” Pulling leather gauntlets from behind his sword belt, he stalked out into the street drawing them on. The talk began to pick up again as Siuan appeared. Min could not hear what Bryne said to her, but she strode after the Warder snarling to herself. Min had a sinking feeling that the Aes Sedai had decided that they were going to honor that fool oath Siuan had been so proud of, honor it right now. If she could convince herself that the pair of Warders lounging against the wall would not notice, she
would be out of the door and into Wildrose’s saddle in a flash.
Sheriam and the other Aes Sedai came out last, with Leane. Myrelle sat Leane down at one of the tables and began discussing something, while the rest circulated through the room, stopping to speak to each Aes Sedai. Whatever they said, it produced reactions from outright shock to pleased grins, despite that fabled Aes Sedai serenity.
“Stay here,” Min told Logain, scraping back her rickety chair. She hoped he was
not going to start trouble. He was staring at Aes Sedai faces, one by one, and appearing to see more than he had in days. “Just stay at this table till I get back, Dalyn.” She was out of the habit of being around people who knew his real name. “Please.”
“She sold me to Aes Sedai.” It was a shock to hear him speak after being so long silent. He shivered, then nodded. “I will wait.”
Min hesitated, but if two Warders could not stop him from doing anything stupid, a roomful of Aes Sedai certainly could. When she reached the door, a chunky bay gelding was being led away by a man with the look of a groom. Bryne’s horse, she supposed. Their own mounts were nowhere in sight. So much for any dash for freedom. I’ll honor the bloody thing! I will! But they can’t keep me from Rand now. I’ve done what Siuan wanted. They have to let me go to him. The only problem was that Aes Sedai decided for themselves what they had to do, and usually what other people had to do as well.
Siuan nearly knocked her down, bustling back in with a scowl on her face, a blanket roll under her arm and saddlebags over her shoulder. “Watch Logain,” she hissed under her breath without slowing. “Let no one talk to him.” She marched to the foot of the stairs, where a grayhaired woman, a servant, was starting to lead Bryne up, and fell in behind. From the stare she fixed on the man’s back, he should have been praying she did not reach for her belt knife.
Min smiled at the tall, slender Warder who had followed her to the door. He stood ten feet away, barely glancing at her, but she had no illusions. “We’re guests now. Friends.” He did not return the smile. Bloody stonefaced men! Why could they not at least give you a hint what they were thinking?
Logain was still studying the Aes Sedai when she got back to the table. A fine time for Siuan to want him kept silent, just when he was beginning to show life again. She needed to talk to Siuan. “Logain,” she said softly, hoping neither of the Warders lounging against the wall could hear. They had hardly seemed to breathe since taking their positions, except when one had followed her. “I don’t think you should say anything until Mara tells you what she has planned. Not to anyone.”
“Mara?” He gave her a dark sneer. “You mean Siuan Sanche?” So he remembered what he had heard in his daze. “Does anyone here look as if they want to talk to me?” He returned to his frowning study.
No one did look as if they wanted to talk with a gentled false Dragon. Except for the two Warders, no one seemed to be paying them any mind at all. If she had not known better, she would have said the Aes Sedai in the room were excited. They had hardly appeared lethargic before, but they certainly seemed to have more energy now, talking in small groups, issuing brisk orders to Warders. The papers they had been so intent on largely lay abandoned. Sheriam and the others who had taken Siuan away had returned to the room at the back, but Leane had two clerks at her table now, both women writing as fast as they could. And a steady stream of Aes Sedai were coming into the inn, disappearing through that rough plank door
and not coming out; Whatever had happened in there, Siuan had surely stirred them up.
Min wished she had Siuan at the table, or better yet somewhere alone, for five minutes. Doubtless at that moment she was beating Bryne over the head with his saddlebags. No, Siuan would not resort to that, for all of her glares. Bryne was not like Logain, larger than life in every dimension, every emotion; Logain had managed to overpower Siuan for a time with sheer hugeness. Bryne was quiet, reserved, not a small man certainly, but hardly overbearing. She would not want the man she remembered from Kore Springs as an enemy, but she did not think that he would hold out long against Siuan. He might think she was going to meekly serve out her time as his servant, but Min had no doubts who would end doing what who wanted. She just had to talk to the woman about him.
As if Min’s thoughts had brought her, Siuan came stumping down the stairs, a bundle of white under her arm. Stalked down was nearer truth; if she had had a tail, she would have been lashing it. She paused for one instant, staring at Min and Logain, then marched toward the door that led to the kitchens.
“Stay here,” Min cautioned Logain. “And please, say nothing until… Siuan can talk to you.” She was going to have to get used to calling people by their right names again. He did not even look at her.
She caught up with Siuan in a hallway short of the kitchen; the rattle and splash of pots being scrubbed and dishes washed drifted through gaps where boards had dried in the kitchen door.
Siuan’s eyes widened in alarm. “Why did you leave him? Is he still alive?” “He’ll live forever, for all I can see. Siuan, no one wants to talk to him. But I
have to talk with you.” Siuan stuffed the white bundle into her arms. Shirts. “What is this?”
“Gareth bloody Bryne’s bloody laundry,” the other woman snarled. “Since you are one of his serving girls, too, you can wash them. I must speak with Logain before anyone else.”
Min caught her arm as she tried to brush past. “You can spare one minute to listen. When Bryne came in, I had a viewing. An aura, and a bull ripping roses from around its neck, and… None of it matters except the aura. I didn’t even really understand that, but more than anything else.”
“How much did you understand?”
“If you want to stay alive, you had better stay close to him.” Despite the heat, Min shivered. She had only ever had one other viewing with an “if” in it, and both had been potentially deadly. It was bad enough sometimes knowing what would happen; if she started knowing what might… “All I know is this. If he stays close to you, you live. If he gets too far away, for too long, you are going to die. Both of you. I don’t know why I should have seen anything about you in his aura, but you seemed like part of it.”
Siuan’s smile would have done to peel a pear. “I’d as soon sail in a rotting hull
full of last month’s eels.”
“I never thought he’d follow us. Are they really going to make us go with him?” “Oh, no, Min. He is going to lead our armies to victory. And make my life the
Pit of Doom! So he’s going to save my life, is he? I don’t know that it is worth it.” Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her skirts. “When you have those washed and ironed, bring them to me. I will take them up to him. You can clean his boots before you go to sleep tonight. We have a room — a cubbyhole — near him, so we will be close if he calls to have his bloody pillows plumped!” She was gone before Min could protest.
Staring down at the wadded shirts, Min was sure that she knew who was going to be doing all of Gareth Bryne’s laundry, and it was not Siuan Sanche. Rand bloody al’Thor. Fall in love with a man, and you ended up doing laundry, even if it did belong to another man. When she marched into the kitchen to demand a washtub and hot water, she was snarling every bit as much as Siuan.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 29
(Ravens)
Memories of Saldaea
Lying on his bed in the dark, in his shirtsleeves, Kadere idly twirled one of his large kerchiefs between his hands. The wagon’s open windows let in moonlight, but not much breeze. At least Cairhien was cooler than the Waste. Someday he hoped to return to Saldaea, to walk in the garden where his sister Teodora had taught him his first letters and numbers. He missed her as much as he did Saldaea, the deep winters when trees burst from their sap freezing and the only way to travel was by snowshoes or skis. In these southlands, spring felt like summer, and summer like the Pit of Doom. Sweat rolled out of him in streams.
With a heavy sigh, he pushed his fingers into a small gap where the bed was built into the wagon. The folded scrap of parchment rustled. He left it there. He knew the words on it by heart.
You are not alone among strangers. A way has been chosen.
Just that, without signature, of course. He had found it slipped under his door when he retired for the night. There was a town not a quarter of a mile away, Eianrod, but even if a soft bed remained empty there, he doubted whether the Aiel would allow him to spend a night away from the wagons. Or that the Aes Sedai would. For the moment, his plans fit in well enough with Moiraine’s. Perhaps he would get to see Tar Valon again. A dangerous place, for his sort, but the work there was always important, and invigorating.
He put his mind back on the note, though he wished he could afford to ignore it. The word “chosen” made him sure it came from another Darkfriend. The first surprise had been receiving it now, after crossing most of Cairhien. Nearly two months ago, right after Jasin Natael attached himself to Rand al’Thor — for reasons the man had never deigned to explain — and his new partner Keille Shaogi had disappeared — he suspected she was buried in the Waste, with a thrust from Natael’s knife through her heart, and small riddance — soon after that, he had been visited by one of the Chosen. By Lanfear herself. She had given him his instructions.
Automatically his hand went to his chest, feeling through his shirt the scars branded there. He mopped his face with the kerchief. Part of his mind thought coldly, as it had at least once a day since, that they were an effective way to prove to him that it had not been an ordinary dream. An ordinary nightmare. Another part of him almost gibbered with relief that she had not returned.
The second surprise of the note had been the hand. A woman’s hand, unless he missed his guess by a mile, and some of the letters formed in what he now knew for an Aiel way. Natael had told him that there must be Darkfriends among the Aiel — there were Darkfriends in every land, among every people — but he had never wanted to find brothers in the Waste. Aiel would kill you as soon as look at you, and
you could put a foot wrong with them by breathing.
Taken all in all, the note spelled disaster. Possibly Natael had told some Aiel Darkfriend who he was. Angrily twirling the kerchief to a long thin cord, he snapped it tight between his hands. If the gleeman and Keille had not had proofs that they stood high in Darkfriend councils, he would have killed them both before going near the Waste. The only other possibility made his stomach leaden. “A way has been chosen.” Maybe that had only been to put the word “chosen” down, and maybe it was meant to tell him that one of the Chosen had decided to use him. The note had not come from Lanfear; she would simply have spoken to him in
his dreams once more.
In spite of the heat, he shivered, yet he had to wipe his face again, too. He had the feeling that Lanfear was a jealous mistress to serve, but if another of the Chosen wanted him he would have no choice. Despite all the promises made when he had given his oaths as a boy, he was a man of few illusions. Caught between two of the Chosen, he could be flattened like a kitten beneath a wagon wheel, and they would notice as much as the wagon did. He wished he were home in Saldaea. He wished he could see Teodora again.
A scraping at the door brought him to his feet; for all his bulk, he was more agile than he let anyone see. Mopping his face and neck, he made his way past the brick stove that he certainly had no need for here, and the cabinets with their ornately carved and painted uprights. When he pulled the door open, a slender figure swathed in black robes scurried in past him. He took one quick look around the moonlit darkness to make certain no one was watching — the drivers were all snoring beneath the other wagons and the Aiel guards never came among the wagons themselves — and quickly shut the door again.
“You must be hot, Isendre,” he chuckled. “Take off that robe and make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you, no,” she said bitterly from the shadowed depths of her cowl. She stood stiffly, but every now and then she twitched; the wool must be even itchier than usual tonight.
He chuckled again. “As you wish.” Beneath those robes, he suspected, the Maidens of the Spear still allowed her to wear nothing but the stolen jewelry, if that. She had become prudish in ways, since the Maidens had her. Why the woman had been stupid enough to steal, he could not understand. He had certainly made no objections when they dragged her screaming from the wagon by her hair; he was only glad that they had not thought he was involved. Her greediness had certainly made his task more difficult. “Have you anything to report on al’Thor or Natael?” A major part of Lanfear’s instruction had been to keep a close eye on those two, and he knew no better way to keep an eye on a man than to put a woman in his bed. Any man told his bedmate things he had vowed to keep secret, boasted of his plans, revealed his weaknesses, even if he was the Dragon Reborn and this Dawn fellow the Aiel called him.
She shuddered visibly. “At least I can come near Natael.” Come near him? Once the Maidens had caught her sneaking to the man’s tent, they had practically begun stuffing her into it every night. She always put the best face on matters. “Not that he tells me anything. Wait. Be patient. Keep silent. Make accommodation with fate, whatever that means. He says that every time I try to ask a question. For the most part, all he wants to do is play music I’ve never heard before and make love.” She never had anything more to say about the gleeman. For the hundredth time he wondered why Lanfear wanted Natael watched. The man was supposed to be as high as a Darkfriend could reach, only a step below the Chosen themselves.
“I take it that means you still have not managed to wriggle into al’Thor’s bed?” he asked, brushing past her to sit down on the bed.
“No.” She writhed uncomfortably.
“Then you will have to try harder, won’t you? I am growing tired of failure, Isendre, and our masters are not as patient as I. He’s only a man, whatever his titles.” She had often boasted to him that she could have any man she wanted, and make him do whatever she wanted. She had shown him the truth of her boasts. She had not needed to steal jewelry; he would have bought her anything she wanted. He had bought her more than he could afford. “The bloody Maidens can’t watch him every second, and once you are in his bed, he’ll not let them harm you.” One taste of her would be enough for that. “I have full faith and confidence in your abilities.”
“No.” If anything, the word was shorter this time.
He rolled and unrolled the kerchief irritably. “’No’ is not a word our masters like to hear, Isendre.” That meant their lords among the Darkfriends; not all lords or ladies by any means — a groom might give orders to lady, a beggar to a magistrate
— but their commands were at least as strictly enforced as any noble’s, and usually more so. “Not a word our mistress will like to hear.”
Isendre shuddered. She had not believed his tale until he showed her the burns on his chest, but since then, one mention of Lanfear had been enough to quell any rebellion on her part. This time, she began to weep.
“I cannot, Hadnan. When we stopped tonight, I thought I might have a chance in a town instead of tents, but they caught me before I got within ten paces of him.” She pushed back her hood, and he gaped as moonlight played over her bare scalp. Even her eyebrows were gone. “They shaved me, Hadnan. Adelin and Enaila and Jolien, they held me down and shaved every hair. They beat me with with nettles, Hadnan.” She shook like sapling in high wind, sobbing slackmouthed and mumbling the words. “I itch from shoulders to knees, and burn too much to scratch. They said they’d make me wear nettles, the next time I so much as looked in his direction. They meant it, Hadnan. They did! They said they’d give me to Aviendha, and they told me what she would do. I cannot, Hadnan. Not again. I cannot.”
Stunned, he stared at her. She had had such lovely dark hair. Yet she was beautiful enough that even being bald as an egg only made her seem exotic. Her tears and sagging face detracted only a little. If she could put herself into al’Thor’s
bed for just one night… It was not going to happen. The Maidens had broken her. He had broken people himself, and he knew the signs. Eagerness to avoid more punishment became eagerness to obey. The mind never wanted to admit it was running from something, so she would soon convince herself that she really wanted to obey, that she really wanted nothing more than to please the Maidens.
“What does Aviendha have to do with it?” he muttered. How soon before Isendre felt the need to confess her sins, as well?
“Al’Thor has been bedding her since Rhuidean, you fool! She spends every night with him. The Maidens think she will marry him.” Even through her sobs he could detect resentful fury. She would not like it that another had succeeded where she failed. Doubtless that was why she had not told him before.
Aviendha was a beautiful woman despite her fierce eyes, fullbreasted compared to most of the Maidens, yet he would stack Isendre against her if only… Isendre slumped in the moonlight coming through the windows, quivering from head to toe, sobbing openmouthed, tears rolling down her cheeks that she did not even bother to wipe away. She would grovel on the ground if Aviendha frowned at her.
“Very well,” he said gently. “If you cannot, then you cannot. You can still pry something out of Natael. I know you can.” Rising, he took her shoulders to turn her toward the door.
She flinched away from his touch, but she did turn. “Natael will not want to look at me for days,” she said petulantly around hiccoughs and sniffs. Sobs threatened to break out again any moment, but his tone seemed to have soothed her. “I’m red, Hadnan. As red as if I had laid naked in the sun for a day. And my hair. It will take forever to grow ba —”
As she reached for the door, her eyes going to the handle, he had the kerchief spun to a cord in an instant and around her neck. He tried to ignore her rasping gurgles, the frantic scraping of her feet on the floor. Her fingers clawed at his hands, but he stared straight ahead. Even keeping his eyes open, he saw Teodora; he always did, when he killed a woman. He had loved his sister, but she had discovered what he was, and she would not have kept silent. Isendre’s heels drummed violently, but after what seemed an eternity they slowed, went still, and she became a dead weight dragging at his hands. He held the cord tight for a count of sixty before unwinding it and letting her fall. She would have been confessing, next. Confessing to being a Darkfriend. Pointing a finger at him.
Rummaging in the cabinets by touch, he pulled out butchering knife. Disposing of a whole corpse would be difficult, but luckily the dead did not bleed much; the robe would absorb what little there was. Maybe he could find the woman who had left the note under his door. If she was not pretty enough, she must have friends who were also Darkfriends. Natael would not care if it was an Aiel woman who visited him — Kadere would rather have bedded a viper himself; Aiel were dangerous — and maybe an Aiel would have a better chance than Isendre against Aviendha. Kneeling, he hummed quietly to himself as he worked, a lullaby that
Teodora had taught him.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 30
(Dragon) A Wager
A soft night breeze stirred across the small town of Eianrod, then faded. Sitting on the stone rail of the wide flat bridge in the heart of the town, Rand supposed the breeze was hot, yet it hardly felt so after the Waste. Warm for nighttime perhaps, but not enough to make him unbutton his red coat. The river below him had never been large, and was half its normal width now, yet he still enjoyed watching the water flow north, moonshadows cast by scudding clouds playing across the darkly glittering surface. That was why he was out here in the night, really; to look at running water for a time. His wards were set, surrounding the Aiel encampment that itself surrounded the town. The Aiel themselves kept a watch a sparrow could not pierce unseen. He could waste an hour being soothed by the flow of a river.
It was surely better than another night where he had to order Moiraine to leave so he could study with Asmodean. She had even taken to bringing his meals to him and talking while he ate, as if she meant to cram everything she knew into his head before they reached the city of Cairhien. He could not face her begging to remain
— actually begging! — as she had the previous night. For a woman like Moiraine, that behavior was so unnatural that he had wanted to agree simply to stop it. Which was very likely why she had done it. Much better an hour listening to the quiet liquid ripplings of the river. With luck, she would have given up on him for tonight. The eight or ten paces of clay between water and weeds on both sides below him was dried and cracked. He peered up at the clouds crossing the moon. He could try to make those clouds give rain. The town’s two fountains were both dry, and dust lay in a third of the wells not fouled beyond cleaning. Try was the word, though. He had made it rain once; remembering how was the trick. If he managed that, then he could try not to make it a drowning deluge and a treesnapping
windstorm this time.
Asmodean would be no help; he did not know much about weather, it seemed. For every thing the man taught him, there were two more that made Asmodean either throw up his hands or give a lick and a promise. Once he had thought that the Forsaken knew everything, that they were all but omnipotent. But if the others were like Asmodean, they had ignorances as well as weaknesses. It might actually be that he already knew more of some things than they. Than some of them, at least. The problem would be finding out who. Semirhage was almost as poor at handling weather as Asmodean.
He shivered as if this were night in the Threefold Land. Asmodean had never told him that. Better to listen to the water and not think, if he meant to sleep at all tonight.
Sulin approached him, the shoufa around her shoulders so it uncovered her short white hair, and leaned on the railing. The wiry Maiden was armed for battle, bow
and arrows, spears and knife and buckler. She had taken command of his bodyguard tonight. Two dozen more Far Dareis Mai squatted easily on the bridge ten paces away. “An odd night,” she said. “We were gambling, but suddenly everyone was throwing nothing but sixes.”
“I am sorry,” he told her without thinking, and she gave him a peculiar look. She did not know, of course; he had not spread it about. The ripples he gave off as ta’veren spread out in odd, random ways. Even the Aiel would not want to be within ten miles of him, if they knew.
The ground had given way beneath three Stone Dogs today, dropping them into a viper pit, but none of the dozens of bites had found anything but cloth. He knew that had been him, bending chance. Tal Nethin, the saddlemaker, had survived Taien to trip on a stone this very noon and break his neck falling on flat, grassy ground. Rand was afraid that had been him, too. On the other hand, Bael and Jheran had mended the blood feud between Shaarad and Goshien while he was with them, eating a midday meal of dried meat on the move. They still did not like each other, and hardly seemed to understand what they had done, but it was done, with pledges and water oaths given, each man holding the cup for the other to drink. To Aiel, water oaths were stronger than any other; it might be generations before Shaarad and Goshien so much as raided each other for sheep or goats or cattle.
He had wondered if those random effects would ever work in his favor; maybe this was as close as it came. What else had happened today that might be laid at his feet, he did not know; he never asked, and would as soon not hear. The Baels and Jherans could only partly make up for the Tal Nethins.
“I’ve not seen Enaila or Adelin for days,” he said. It was as good a change of subject as any. That pair in particular had seemed to be jealous of their places guarding him. “Are they ill?”
If anything, the look Sulin gave him was even more peculiar. “They will return when they learn to stop playing with dolls, Rand al’Thor.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Aiel were strange — Aviendha’s lessons often made them more so, not less — but this was ridiculous. “Well, tell them they are grown women and they ought to act it.”
Even by moonlight he could tell that her smile was pleased. “It shall be as the Car’a’carn wishes.” What did that mean? She eyed him a moment, lips pursed thoughtfully. “You have not eaten yet tonight. There is still enough food for everyone, and you will not fill one belly by going hungry yourself. If you do not eat, people will worry that you are ill. You will become ill.”
He laughed softly, a hoarse wheeze. The Car’a’carn one minute, and the next… If he did not fetch something to eat, Sulin would probably go get it for him. And try to feed him to boot. “I will eat. Moiraine must be in her blankets by now.” This time her, odd look was satisfying; for a change he had said something that she did not understand.
As he swung his feet down, he heard the ring of horses’ hooves walking down
the stonepaved street toward the bridge. Every Maiden was upright in an instant, face veiled; half nocked arrows. His hand went to his waist by instinct, but the sword was not there. The Aiel felt strange enough about him riding a horse and carrying the thing at his saddle; he had not seen any need to offend their customs more by wearing it. Besides, there were not many horses, and they were coming at a walk.
When they appeared, surrounded by an escort of fifty Aiel, the riders numbered fewer than twenty, slumping in their saddles dejectedly. Most wore rimmed helmets and Tairen coats with puffy, striped sleeves beneath their breastplates. The pair in the lead had ornately gilded cuirasses, and large white plumes attached to the front of their helmets, and the stripes on their sleeves had the glisten of satin in the moonlight. Halfadozen men at the rear, though, shorter and slighter than the Tairens, two with small banners called con on short staffs harnessed to their backs, wore dark coats and helmets shaped like bells cut away to expose their faces. Cairhienin used the banners to pick out officers in battle, and also to mark a lord’s personal retainers.
The Tairens with plumes stared when they saw him, exchanged startled glances, then scrambled down to come kneel before him, helmets under their arms. They were young, little older than he, both with dark beards trimmed to neat points in the fashion of Tairen nobility. Dents marred their breastplates, and the gilding was chipped; they had been crossing swords somewhere. Neither as much as glanced at the Aiel surrounding them, as if when ignored they would disappear. The Maidens unveiled, though they looked no less ready to put spear or arrow through the kneeling men.
Rhuarc followed the Tairens, with a grayeyed Aiel younger and slightly taller than he, and stood behind. Mangin was of the Jindo Taardad, and one of those who had gone to the Stone of Tear. Jindo had brought in the riders.
“My Lord Dragon,” the plump, pinkcheeked lordling said, “burn my soul, but have they taken you prisoner?” His companion, jug ears and potato nose making him look a farmer despite his beard, kept sweeping lanky hair from his forehead nervously. “They said they were taking us to some Dawn fellow. The Car’a’carn. Means something about chiefs, if I remember what my tutor said. Forgive me, my Lord Dragon. I am Edorion of House Selorna, and this is Estean of House Andiama.”
“I am He Who Comes With the Dawn,” Rand told them quietly. “And the Car’a’carn.” He had them placed now: young lords who had spent their time drinking, gambling and chasing women when he was in the Stone. Estean’s eyes nearly popped out of his face; Edorion looked as surprised for a moment, then nodded slowly, as if he suddenly saw how it made sense. “Stand. Who are your Cairhienin companions?” It would be interesting to meet Cairhienin who were not running for their lives from the Shaido, and any other Aiel they saw. For that matter, if they were with Edorion and Estean, they might be the first supporters he had met
in this land. If the two Tairens’ fathers had followed his orders. “Bring them forward.”
Estean blinked in surprise as he rose, but Edorion barely paused in turning to shout, “Meresin! Daricain! Come here!” Much like calling dogs. The Cairhienins’ banners bobbed as they dismounted slowly.
“My Lord Dragon.” Estean hesitated, licking his lips as though thirsty. “Did you… Did you send the Aiel against Cairhien?”
“They’ve attacked the city, then?”
Rhuarc nodded, and Mangin said, “If these are to be believed, Cairhien still holds. Or did three days ago.” There was little doubt that he did not think it still did, and less that he cared about a city of treekillers.
“I did not send them, Estean,” Rand said as they were joined by the two Cairhienin, who knelt, doffing their helmets to reveal men of an age with Edorion and Estean, their hair shaved back in line with their ears and their dark eyes wary. “Those who attack the city are my enemies, the Shaido. I mean to save Cairhien if it can be saved.”
He had to go through the business of telling the Cairhienin to rise; his time with the Aiel had almost made him forget the habit this side of the Spine of the World, bowing and kneeling right and left. He had to ask for introductions, too, and the Cairhienin gave them themselves. Lieutenant Lord Meresin of House Daganred — his con was all wavy vertical lines of red and white — and Lieutenant Lord Daricain of House Annallin, his con covered with small squares of red and black. It was a surprise that they were lords. Though lords commanded and led soldiers in Cairhien, they did not shave their heads and become soldiers. Or had not; much had changed, apparently.
“My Lord Dragon.” Meresin stumbled a bit saying that. He and Daricain were both pale, slender men, with narrow faces and long noses, but he was a bit the heavier. Neither looked as if he had had much to eat lately. Meresin rushed on as if afraid of being interrupted. “My Lord Dragon, Cairhien can hold. For days yet, perhaps as many as ten or twelve, but you must come quickly if you are to save it.”
“That is why we came out,” Estean said, shooting Meresin a dark look. Both Cairhienin returned it, but their defiance was tinged with resignation. Estean raked stringy hair from his forehead. “To find help. Parties have been sent in every direction, my Lord Dragon.” He shivered despite the sweat on his brow, and his voice turned distant and hollow. “There were more of us when we started. I saw Baran go down, screaming with a spear through his guts. He’ll never turn a card at chop again. I could use a mug of strong brandy.”
Edorion turned his helmet in gauntleted hands, frowning. “My Lord Dragon, the city can hold a while longer, but even if these Aiel will fight those, the question is, can you bring them there in time? I think ten or twelve days is a more than generous estimate, myself. In truth, I only came because I thought dying with a spear through me would be better than being taken alive when they made it over the walls. The
city is packed with refugees who fled ahead of the Aiel; there isn’t a dog or a pigeon left in the city, and I doubt there will be a rat left soon. The one good thing is that no one seems to be worrying very much about who will take the Sun Throne, not with this Couladin outside.”
“He called on us to surrender to He Who Comes With the Dawn, on the second day,” Daricain put in, earning a sharp look from Edorion for the interruption.
“Couladin has some sport with prisoners,” Estean said. “Out of bowshot, but where anyone on the walls can see. You can hear them screaming, too. The Light burn my soul, I don’t know whether he is trying to break our will or simply likes it. Sometimes they let peasants make a run for the city, then shoot them full of arrows when they’re almost safe. However safe Cairhien is. Only peasants, but…” He trailed off and swallowed hard, as if he had just remembered what Rand’s opinions were of “only peasants.” Rand just looked at him, but he seemed to shrivel, and muttered under his breath about brandy.
Edorion leaped into the momentary silence. “My Lord Dragon, the point is that the city can hold until you come, if you can come quickly. We only beat back the first assault because the Foregate caught fire…”
“Flames nearly took the city,” Estean interjected. The Foregate, a city in itself outside the walls of Cairhien, had been mostly wood, as Rand remembered. “Would have been disaster if the river was not right there.”
The other Tairen went on right over him. “… but Lord Meilan has the defense well planned, and the Cairhienin appear to be keeping their backbones for the time.” That earned him frowns from Meresin and Daricain that he either did not see or pretended not to. “Seven days with luck, perhaps eight at most. If you can…” A heavy sigh abruptly seemed to deflate Edorion’s plumpness. “I did not see one horse,” he said as if to himself. “The Aiel do not ride. You will never be able to move men afoot so far in time.”
“How long?” Rand asked Rhuarc.
“Seven days” was the reply. Mangin nodded, and Estean laughed.
“Burn my soul, it took us as long to reach here on horses. If you think you can make the return in the same afoot, you must be…” Becoming aware of the Aiel eyes on him, Estean scrubbed the hair from his face. “Is there any brandy in this town?” he muttered.
“It isn’t how fast we can make it,” Rand said quietly, “but how fast you can, if you dismount some of your men and use their horses for spares. I want to let Meilan and Cairhien know that help is on the way. But whoever goes will have to be sure he can keep his mouth shut if the Shaido take him. I do not intend to let Couladin know any more than he can learn on his own.” Estean went whiter in the face than the Cairhienin.
Meresin and Daricain were on their knees together, each seizing one of Rand’s hands to kiss. He let them, with as much patience as he could find; one bit of Moiraine’s advice that had the ring of common sense was not to offend people’s
customs, however strange or even repulsive, unless you absolutely had to, and even then think twice.
“We will go, my Lord Dragon,” Meresin said breathlessly. “Thank you, my Lord Dragon. Thank you. Under the Light, I vow I will die before revealing a word to any but my father or the High Lord Meilan.”
“Grace favor you, my Lord Dragon,” the other added. “Grace favor you, and the Light illumine you forever. I am your man to the death.” Rand let Meresin say that he also was Rand’s man before taking his hands back firmly and telling them to stand. He did not like the way they were looking at him. Edorion had called them like hounds, but men should not look at anyone as if they were dogs gazing at a master.
Edorion drew a deep breath, puffing his pink cheeks, and let it out slowly. “I suppose if I made it out in one piece, I can make it back in. My Lord Dragon, forgive me if I offend, but would you care to wager, say, a thousand gold crowns, that you can really come in seven days?”
Rand stared at him. The man was as bad as Mat. “I don’t have a hundred crowns silver, much less a thousand in —”
Sulin broke in. “He has it, Tairen,” she said firmly. “He will meet your wager, if you make it ten thousand by weight.”
Edorion laughed. “Done, Aiel. And worth every copper if I lose. Come to think, I’ll not live to collect if I win. Come, Meresin, Daricain.” It sounded as if he were summoning dogs to heel. “We ride.”
Rand waited until the three had made their bows and were halfway back to the horses before rounding on the whitehaired Maiden. “What do you mean, I have a thousand gold crowns? I’ve never seen a thousand crowns, much less ten thousand.” The Maidens exchanged glances as if he were demented; so did Rhuarc and Mangin. “A fifth of the treasure that was in the Stone of Tear belongs to those who took the Stone, and will be claimed when they can carry it away.” Sulin spoke as to a child, instructing it in the simple facts of everyday life. “As chief and battle leader there, one tenth of that fifth is yours. Tear submitted to you as chief by right of triumph, so one tenth of Tear is yours as well. And you have said we can take the fifth in these lands — a… tax, you called it.” She fumbled the word; the Aiel did not
have taxes. “The tenth part of that is yours also, as Car’a’carn.”
Rand shook his head. In all of his talks with Aviendha, he had never thought to ask whether the fifth applied to him; he was not Aiel, Car’a’carn or no, and it had not seemed anything to do with him. Well, it might not be a tax, but he could use it as kings did taxes. Unfortunately, he had only the vaguest idea how that was. He would have to ask Moiraine; that was one thing she had missed in her lectures. Perhaps she thought it so obvious that he should know.
Elayne would have known what taxes were used for; it had certainly been more fun taking advice from her than from Moiraine. He wished he knew where she was. Still in Tanchico, probably; Egwene told him little more than a constant string of
wellwishings. He wished he could sit Elayne down and make her explain those two letters. Maiden of the Spear or DaughterHeir of Andor, women were strange. Except maybe Min. She had laughed at him, but she had never made him think she was speaking some strange language. She would not laugh, now. If he ever saw her again, she would run a hundred miles to get away from the Dragon Reborn.
Edorion dismounted all his men, taking one of their horses and stringing the others together by their reins, along with Estean’s. No doubt he was saving his own for the final sprint through the Shaido. Merisin and Daricain did the same with their men. Though it meant that the Cairhienin had only two spare mounts apiece, no one seemed to think they should have any of the Tairen horses. They clattered off together westward at a trot, with a Jindo escort.
Carefully not looking at anyone, Estean started to drift toward the soldiers standing uneasily in a circle of Aiel at the foot of the bridge. Mangin caught his redstriped sleeve. “You can tell us conditions inside Cairhien, wetlander.” The lumpyfaced man looked ready to faint.
“I am certain he will answer any questions you ask,” Rand said sharply, emphasizing the final word.
“They will only be asked,” Rhuarc said, taking the Tairen’s other arm. He and Mangin seemed to be holding the much shorter man up between them. “Warning the city’s defenders is well and good, Rand al’Thor,” Rhuarc went on, “but we should send scouts. Running, they can reach Cairhien as soon as those men on horses, and meet us coming back with word of how Couladin has disposed the Shaido.”
Rand could feel the Maiden’s eyes on him, but he looked straight at Rhuarc. “Thunder Walkers?” he suggested.
“Sha’mad Conde,” Rhuarc agreed. He and Mangin turned Estean — they were holding him up — and started toward the other soldiers.
“Ask!” Rand called after them. “He is your ally, and my liege man.” He had no idea whether Estean was that last or not — it was another thing to ask Moiraine; or even how much of an ally he really was — his father, the High Lord Torean, had plotted against Rand enough — but he would allow nothing close to Couladin’s ways.
Rhuarc turned his head and nodded.
“You tend your people well, Rand al’Thor.” Sulin’s voice was flat as a planed plank.
“I try,” he told her. He was not about to rise to the bait. Whoever went to scout the Shaido, some would not return, and that was that. “I think I will have something to eat now. And get some sleep.” It could not be much more than two hours to midnight, and sunrise still came early this time of year. The Maidens followed him, watching the shadows warily as if they expected attack, handtalk flickering among them. But then, Aiel always seemed to expect attack.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 31
(Spears and Shield) The Far Snows
The streets of Eianrod ran straight and met at right angles, where necessary slicing through hills that were otherwise neatly terraced with stone. The slateroofed stone buildings had an angular look, as if they were all vertical lines. Eianrod had not fallen to Couladin; no people had been there when the Shaido swept through. A good many of the houses were only charred beams and hollow ruined shells, however, including most of the wide threestory marble buildings with balconies that Moiraine said had belonged to merchants. Broken furniture and clothes littered the streets, along with shattered dishes and shards of glass from windows, single boots and tools and toys.
The burning had come at different times — Rand could tell that much himself, from the weathering of blackened timbers and how much smell of char lingered where — but Lan had been able to chart the flow of battles by which the town had been taken and retaken. By different Houses contending for the Sun Throne, most likely, though from the look of the streets, the last to hold Eianrod had been brigands. A good many of the bands roaming Cairhien held allegiance to no one, and to nothing except gold.
It was to one of the merchants’ houses that Rand went, on the largest of the town’s two squares, three square stories of gray marble with heavy balconies and wide steps with thick angular stone siderails overlooking a silent fountain with a dusty round basin. A chance to sleep in a bed again had been too good to pass up, and he had hopes that Aviendha would choose to remain in a tent; whether his or with the Wise Ones, he did not care, so long as he did not have to try going to sleep while listening to her breathe a few paces away. Recently he had begun imagining he could hear her heart beat even when he had not taken hold of saidin. But if she did not stay away, he had taken precautions.
The Maidens stopped at the steps, some trotting around the building to take positions on all sides. He had feared that they would try declaring this a Roof of the Maidens, even for the one night, and so as soon as he had chosen the building, one of the few in town with a sound roof and most of the windows unbroken, he had told Sulin that he was declaring it the Roof of the Winespring Brothers. No one could enter who had not drunk from the Winespring, in Emond’s Field. From the look she had given him, she knew very well what he was up to, but none of them followed him beyond the wide doors that seemed to be all narrow vertical panels.
Inside, the large rooms were bare, though whiterobed gai’shain had spread a few blankets for themselves in the broad entry hall, its high plaster ceiling worked in a pattern of severe squares. Keeping gai’shain out was beyond him even had he wanted to, as much so as keeping Moiraine out if she was not asleep elsewhere. Whatever orders he gave about not being disturbed, she always found a way to
make the Maidens let her by, and it always took a direct command for her to go before she would leave.
The gai’shain rose smoothly, men and women, before he had the door closed. They would not sleep until he did, and some would take turns remaining awake in case he wanted something in the night. He had tried ordering them not to, but telling a gai’shain not to serve according to custom was like kicking a bale of wool; whatever impression you made was gone as soon as your toes were. He waved them away and climbed the marble stairs. Some of those gai’shain had salvaged a few bits of furniture, including a bed and two feather mattresses, and he was looking forward to washing and—
He froze as soon as he opened the door to his bedchamber. Aviendha had not chosen to remain with the tents. She stood before the washstand, with its mismatched, cracked bowl and pitcher, a cloth in one hand and a bar of yellow soap in the other. She had no clothes on. She seemed as stunned as he, as incapable of moving.
“I…” She stopped to swallow, big green eyes locked on his face. “I could not make a sweat tent here in this… town, so I thought I would try your way of…
She was hard muscle and soft curves; she glistened damply from head to feet. He had never imagined that her legs were so long. “I thought you would remain longer at the bridge. I…” Her voice rose in pitch; her eyes widened in panic. “I did not arrange for you to see me! I must get away from you. As far away as I can! I must!”
Suddenly a shimmering vertical line appeared in the air near her. It widened, as if rotating, into a gateway. Icy wind rushed through it into the room, carrying thick curtains of snow.
“I must get away!” she wailed, and darted through into the blizzard. Immediately the gateway began to narrow again, turning, but without thought
Rand channeled, blocking it at half its former width. He did not know what he had done or how, but he was sure this was a gateway for Traveling, such as Asmodean had told him of and been unable to teach him. There was no time for thinking. Wherever Aviendha had gone, she had gone naked into the heart of a winter storm. Rand tied off the flows he had woven as he ripped all the blankets from the bed and tossed them onto her clothes and pallet. Seizing blankets, clothes and rugs all together, he plunged through only moments behind her.
Icy wind screamed through night air filled with swirling white. Even wrapped in the Void, he could feel his body shivering. Dimly he could make out scattered shapes in the darkness; trees, he thought. There was nothing for him to smell but cold. Ahead of him, a form moved, obscured by darkness and the snowstorm; he might have missed it but for the sharpness of his eyes in the Void. Aviendha, running as hard as she could. He lumbered after her through snow to his knees, clutching the thick bundle to his chest.
“Aviendha! Stop!” He was afraid that the howling wind would sweep his shout
away, but she heard. And if anything, ran faster. He forced himself to more speed, staggering and tripping as the deepening snow tugged at his boots. The prints left by her bare feet were filling fast. If he lost sight of her in this… “Stop, you fool woman! Are you trying to kill yourself?” The sound of his voice seemed to flog her to run harder.
Grimly, he pushed himself, halffalling and scrambling back up, knocked down by the hurtling wind as often as stumbling in the snow, blundering into trees. He had to keep his eyes on her. He was only thankful this forest, or whatever it was, had trees so far apart.
Plans skittered across the Void and were discarded. He could try quelling the storm — and maybe the result would turn the air to ice. A shelter of Air to keep the falling snow away would do nothing for that underfoot. He could melt a path for himself with Fire — and slog through mud instead. Unless…
He channeled, and the snow ahead of him melted in a band a span wide, a band that ran ahead of him as he did. Steam rose, and falling snow vanished a foot above the sandy soil. He could feel the heat of it through his boots. Down almost to his ankles, his body shook with the bonechilling cold; his feet sweated and flinched away from the heated ground. But he was catching up now. Another five minutes and…
Suddenly the vague shape he had been following vanished as if she had fallen into a hole.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the spot where he had last seen her, he ran as hard as he could. Abruptly he was splashing in icy flowing water to his ankles, halfway to his knees. Ahead of him, the melting snow revealed more, and an edge of ice inching slowly back. No steam rose from the black water. Stream or river, it was too big for the amount of his channeling to warm the swiftmoving flow even a hair. She must have run out onto the ice and fallen through, but he would not save her by trying to wade into this. Filled with saidin, he was barely aware of the cold, but his teeth chattered uncontrollably.
Retreating to the bank, gaze locked on where he thought Aviendha had gone down, he channeled flows of Fire into ground still bare, well back from the stream, until the sand melted and fused and glowed white. Even in this storm, that would stay hot for a time. He set the bundle down in the snow beside it — her life would depend on finding the blankets and rugs again — then waded through the deep white to one side of the melted path and lay flat. Slowly he crawled out onto the snowcovered ice.
The wind shrieked across him. His coat might as well not have existed. His hands were numb now, and his feet going; he had stopped shivering except for an occasional shudder. Coldly calm inside the Void, he knew what was happening; there were blizzards in the Two Rivers, perhaps even as bad as this. His body was being overwhelmed. If he did not find warmth soon, he would be able to calmly watch from the Void as he died. But if he died, Aviendha would too. If she had not
already.
He felt rather than heard the ice cracking beneath his weight. His probing hands fell into water. This was the place, but with snow whirling about, he could barely see. He flailed, searching, numb hands splashing. One hit something at the edge of the ice, and he commanded his fingers to close, felt frozen hair crackling.
Got to pull her out. He crawled backward, hauling at her. She was a dead weight, sliding slowly out of the water. Don’t care if the ice scrapes her. Better that than freezing or drowning. Back. Keep moving. If you quit, she dies. Keep moving, burn you! Crawling. Pulling with his legs, pushing with one hand. The other locked in Aviendha’s hair; no time to get a better grip; she could not feel it anyway. You’ve had it easy for too long. Lords kneeling, and gai’shain running to fetch your wine, and Moiraine doing as she’s told. Back. Time to do something yourself if you still can. Move, you flaming fatherless son of a spavined goat! Keep moving!
Suddenly his feet hurt; the pain began creeping up his legs. It took him a moment to look back, and then he rolled off the steaming patch of melted sand. Tendrils of smoke, where his breeches had begun smoldering, were whisked away by the wind.
Fumbling for the bundle he had left, he swathed Aviendha from head to foot in all of it, the blankets, the rugs of her pallet, her clothes. Every bit of protection was vital. Her eyes were closed, and she did not move. He parted the blankets enough to put an ear to her chest. Her heart beat so slowly that he was not sure he was really hearing it. Even four blankets and half a dozen rugs were not enough, and he could not channel heat into her as he had the ground; even fining the flow as much as possible, he was more likely to kill than warm. He could feel the weave he had used to block open her gateway, a mile or perhaps two away through the storm. If he tried to carry her that far, neither of them would survive. They needed shelter, and they needed it here.
He channeled flows of Air, and snow began to move across the ground against the wind, building into thick square walls three paces on a side with one gap for a door, building higher, compacting the snow till it glistened like ice, roofing it over high enough to stand. Scooping Aviendha into his arms, he stumbled into the dark interior, weaving and tying flames dancing in the corners for light, channeling to scoop more snow to close the doorway.
Just with the wind shut away it felt warmer, but that would not be enough. Using the trick Asmodean had shown him, he wove Air and Fire, and the air around them grew warmer. He did not dare tie that weave off; if he feel asleep, it could grow and melt the hut. For that matter, the flames were almost as dangerous to leave, but he was too boneweary and chilled to maintain more than one weave.
The ground inside had been cleared as he built, bare sandy soil with only a few brown leaves he did not recognize and some scruffy low dead weeds that were equally strange to him. Releasing the weave that warmed the air, he heated the ground enough to take away the iciness, then took up the other weave again. It was
all he could do to lay Aviendha down gently rather than drop her.
He pushed a hand inside the blankets to feel her cheek, her shoulder. Trickles of water ran across her face as her hair melted. He was cold, but she was ice. She needed every scrap of warmth he could find for her, and he did not dare warm the air more. Already the insides of the walls shone with a faint layer of melt. However frozen he felt, he had more heat in him than she did.
Stripping off his clothes, he climbed into the coverings with her, arranging his own damp garments on the outside; they could help hold in the body heat. His sense of touch, enhanced by the Void and saidin, soaked in the feel of her. Her skin made silk feel rough. Compared to her skin, satin was… Don’t think. He smoothed damp hair away from her face. He should have dried it, but the water no longer felt so cold, and there was nothing but the blankets or their clothes to use anyway. Her eyes were closed; her chest stirred against him slowly. Her head lay on his arm, snuggled against his chest. If she had not felt like winter itself, she could have been sleeping. So peaceful; not angry at all. So beautiful. Stop thinking. It was a sharp command outside the emptiness surrounding him. Talk.
He tried talking of the first thing that came to mind, Elayne and the confusion her two letters brought, but that soon had thoughts of goldenhaired Elayne drifting across the Void, of kissing her in secluded spots in the Stone. Don’t think of kissing, fool! He shifted to Min. He had never thought about Min that way. Well, a few dreams could not count. Min would have slapped his face if he had ever tried to kiss her, or else laughed and called him a woolhead. Only it seemed that speaking of any woman reminded him that he had his arms around a woman who had no clothes on. Filled with the Power, he could smell the scent of her, feel every inch of her as clearly as if he were running his hands… The Void trembled. Light, you’re only trying to warm her! Keep your mind out of the pigsty, man!
Trying to drive thought away, he talked of his hopes for Cairhien, to bring peace and an end to the famine, to bring the nations behind him without any more bloodshed. But that had its own life, too, its own inevitable path, to Shayol Ghul, where he must face the Dark One and die, if the Prophecies were true. It seemed cowardly to say that he hoped he might live through that somehow. Aiel did not know cowardice; the worst of them was brave as a lion. “The Breaking of the World killed the weak,” he had heard Bad say, “and the Threefold Land killed the cowards.”
He began speaking of where they might be, where she had brought them with her wild senseless flight. Somewhere far and strange, to have snow at this time of year. It had been worse than a senseless flight. Mad. Yet he knew that she had fled from him. Fled from him. How she must hate him, if she had to flee as far as she could rather than just tell him to leave her to her bath in privacy.
“I should have knocked.” At his own bedroom door? “I know you do not want to be around me. You don’t have to be. Whatever the Wise Ones want, whatever they say, you are going back to their tents. You will not have to come near me
again. In fact, if you do, I… I’ll send you away.” Why hesitate on that? She gave him anger, coldness, bitterness when she was awake, and asleep… “It was a crazy thing to do. You could have killed yourself.” He was stroking her hair again; he could not seem to stop. “If you ever do anything half so crazy again, I’ll break your neck. Do you have any idea how I will miss hearing you breathe at night?” Miss it? She drove him crazy with it! He was the one who was mad. He had to stop this. “You are going away, and that’s that, if I have to send you back to Rhuidean. The Wise Ones can’t stop me if I speak as Car’a’carn. You won’t have to run away from me again.”
The hand that he could not stop from stroking her hair froze as she stirred. She was warm, he realized. Very warm. He should be wrapping one of the blankets about himself decently and moving away. Her eyes opened, clear and deep green, staring at him seriously from not a foot away. She did not seem surprised to see him, and she did not pull back.
He took his arms from around her, started to slither away, and she seized a handful of his hair in a painful grip. If he moved, he would have a bald patch. She gave him no chance to explain anything. “I promised my nearsister to watch you.” She seemed to be speaking to herself as much as to him, in a low, almost expressionless voice. “I ran from you as hard as I could, to shield my honor. And you followed me even here. The rings do not lie, and I can run no more.” Her tone firmed decisively. “I will run no more.”
Rand tried to ask her what she meant while attempting to untangle her fingers from his hair, but she clutched another handful on the other side and pulled his mouth to hers. That was the end of rational thought; the Void shattered, and saidin fled. He did not think he could have stopped himself had he wanted to, only he could not think of wanting to, and she certainly did not seem to want him to. In fact, the last thought he had of any coherency for a very long time was that he did not think he could have stopped her.
Some considerable time later — two hours, maybe three; he could hardly be sure — he lay atop the rugs with the blankets over him and his hands behind his head, watching Aviendha examine the slick white walls. They had held a surprising amount of the warmth; there was no need to latch on to saidin again, either to shut out cold or to try warming the air. She had done no more than rake her fingers through her hair on rising, and she moved completely unashamed at her nakedness. Of course, it was a bit late to be ashamed of something as small as having no clothes on. He had been worried about hurting her when dragging her out of the water, but she showed fewer scrapes than he did, and somehow they did not seem to mar her beauty at all.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Snow.” He explained what snow was as best he could, but she only shook her head, partly in wonderment, partly disbelief. For someone who had grown up in the Waste, frozen water falling from the sky must seem as impossible as flying.
According to the records, the only time it had ever even rained in the Waste was the time he had made it.
He could not stop a sigh of regret when she began pulling her shift over her head. “The Wise Ones can marry us as soon as we get back.” He could still feel his weave holding her gateway open.
Aviendha’s dark reddish head popped through the neck of the shift, and she stared at him flatly. Not unfriendly, but. not friendly, either. Determined, though. “What makes you think a man has the right to ask me that? Besides, you belong to Elayne.”
After a moment he managed to close his mouth. “Aviendha, we just… The two of us… Light, we have to marry now. Not that I’m doing it because I have to,” he added hastily. “I want to.” He was not sure of that at all, really. He thought he might love her, but he thought he might love Elayne, too. And for some reason, Min kept creeping in. You’re as big a lecher as Mat. But for once he could do what was right because it was right.
She sniffed at him and felt her stockings to be sure they were dry, then sat down to don them. “Egwene has spoken to me of your Two Rivers marriage customs.”
“You want to wait a year?” he asked incredulously.
“The year. Yes, that is what I meant.” He had never realized before how much leg a woman showed pulling on a stocking; odd that that could seem so thrilling after he had seen her naked and sweating and… He concentrated on listening to her. “Egwene said she thought of asking her mother’s permission for you, but before she mentioned it her mother told her she had to wait another year even if she did have her hair in a braid.” Aviendha frowned, one knee almost under her chin. “Is that right? She said a girl was not allowed to braid her hair until she was old enough to marry. Do you understand what I am saying? You look like that… fish… Moiraine caught in the river.” There were no fish in the Waste; Aiel knew them only from books.
“Of course I do,” be said. He might as well have been deaf and blind for all he understood. Shifting under the blankets, he made himself sound as sure as he could manage. “At least… Well, the customs are complicated, and I am not certain which part you are talking about.”
She looked at him suspiciously for a moment, but Aiel customs were so intricate that she believed him. In the Two Rivers, you walked out for a year, and if you suited, then you became betrothed and finally married; that was as far as custom went. She went on as she dressed. “I meant about a girl asking her mother’s permission during the year, and the Wisdom’s. I cannot say I understand that.” The white blouse going over her head muffled her words for a moment. “If she wants him, and she is old enough to marry, why should she need permission? But you see? By my customs,” her tone of voice said they were the only ones that mattered, “it is my place to choose whether to ask you, and I will not. By your customs,” fastening her belt, she shook her head dismissively, “I did not have my mother’s permission.
And you would need your father’s, I suppose. Or your fatherbrother’s, since your father is dead? We did not have them, so we cannot marry.” She began folding the scarf to wrap around her forehead.
“I see,” he said weakly. Any boy in the Two Rivers who asked his father for that kind of permission was asking to have his ears soundly boxed. When he thought of the lads who had sweated themselves silly worrying that someone, anyone, would find out what they were doing with the girl they meant to marry… For that matter, he remembered when Nynaeve caught Kimry Lewin and Bar Dowtry in Bar’s father’s hayloft. Kimry had had her hair braided for five years, but when Nynaeve was through with her, Mistress Lewin had taken over. The Women’s Circle had nearly skinned poor Bar alive, and that was nothing to what they had done to Kimry over the month they thought was the shortest decent time to wait for a wedding. The joke told quietly, where it would not get to the Women’s Circle, had been that neither Bar nor Kimry had been able to sit down the whole first week they were married. Rand supposed Kimry had failed to ask permission. “But I guess Egwene wouldn’t know all the men’s customs, after all,” he continued. “Women don’t know everything. You see, since I started it, we have to marry. It doesn’t matter about permissions.”
“You started it?” Her sniff was pointed and meaning. Aiel, Andoran or anything else, women used those noises like sticks, to prod or thump. “It does not matter anyway, since we are going by Aiel customs. This will not happen again, Rand al’Thor.” He was surprised — and pleased — to hear regret in her voice, “You belong to the nearsister of my nearsister. I have toh to Elayne, now, but that is none of your concern. Are you going to lie there forever? I have heard that men turn lazy, after, but it cannot be long until the clans are ready to begin the morning’s march. You must be there.” Suddenly a stricken look crossed her face, and she sagged to her knees. “If we can return. I am not certain that I remember what I did to make the hole, Rand al’Thor. You must find our way back.”
He told her how he had blocked her gateway and could still feel it holding. She looked relieved, and even smiled at him. But it became increasingly clear as she folded her legs and arranged her skirts that she did not mean to turn her back while he dressed.
“Fair’s fair,” he muttered after a long moment, and scrambled out of the blankets.
He tried to be as nonchalant as she had been, but it was not easy. He could feel her eyes like a touch even when he turned away from her. She had no call to tell him he had a pretty behind; he had not said anything about how pretty hers was. She only said it to make him blush, anyway. Women did not look at men that way. And they don’t ask their mother’s permission to…? He had an idea that life with Aviendha had not become one bit easier.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 32
(Insectlike Horned Helmet) A Short Spear
There was little discussion. Even if the storm still raged outside, they could make it back to the gateway using the blankets and rugs for cloaks. Aviendha began dividing them while he seized saidin, filling himself with life and death, molten fire and liquid ice.
“Split them equally,” he told her. He knew his voice was cold and emotionless.
Asmodean had said he could go beyond that, but he had not managed to so far.
She gave him a surprised look, but all she said was “There is more of you to cover,” and went on as she was.
There was no point in arguing. In his experience, from Emond’s Field to the Maidens, if a woman wanted to do something for you, the only way to stop her was to tie her up, especially if it involved sacrifice on her part. The surprise was that she had not sounded acid, had not said anything about him being a soft wetlander. Maybe something good besides a memory had come out of this. She can’t really mean never again. He suspected that she meant exactly that, though.
Weaving a fingerthin flow of Fire, he sliced the outline of a door in one wall, widening the gap at the top. Startlingly, daylight shone through. Releasing saidin, he exchanged surprised looks with Aviendha. He knew he had lost track of time — you lost track of the year — but they could not have been inside that long. Wherever they were, it was a great distance from Cairhien.
He pushed against the block, but it did not budge until he put his back to it, dug in his heels and shoved with all of his might. Just as it occurred to him that he very probably could have done this more easily with the Power, the block toppled outward, taking him with it into cold, crisp pale daylight. Not all the way, though. It stopped at an angle, propped against snow that had built up around the hut. Lying on his back, with only a bit of his head sticking out, he could see other mounds, some smooth drifts around sparse, stunted trees that he did not recognize, others maybe burying bushes or boulders.
He opened his mouth — and forgot what he was going to say as something swept through the air not fifty feet above him, a leathery gray shape far bigger than a horse, on slowbeating widespread wings, a horny snout thrust out before and clawed feet and thin, lizardlike tail trailing behind. His head twisted on its own to follow the thing’s flight over the trees. There were two people on its back; despite what seemed to be some sort of hooded garments, it was plain that they were scanning the around below. If he had had more than his head showing, if he had not been directly under the creature, they would surely have seen him.“Leave the blankets,” he said as he ducked back inside. He told her what he had seen. “Maybe they’d be friendly and maybe not, but I’d as soon not find out.” He was not sure he wanted to meet people who rode something like that in any case. If they were
people. “We are going to sneak back to the gateway. As quickly as we can, but sneaking.”
For a wonder she did not argue. When he commented on it as he was helping her climb over the ice block — that was a wonder, too; she accepted his hand without so much as a glare — she said, “I do not argue when you make sense, Rand al’Thor.” That was hardly the way he remembered it.
The land around them lay flat beneath its deep blanket of snow, but to the west sharp, whitetipped mountains rose, peaks wreathed in cloud. He had no difficulty knowing they lay west, for the sun was rising. Less than half its golden ball stuck above the ocean. He stared at that. The land slanted down enough for him to see waves crashing in violent spray on a rocky, boulderstrewn shore maybe half a mile away. An ocean to the east, stretching endlessly to horizon and sun. If the snow had not been enough, that told him they were in no land he knew.
Aviendha stared at the rolling breakers and pounding waves in amazement, then frowned at him as it hit home. She might never have seen an ocean, but she had seen maps.
In her skirts the snow gave her even more trouble than it did him, and he floundered, digging his way through as much as walking, sometimes sinking to his waist. She gasped as he scooped her up in his arms, and her green eyes glared.
“We have to move faster than you can dragging those skirts,” he told her. The glare faded, but she did not put an arm around his neck, as he had halfhoped. Instead she folded her hands and put on a patient face. A bit touched with sullenness. Whatever changes what they had done might have wrought in her, she was not completely different. He could not understand why that should be a relief.
He could have melted a path through the snow as he had in the storm, but if another of those flying things came, that cleared path would lead straight to them. A fox trotted by across the snow well to his right, pure white except for a black tip to its bushy tail, occasionally eyeing him and Aviendha warily. Rabbit tracks marred the snow in places, blurred where they had leapt, and once he saw the prints of a cat that had to be as large as a leopard. Maybe there were larger animals still, maybe some flightless relative of that leathery creature. Not something he wanted to encounter, but there was always the chance the… fliers… might take the plowed furrow he was leaving now as the track of some animal.
He still made his way from tree to tree, wishing there were more of them, and closer together. Of course, if there had been, he might not have found Aviendha in the storm — she grunted, frowning up at him, and he loosened his hold on her again
— but it would surely have helped now. It was because he was creeping in that way, though, that he saw the others first.
Less than fifty paces away, between him and the gateway — right at the gateway; he could feel his weave holding it — were four people on horseback and more than twenty afoot. The mounted were all women shrouded in long thick, furlined cloaks; two of them each wore a silvery bracelet on her left wrist,
connected by a long leash of the same shining stuff to a bright collar tight around the neck of a grayclad, cloakless woman standing in the snow. The others afoot were men in dark leather, and armor painted green and gold, overlapping plates down their chests and the outsides of their arms and fronts of their thighs. Their spears bore greenandgold tassels, their long shields were painted in the same colors, and their helmets seemed to be the heads of huge insects, faces peering out through the mandibles. One was clearly an officer, lacking spear or shield, but with a curved, twohanded sword on his back. Silver outlined the plates of his lacquered armor, and thin green plumes, like feelers, heightened the illusion of his painted helmet. Rand knew where he and Aviendha were now. He had seen armor like that before. And women collared like that.
Setting her down behind something that looked a little like a windtwisted pine, except that its trunk was smooth and gray, streaked with black, he pointed, and she nodded silently.
“The two women on leashes can channel,” he whispered. “Can you block them?” Hurriedly he added, “Don’t embrace the Source yet. They’re prisoners, but they still might warn the others, and even if they don’t, the women with the bracelets might be able to feel them sense you.”
She looked at him oddly, but wasted no time on foolish questions such as how he knew; they would come later, he knew. “The women with the bracelets can channel also,” she replied just as softly. “It feels very strange, though. Weak. As if they had never practiced it. I cannot see how that can be.”
Rand could. Damane were the ones who were supposed to be able to channel. If two women had somehow slipped through the Seanchan net to become sul’dam instead — and from the little he knew of them, that would not be easy, for the Seanchan tested every last woman during the years that she might first show signs of channeling — they would surely never dare to betray themselves. “Can you shield all four?”
She gave him a very smug look. “Of course. Egwene taught me to handle several flows at once. I can block them, tie those off, and wrap them up in flows of Air before they know what is happening.” That selfsatisfied little smile faded. “I am fast enough to handle them, and their horses, but that leaves the rest to you until I can bring help. If any get away… They can surely cast those spears this far, and if one of them pins you to the ground…” For a moment she muttered under her breath, as if angry that she could not complete a sentence. Finally she looked at him, her gaze as furious as he had ever seen it. “Egwene has told me of Healing, but she knows little, and I less.”
What could she be angry about now? Better to try understanding the sun than a woman, he thought wryly. Thom Merrilin had told him that, and it was simple truth. “You take care of shielding those women,” he told her. “I will do the rest. Not until I touch your arm, though.”
He could tell she thought he was boasting, but he would not have to split flows,
only weave one intricate flow of Air that would bind arms to sides and hold horses’ feet as well as human. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed hold of saidin, touched her arm and channeled.
Shocked cries rose from the Seanchan. He should have thought of gags, too, but they could be through the gateway before they attracted anyone else. Holding on to the Source, he seized Aviendha’s arm and halfdragged her through the snow, ignoring her snarls that she could walk. At least this way he broke a trail for her, and they had to hurry.
The Seanchan quieted, staring as he and Aviendha made their way around in front of them. The two women who were not sul’dam had thrown back their hoods, struggling against his weave. He held it rather than tying; he would have to release it when he went anyway, for the simple reason that he could not leave even Seanchan bound in the snow. If they did not freeze to death, there was always the big cat whose tracks he had seen. Where there was one, there must be more.
The gateway was there all right, but instead of looking into his room in Eianrod, it was a gray blank. It seemed narrower than he remembered, too. Worse, he could see the weave of that grayness. It had been woven from saidin. Furious thought slid across the Void. He could not tell what it was meant to do, yet it could easily be a trap for whoever stepped through, woven by one of the male Forsaken. By Asmodean, most likely; if the man could hand him over to the others, he might be able to regain his place among them. Yet there could be no question of staying here. If Aviendha only remembered how she had woven the gateway in the first place, she could open another, but as it was, they were going to have to use this, trap or no.
One of the mounted women, a black raven in front of a stark tower on the gray breast of her cloak, had a severe face and dark eyes that seemed to want to drill into his skull. Another, younger and paler and shorter, yet more regal, wore a silver stag’s head on her green cloak. The little fingers of her riding gloves were too long. Rand knew from the shaven sides of her scalp that those long fingers covered nails grown long and no doubt lacquered, both signs of Seanchan nobility. The soldiers were stifffaced and stiffbacked, but the officer’s blue eyes glittered behind the jaws of the insectlike helmet, and his gauntleted fingers writhed as he struggled futilely to reach his sword.
Rand did not care very much about them, but he did not want to leave the damane behind. At the least he could give them a chance to escape. They might be staring at him as they would a wild animal with bared fangs, but they had not chosen to be prisoners, treated little better than domestic animals themselves. He put a hand to the collar of the nearest, and felt a jolt that nearly numbed his arm; for an instant the Void shifted, and saidin raged through him like the snowstorm a thousandfold. The damane’s short yellow hair flailed as she convulsed at his touch, screaming, and the sul’dam connected to her gasped, face going white. Both would have fallen if not held by bonds of Air.
“You try it,” he told Aviendha, working his hand. “A woman must be able to
touch the thing safely. I don’t know how it unfastens.” It looked of a piece, linked somehow, just like bracelet and leash. “But it went on, so it must be able to come off.” A few moments could not make any difference to whatever had happened to the gateway. Was it Asmodean?
Aviendha shook her head, but began fumbling at the other woman’s collar. “Hold still,” she growled as the damane, a palefaced girl of sixteen or seventeen, tried to flinch back. If the leashed women had looked on Rand as a wild beast, they stared at Aviendha like a nightmare made flesh.
“She is marath’damane,” the pale girl wailed. “Save Seri, mistress! Please, mistress! Save Seri!” The other damane, older, almost motherly, began weeping uncontrollably. Aviendha glared at Rand as hard as she did the girl for some reason, muttering angrily under her breath as she worked at the collar.
“It is he, Lady Morsa,” the other damane’s sul’dam said suddenly in a soft drawl that Rand could barely understand. “I have borne the bracelet long, and I could tell if the marath’damane had done more than block Jini.”
Morsa did not look surprised. In fact, there seemed to be a light of horrified recognition in her blue eyes as she gazed at Rand. There was only one way that could be.
“You were at Falme,” he said. If he went through first, it meant leaving Aviendha behind, although only for a moment.
“I was.” The noblewoman looked faint, but her slow, slurring voice was coolly imperious. “I saw you, and what you did.”
“Take a care I don’t do the same here. Give me no trouble, and I will leave you in peace.” He could not send Aviendha first, into the Light knew what. If emotion had not been so distant, he would have grimaced the way she was grimacing over that collar. They had to go through together, and be ready to face anything.
“Much has been kept secret about what happened in the lands of the great Hawkwing, Lady Morsa,” the severefaced woman said. Her dark eyes were as hard on Morsa as they had been on him. “Rumors fly that the Ever Victorious Army has tasted defeat.”
“Do you now seek truth in rumor, Jalindin?” Morsa asked in a cutting tone. “A Seeker above all should know when to keep silent. The Empress herself has forbidden speech of the Corenne until she calls it again. If you — or I — speak so much as the name of the city where that expedition landed, our tongues will be removed. Perhaps you would enjoy being tongueless in the Tower of Ravens? Not even the Listeners would hear you scream for mercy, or pay heed.”
Rand understood no more than two words in three, and it was not the odd accents. He wished he had time to listen. Corenne. The Return. That was what the Seanchan in Falme had called their attempt to seize the lands beyond the Aryth Ocean — the lands where he lived — that they considered their birthright. The rest
— Seeker, Listeners, the Tower of Ravens — were a mystery. But apparently the Return had been called off, for the time being at least. That was worth knowing.
The gateway was narrower. Maybe as much as a finger width narrower than moments before. Only his block held it open; it had tried to close as soon as Aviendha released her weave, and it was still trying to.
“Hurry,” he told Aviendha, and she gave him a look so patient it could as well have been a stone between his eyes.
“I am trying, Rand al’Thor,” she said, still working at the collar. Tears trickled down Seri’s cheeks; a continuous low moan came from her throat, as if the Aiel woman intended to slit it. “You nearly killed the other two, and maybe yourself. I could feel the Power rushing into both of them wildly when you touched the other collar. So leave me to it, and if I can do it, I will.” Muttering a curse, she tried at the side.
Rand thought about making the sul’dam remove the collars — if anyone knew how the things came off, they would — but from the set frowns on their faces, he knew he would have to force them to it. If he could not kill a woman, he could not very well torture one.
With a sigh he glanced at the gray blankness filling the gateway again. The flows appeared to be woven into his; he could not slice one without the other. Passing through might trigger the trap, but cutting away the grayness, even if that act did not trip it, would allow the gateway to snap shut before they had a chance to leap through. It would have to be a blind jump into the Light knew what.
Morsa had listened carefully to every word he and Aviendha said, and now she was gazing thoughtfully at the two sul’dam, but Jalindin had never taken her eyes from the noblewoman’s face. “Much has been kept secret that should not be held from the Seekers, Lady Morsa,” the stern woman said. “The Seekers must know all.”
“You forget yourself, Jalindin,” Morsa snapped, her gloved hands jerking; had her arms not been bound to her sides, she would have sawed the reins. As it was, she tilted hen head to stare down her nose at the other woman. “You were sent to me because Sarek looks above himself and has designs on Serengada Dai and Tuel, not to ask of what the Empress has —”
Jalindin broke in harshly. “It is you who forgets herself, Lady Morsa, if you think that you are proof against the Seekers for Truth. I myself have put both a daughter and a son of the Empress, may the Light bless her, to the question, and in gratitude for the confessions I wrenched from them she allowed me to gaze upon her. Think you that your minor House stands higher than the Empress’ own children?”
Morsa remained upright, not that she had much choice, but her face went gray, and she licked her lips. “The Empress, may the Light illumine her forever, already knows far more than I can tell. I did not mean to imply —”
The Seeker cut her off again, twisting her head to speak to the soldiers as if Morsa did not exist. “The woman Morsa is in the custody of the Seekers for Truth. She will be put to the question as soon as we return to Merinloe. And the sul’dam
and damane, as well. It seems they too have hidden what they should not.” Horror painted the faces of the named women, but Morsa could have stood for any of them. Eyes wide and suddenly haggard, she slumped as much as her invisible bonds would allow, voicing not a word of protest. She looked as if she wanted to scream, yet she — accepted. Jalindin’s gaze turned to Rand. “She named you Rand al’Thor. You will be well treated if you surrender to me, Rand al’Thor. However you came here, you cannot think to escape even if you kill us. There is a wide search for a marath’damane who channeled in the night.” Her eyes flickered to Aviendha. “It will find you as well, inevitably, and you might be slain by accident. There is sedition in this district. I do not know how men like you are treated in your lands, but in Seanchan your sufferings can be eased. Here, you can find great honor in the use of your power.”
He laughed at her, and she looked offended. “I cannot kill you, but I vow I should stripe your hide at least for that.” He certainly would not have to worry about being gentled in Seanchan hands. In Seanchan, men who could channel were killed. Not executed. Hunted and shot down on sight.
The grayfilled gateway was another finger narrower, barely wide enough now for both of them to pass through together. “Leave her, Aviendha. We have to go now.”
She released Seri’s collar and gave him an exasperated look, but her eyes went past him to the gateway, and she hoisted her skirts to stump through the snow to him, muttering to herself about frozen water.
“Be ready for anything,” he told her, putting an arm around her shoulders. He told himself they had to be close together to fit. Not because she felt good. “I don’t know what, but be ready.” She nodded, and he said, “Jump!”
Together they leaped into the grayness, Rand releasing the weave that had held the Seanchan in order to fill himself to bursting with saidin…
…and landed stumbling in his bedchamber in Eianrod, lamplit, with darkness outside the windows.
Asmodean sat against the wall beside the door with his legs crossed. He was not embracing the Source, but Rand slammed a block between the man and saidin anyway. Whirling with his arm still around Aviendha, he found the gateway gone. No, not gone — he could still see his weaving, and what he knew must be Asmodean’s — but there seemed to be nothing there at all. Without pause he slashed his weave, and suddenly the gateway appeared, a rapidly narrowing view of Seanchan, the Lady Morsa slumped in her saddle, Jalindin shouting orders. A greenandwhite tasseled spear lanced through the opening, just before it snapped shut. Instinctively, Rand channeled Air to snatch the suddenly wobbling twofoot length of spear. The shaft ended as smoothly as any craftsman could have worked it. Shivering, he was glad that he had not tried removing the gray barrier — whatever it had been — before jumping through.
“A good thing neither of the sul’dam recovered in time,” he said, taking the
severed spear in his hand, “or we’d have had worse than this coming after us.” He watched Asmodean from the corner of his eye, but the man only sat there, looking slightly ill. He could not know whether Rand meant to stuff that spear down his throat.
Aviendha’s sniff was her most pointed yet. “Do you think I released them?” she said heatedly. She removed his arm firmly, but he did not think her temper was for him. Or not for his arm, anyway. “I tied their shields as tightly as I could. They are your enemies, Rand al’Thor. Even the ones you called damane are faithful dogs who would have killed you rather than be free. You must be hard with your enemies, not soft.”
She was right, he thought, hefting the spear. He had left enemies behind that he might well have to face one day. He had to become harder. Or else he would be ground to flour before he ever reached Shayol Ghul.
Abruptly she began smoothing her skirts, and her voice became almost conversational. “I notice that you did not save that wheyfaced Morsa from her fate. From the way you looked at her, I thought big eyes and a round bosom had caught your eye.”
Rand stared at her in amazement that oozed across the emptiness surrounding him like syrup. She could have been saying the soup was ready. He wondered how he was supposed to have noticed Morsa’s bosom, hidden as it was in a furlined cloak. “I should have brought her,” he said. “To question her about the Seanchan. I will be troubled by them again, I am afraid.”
The glint that had appeared in her eye vanished. She opened her mouth, but stopped, glancing at Asmodean, when he raised a hand. He could all but see the questions about Seanchan piled up behind her eyes. If he knew her, once begun she would not stop digging until she had uncovered scraps he did not even remember he knew. Which might not be a bad thing. Another time. After he had wrung a few answers out of Asmodean. She was right. He had to be hard.
“That was a smart thing you did,” she said, “hiding the hole I made. If a gai’shain had come in here, a thousand of the spearsisters might have marched through seeking you.”
Asmodean cleared his throat. “One of the gai’shain did come. Someone named Sulin had told her she must see you eat, my Lord Dragon, and to stop her from bringing the tray in here and finding you gone, I took the liberty of telling her that you and the young woman did not want to be disturbed.” A slight tightening of his eyes caught Rand’s attention.
“What?”
“Just that she took it strangely. She laughed out loud and went running off. A few minutes later, there must have been twenty Far Dareis Mar beneath the window, shouting and beating their spears on their bucklers for a good hour or more. I must say, my Lord Dragon, some of the suggestions they called up startled even me.”
Rand felt his cheeks burning — it had happened on the other side of the bloody
world, and still the Maidens knew! — but Aviendha only narrowed her eyes.
“Did she have hair and eyes like mine?” She did not wait for Asmodean’s nod. “It must have been my firstsister Niella.” She saw the startled. question on Rand’s face and answered it before he could speak. “Niella is a weaver, not a Maiden, and she was taken half a year ago by Chareen Maidens during a raid on Sulara Hold. She tried to talk me out of taking the spear, and she has always wanted me wed. I am going to send her back to the Chareen with a welt on her bottom for every one she told!”
Rand caught her arm as she started to stalk out of the room. “I want to talk with Natael. I don’t suppose there is much time left until dawn…”
“Two hours, maybe,” Asmodean put in.
“… so there will be little sleeping now. If you want to try, would you mind making your bed elsewhere for what’s left of the night? You need new blankets anyway.”
She nodded curtly before pulling loose, and slammed the door behind her. Surely she was not angry at being tossed out of his bedchamber — how could she be; she had said nothing more would happen between them — but he was glad he was not Niella.
Bouncing the shortened spear in his hand, he turned to Asmodean. “A strange scepter, my Lord Dragon.”
“It will do for one.” To remind him that the Seanchan were still out there. For once he wished his voice was even colder than the Void and saidin made it. He had to be hard. “Before I decide whether to skewer you with it like a lamb, why did you never mention this trick of making something invisible? If I hadn’t been able to see the flows, I’d never have known the gateway was still there.”
Asmodean swallowed, shifting as though he did not know whether Rand meant his threat. Rand was not sure himself. “My Lord Dragon, you never asked. A matter of bending light. You always have so many questions, it is hard to find a moment to speak of anything else. You must realize by now that I’ve thrown my lot in with yours completely.” Licking his lips, he got up. As far as his knees. And began to babble. “I felt your weave — anybody within a mile could have felt it — I never saw anything like it — I didn’t know that anyone but Demandred could block a gateway that was closing, and maybe Semirhage — and Lews Therin — I felt it, and came, and a hard time I had getting past those Maidens — I used the same trick
— you must know I am your man now. My Lord Dragon, I am your man.”
It was the repetition of what the Cairhienin had said that got through as much as anything else. Gesturing with the halfspear, he said roughly, “Stand. You aren’t a dog.” But as Asmodean slowly rose, he laid the long spearpoint alongside the man’s throat. He had to be hard. “From now on, you will tell me two things I don’t ask about every time we talk. Every time, mind. If I think you are trying to hide anything from me, you will be glad to let Semirhage have you.”
“As you say, my Lord Dragon,” Asmodean stammered. He looked ready to bow
and kiss Rand’s hand.
To avoid the chance, Rand moved to the blanketless bed and sat on the linen sheet, the feather mattresses yielding under him as he studied the spear. A good idea to keep it for remembrance, if not as a scepter. Even with everything else, he had best not forget the Seanchan. Those damane. If Aviendha had not been there to block them from the Source…
“You have tried showing me how to shield a woman and failed. Try showing me how to avoid flows I cannot see, how to counter them.” Once Lanfear had sliced his weavings as neatly as with a knife.
“Not easy, my Lord Dragon, without a woman to practice against.”
“We have two hours,” Rand said coldly, letting the man’s shield unravel. “Try.
Try very hard.”
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 33
(Elephant)
A Question of Crimson
The knife brushed Nynaeve’s hair as it thunked into the board she was leaning against, and she flinched behind her blindfold. She wished she had a decent braid instead of locks hanging loose about her shoulders. If that blade had cut even one strand… Fool woman, she thought bitterly. Fool, fool woman. With the scarf folded over her eyes she could just see a narrow line of light at the bottom. It seemed bright, from the darkness behind the thick folds. There had to be enough light yet, even if it was late afternoon. Surely the man would not throw when he could not see properly. The next blade struck on the other side of her head; she could feel it vibrating. She thought it almost touched her ear. She was going to kill Thom Merrilin and Valan Luca. And maybe any other man she could get her hands on, on sheer principle.
“The pears,” Luca shouted, as if he were not just thirty paces from her. He must think the blindfold made her deaf as well as blind.
Fumbling in the pouch at her belt, she brought out a pear and carefully balanced it atop her head. She was blind. A pure blind fool! Two more pears, and she gingerly extended her arms to either side between the knives that outlined her, holding one in either hand by the stems. There was a pause. She opened her mouth to tell Thom Merrilin that if he so much as nicked her, she would —
Tchunktchunktchunk! The blades came so fast she would have yelped if her throat had not contracted like a fist. She held only the stem in her left hand, the other pear trembled faintly with the knife through it, and the pear on her head leaked juice into her hair.
Snatching the scarf off, she stalked toward Thom and Luca, both of them grinning like maniacs. Before she could speak one of the words boiling up in her, Luca said admiringly, “You are magnificent, Nana. Your bravery is magnificent, but you are more so.” He swirled that ridiculous red silk cloak in a bow, one hand over his heart. “I shall call this ‘Rose Among Thorns.’ Though truly, you are more beautiful than any mere rose.”
“It doesn’t take much bravery to stand like a stump.” A rose, was she? She would show him thorns. She would show both of them. “You listen to me, Valan Luca —”
“Such courage. You never even flinch. I tell you, I would not have the stomach to do what you are doing.”
That was the simple truth, she told herself. “I am no braver than I have to be,” she said in a milder tone. It was hard to shout at a man who insisted on telling you how brave you were. Certainly better to hear than all that blather about roses. Thom knuckled his long white mustaches as if he saw something funny.
“The dress,” Luca said, showing all of his teeth in a smile. “You will look
wonderful in —”
“No!” she snapped. Whatever he had gained, he had just lost by bringing this up again. Clarine had made the dress Luca wanted her to wear, in silk more crimson than his cloak. It was her opinion that the color was to hide blood if Thom’s hand slipped.
“But, Nana, beauty in danger is a great draw.” Luca’s voice crooned as if whispering sweetness in her ear. “You will have every eye on you, every heart pounding for your beauty and courage.”
“If you like it so much,” she said firmly, “you wear it.” Aside from the color, she was not about to show that much bosom in public, whether or not Clarine thought it was proper. She had seen Latelle’s performing dress, all black spangles, with a high neck to her chin. She could wear something like… What was she thinking? She had no intention of actually going through with this. She had only agreed to this practice to stop Luca scratching at the wagon door every night to try convincing her.
The man was nothing if not deft at knowing when to change the subject. “What happened here?” he asked, suddenly all smooth solicitude.
She flinched as he touched her puffy eye. It was his bad luck to choose that. He would have done better to continue trying to stuff her into that red dress. “I did not like the way it looked at me in the mirror this morning, so I bit it.”
Her flat tone and bared teeth made Luca snatch his hand back. From the wary gleam in his dark eyes, he suspected she might bite again. Thom was stroking his mustaches furiously, red in the face from the effort of not laughing. He knew what had happened, of course. He would. And as soon as she left, he would no doubt regale Luca with his version of events. Men could not avoid gossiping; it was in them at birth, and nothing women could do ever got it out of them.
The daylight was dimmer than she had thought. The sun sat red on the treetops to the west. “If you ever try this again without better light…” she growled, shaking a fist at Thom. “It’s almost dusk!”
“I suppose,” the man said, bushy eyebrow lifting, “this means you want to leave out the bit where I am blindfolded?” He was joking, of course. He had to be joking. “As you wish, Nana. From now on, only in the most perfect light.”
It was not until she stalked away, swishing her skirts angrily, that she realized that she had agreed to actually do this fool thing. By implication, at least. They would try to hold her to it, as surely as the sun would set tonight. Fool, fool, fool woman!
The clearing where they — or Thom, at least, burn him and Luca both! — had been practicing stood some little distance from the camp over beside the road north. Doubtless Luca had not wanted to upset the animals should Thom put one of his knives through her heart. The man would likely have fed her corpse to the lions. The only reason he wanted her to wear that dress was so he could ogle what she had no intention of showing to anyone but Lan, and burn him, too, for a stubborn fool
man. She wished she had him there so she could tell him so. She wished she had him there so she could be sure he was safe. She broke a dead dogfennel and used its feathery brown length like a whip to snap the heads off weeds that poked through the leaves on the ground.
Last night, Elayne had said, Egwene reported fighting in Cairhien, skirmishes with brigands, with Cairhienin who saw any Aiel as an enemy, with Andoran soldiers trying to claim the Sun Throne for Morgase. Lan had been involved in them; whenever Moiraine let him out of her sight, he apparently managed to take himself to the fighting, as if he could sense where it would be. Nynaeve had never thought that she would want the Aes Sedai to keep Lan on a short leash at her side.
This morning Elayne had still been disturbed about her mother’s soldiers being in Cairhien, fighting Rand’s Aiel, but what worried Nynaeve was the brigands. According to Egwene, if anyone could identify stolen property in a brigand’s possession, if anyone could swear to seeing him kill anyone or burn so much as a shed, Rand was hanging him. He did not put his hands on the rope, but it was the same thing, and Egwene said he watched every execution with a face cold and hard as the mountains. That was not like him. He had been a gentle boy. Whatever had happened to him in the Waste had been very much for the worse.
Well, Rand was far away, and her own problems — hers and Elayne’s — were no nearer solution. The River Eldar lay less than a mile north, spanned by a single lofty stone bridge built between tall metal pillars that glistened without a speck of rust. Remnants of an earlier time, certainly, perhaps even an earlier Age. She had gone up to it at midday, right after they arrived, but there had not been a boat in the river worthy of the name. Rowboats, small fishing boats working along the reedlined banks, some strange, narrow little things that skittered over the water propelled by kneeling men with paddles, even a squat barge that looked to be moored in mud — there seemed to be a lot of mud showing on both sides, some of it dried hard and cracked, yet that was no wonder with the heat holding on so unseasonably — but nothing that could carry them swiftly away downriver as she wanted. Not that she knew where it was to take them, yet.
Rack her brains as she would, she could not remember the name of the town where the Blue sisters were supposed to be. She swiped savagely at a scatterhead, and it burst in little white feathers that floated to the ground. They probably were not there anymore in any case, if they ever had been. But it was the only clue they had to a safe place short of Tear. If she could only remember it.
The only good thing on the entire journey north was that Elayne had stopped flirting with Thom, There had not been an incident since joining the show. At least, it would have been good if Elayne had not apparently decided to pretend nothing had ever happened. Yesterday Nynaeve had congratulated the girl on coming to her senses, and Elayne had coolly replied, Are you trying to find out if I will stand in your way with Thom, Nynaeve? He’s rather old for you, and I did think you had planted your affections elsewhere, but you are old enough to make your own
decisions. I am fond of Thom, as I think he is of me. I look on him like a second father. If you want to flirt with him, you have my permission. But I really did think you were more constant.
Luca meant to cross the river in the morning, and Samara, the town on the other side, in Ghealdan, was no fit place to be. Luca had spent most of the day since their arrival over in Samara, securing a place to set up his show, he was only concerned that a number of other menageries had beaten him there, and he was not the only one to have more than animals. That was why he had grown particularly insistent about her letting Thom throw knives at her. She was lucky he did not want it done high walking with Elayne. The man seemed to think the most important thing in the world was that his show should be bigger and better than any other. For herself, the worrisome thing was that the Prophet was in Samara, his followers crowding the town and spilling out into tents, huts and shanties around it, a city that overwhelmed Samara’s own not inconsiderable size. It had a high stone wall, and most of the buildings were stone as well, many as much as three stories, and there were more roofs of slate or tile than thatch.
This side of the Eldar was no better. They had passed three Whitecloak encampments before reaching their stopping place, hundreds of white tents in neat rows, and there had to be more they had not seen. Whitecloaks on this side of the river, the Prophet and maybe a riot waiting to happen on the other, and she had no idea where to go and no way to get there except in a lumbering wagon that moved no faster than she could walk. She wished she had never let Elayne talk her into abandoning the coach. Not seeing a weed close enough to snap without stepping aside, she broke the dogfennel in half, then again, until the pieces were no longer than her hand, and tossed them to the ground. She wished she could do the same with Luca. And Galad Damodred, for sending them running here. And al’Lan Mandragoran, for not being here. Not that she needed him, of course. But his presence would have been… a comfort.
The camp was quiet, with evening meals cooking over small fires beside the wagons. Petra was feeding the blackmaned lion, thrusting huge pieces of meat through the bars on a stick. The female lions were already hunkered down over theirs companionably, letting out an occasional growl if someone came too close to their cage. Nynaeve stopped near Aludra’s wagon; the Illuminator was working with wooden mortar and pestle on a table let down from the side of her wagon, muttering to herself over whatever she was compounding. Three of the Chavanas smiled at Nynaeve enticingly, motioning her to join them. Not Brugh, who still glowered over his lip, though she had given him a salve to make the swelling go down. Maybe if she hit the rest of them as hard, they would listen to Luca — and more importantly, to her! — and realize that she did not want their smiles. Too bad Master Valan Luca could not follow his own instructions. Latelle turned from the bear cage and gave her a tight smile; more of a smirk, really. Mainly, though, Nynaeve stared at Cerandin, who was filing the blunt toenails of one of the huge gray s’redit with what
looked like a tool suitable for metal.
“That one,” Aludra said, “she uses the hands and the feet with remarkable ability, no? Do not glare at me so, Nana,” she added, dusting her hands. “I am not your enemy. Here. You must try these new firesticks.”
Nynaeve took the wooden box from the darkhaired woman gingerly. It was a cube she could have held easily with one hand, but she used both. “I thought you called them strikers.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. Firesticks, it says what they are much better than strikers, yes? I have smoothed the little holes that hold the sticks so they can no longer ignite on the wood. A good idea, no? And the heads, they are a new formulation. You will try them and tell me what you think?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you.”
Nynaeve hurried on before the woman could press another box on her. She held the thing as if it might explode, which she was not certain it would not. Aludra had everyone trying out her strikers, or firesticks, or whatever she would decide to call them next. They certainly would light a fire or a lamp. They could also burst into flame if the bluegray heads rubbed against each other or anything else rough. For herself, she would stick with flint and steel, or a coal kept properly banked in a box of sand. Much safer.
Juilin caught her before she could set foot on the steps of the wagon she shared with Elayne, his gaze going straight to her swollen eye. She glared at him so hard that he stepped back and snatched that ridiculous conical cap from his head. “I’ve been over the river,” he said. “There are a hundred or so Whitecloaks in Samara… Just watching, and being watched as hard themselves by Ghealdanin soldiers. But I recognized one. The young fellow who was sitting across from The Light of Truth in Sienda.”
She smiled at him, and he took another hasty step back, eyeing her wanly. Galad in Samara. That was all they needed. “You always bring such wonderful news, Juilin. We should have left you in Tanchico, or better, on the dock in Tear.” That was hardly fair. Better he told her of Galad than that she walked around a corner into the man. “Thank you, Juilin. At least we know to keep an eye out for him, now.” His nod was hardly a proper response to graciously offered thanks, and he hurried away, clapping his hat on, as if he expected her to hit him. Men had no manners.
The interior of the wagon was far cleaner than it had been when Thom and Juilin purchased it. The flaking paint had all been scraped off — the men had grumbled about doing that — and the cabinets and the tiny table that was fastened to the floor oiled until they shone. The small brick stove with its metal chimney was never used — the nights were warm enough, and if they began cooking in here, Thom and Juilin would never take another turn — but it made a good place to keep their valuables, the purses and the jewelry boxes. The washleather pouch holding the seal that she had stuffed in as far as it would go and had not touched since.
Elayne, seated on one of the narrow beds, stuffed something under the blankets when Nynaeve climbed inside, but before she could ask what it was, Elayne exclaimed, “Your eye! What happened to you?” They needed to wash her hair in henpepper again; faint hints of gold were showing at the roots of those black tresses. It had to be done every few days.
“Cerandin hit me when I wasn’t looking,” Nynaeve muttered. The remembered taste of boiled catfern and powdered mavinsleaf made her tongue curl. That was not why she had let Elayne go to the last meeting in Tel’aran’rhiod, too. She was not avoiding Egwene. It was just that she made most of the journeys into the World of Dreams between meetings, and it was only fair to give Elayne her chances to go. That was it.
Carefully she put the box of firesticks into one of the cabinets, next to two more.
The one that had actually caught fire was long since discarded.
She did not know why she was hiding the truth. Elayne had obviously not been outside the wagon, or she would know already. She and Juilin were probably the only people in camp who did not know, now that Thom had surely revealed every disgusting detail to Luca.
Taking a deep breath, she sat down on the other bed and made herself meet Elayne’s eyes. Something in the quiet of the other woman said she knew that more was coming.
“I… asked Cerandin about damane and sul’dam. I am certain she knows more than she lets on.” She paused for Elayne to voice doubts that she had asked rather than demanded, to say that the Seanchan woman had already told them all she knew, that she had not had much contact with damane or sul’dam. But Elayne kept silent, and Nynaeve realized that she was only hoping to postpone the moment with an argument. “She got quite heated about not knowing any more, so I shook her. You’ve really gone too far with her. She waggled her finger under my nose!” Still Elayne only watched her, those cool blue eyes barely blinking. It was all Nynaeve could do not to look away as she went on. “She… threw me, somehow, over her shoulder. I got up and slapped her, and she knocked me down with her fist. That is how I got the eye.” She might as well tell the rest; Elayne would hear soon enough; better it came from her. She would rather have pulled out her tongue. “I wasn’t about to put up with that, certainly. We scuffled a little more.” Not much of a scuffle on her part, for all that she had refused to quit. The bitterest truth was that Cerandin had only stopped flipping her about and tripping her in sneaky ways because it had been like manhandling a child. Nynaeve had had as much chance as that child. If only no one had been watching, so she could have channeled; she had certainly been angry enough. If only no one had been watching, period. She wished Cerandin had pounded her with her fists until she bled. “Then Latelle gave her a stick. You know how that woman wants to get back at me.” There was certainly no need to say that Cerandin had been holding her head down over a wagon tongue at the time. No one had manhandled her like that since she threw a pitcher of water at Neysa
Ayellin when she was sixteen. “Anyway, Petra broke it up.” Just in time, too. The huge man had taken the pair of them by the scruff of the neck like kittens. “Cerandin apologized, and that was that.” Petra had made the Seanchan woman apologize, true, but he had made Nynaeve do so as well, refusing to loose that gentle yet ironhard grip on her neck until she did. She had hit him as hard as she could, right in the stomach, and he had not even blinked. Her hand felt as if it might swell, too. “Nothing much to it, really. I suppose Latelle will try to spread some story of her own making about it. That is the woman I ought to shake. I didn’t hit her half hard enough.”
She felt better for telling the truth, but Elayne had doubt on her face that made her want to change the subject. “What is that you’re hiding?” She reached over and pulled the blanket back, revealing the silvery length of the a’dam they had gotten from Cerandin. “Why under the Light do you want to look at that? And if you do, why hide it? It is a filthy thing, and I cannot understand how you can touch it, but if you want to, that is entirely up to you.”
“Don’t sound so prim,” Elayne told her. A slow smile broke across her face, a flush of excitement. “I think I could make one.”
“Make one!” Nynaeve lowered her voice, hoping no one came running to see who was killing whom, but she did not soften it any. “Light, why? Make an open cesspit first. A midden heap. At least there’s some decent use for those.”
“I do not mean to actually make an a’dam.” Elayne held herself erect, chin tilted in that cool way of hers. She sounded offended, and icily calm. “But it is a ter’angreal, and I have puzzled out how it works. I saw you attend at least one lecture on linking. The a’dam links the two women; that is why the sul’dam must be a woman who can channel too.” She frowned slightly. “It is a strange link, though. Different. Instead of two or more sharing, with one guiding, it is one taking full control, really. I think that is the reason a damane cannot do anything the sul’dam doesn’t want her to. I don’t really believe there is any need for the leash. The collar and bracelet would work as well without it, and in just the same ways.”
“Work as well,” Nynaeve said dryly. “You’ve studied the matter a great deal for someone who has no intention of making one.” The woman did not even have the grace to blush. “What use would you put it to? I cannot say I would take it amiss if you put one around Elaida’s neck, but that doesn’t make it any less disgus—”
“Don’t you understand?” Elayne broke in, haughtiness all gone in excitement and fervor. She leaned forward to put a hand on Nynaeve’s knee, and her eyes shone, she was so delighted with herself. “It is a ter’angreal, Nynaeve. And I think I can make one.” She said each word slowly and deliberately, then laughed and rushed on. “If I can make this one, I can make others. Maybe I can even make angreal and sa’angreal. No one in the Tower has been able to do that in thousands of years!” Straightening, she shivered, and laid fingers across her mouth. “I never really thought of making anything myself before. Not anything useful. I remember seeing a craftsman once, a man who had made some chairs for the palace. They
were not gilded, or elaborately carved — they were meant for the servants’ hall — but I could see the pride in his eyes. Pride in what he had made, a thing well crafted. I would love to feel that, I think. Oh, if we only knew a fraction of what the Forsaken do. The knowledge of the Age of Legends inside their heads, and they use it to serve the Shadow. Think what we could do with it. Think what we could make.” She took a deep breath, dropping her hands in her lap, her enthusiasm barely diminished. “Well, be that as it may, I’ll wager I could puzzle out how Whitebridge was made, too. Buildings like spun glass, but stronger than steel. And cuendillar, and —”
“Slow down,” Nynaeve said. “Whitebridge is five or six hundred miles from here at least, and if you think you’re going to go channeling at the seal, you can think again. Who knows what could happen? It stays in its pouch, in the stove, until we find somewhere safe for it.”
Elayne’s eagerness was very odd. Nynaeve would not have minded a little of the Forsaken’s knowledge herself — far from it — but if she wanted a chair, she paid a carpenter. She had never wanted to make anything, aside from poultices and salves. When she was twelve, her mother had stopped going through the motions of teaching her to sew, after it became apparent that she did not care whether she sewed a straight seam and could not be made to care. As for cooking… She thought she was a good cook, actually, but the point was that she knew what was significant. Healing was important. Any man could build a bridge, and leave him to it was what she said.
“With you and your a’dam,” she went on, “I nearly forgot to tell you. Juilin saw Galad on the other side of the river.”
“Blood and bloody ashes,” Elayne muttered, and when Nynaeve raised her eyebrows, she added very firmly, “I will not listen to a lecture on my language, Nynaeve. What are we going to do?”
“As I see it, we can remain on this side of the river and have Whitecloaks looking us over, wondering why we left the menagerie, or we can cross the bridge and hope the Prophet doesn’t spark a riot and Galad doesn’t denounce us, or we can try to buy a rowboat and flee downriver. Not very good choices. And Luca will want his hundred marks. Gold.” She tried not to scowl, but that still rankled. “You promised it to him, and I suppose it would not be honest to sneak away without paying him.” She would have done it in a minute if there was anywhere to go.
“It certainly would not be,” Elayne said, sounding shocked. “But we do not have to worry about Galad, at least not as long as we stay close to the menagerie. Galad won’t go near one. He thinks putting animals in cages is cruel. He doesn’t mind hunting them, mind, or eating them, only caging them.”
Nynaeve shook her head. The truth was that Elayne would have found some way to delay, if only for one day, had there been any way to leave. The woman really wanted to highwalk in front of people other than the rest of the performers. And she herself was probably going to have to let Thom throw knives at her again. I
am not wearing that bloody dress, though!
“The first boat that comes large enough to take four people,” she said. “We are hiring it. Trade on the river can’t have stopped altogether.”
“It would help if we knew where we were going.” The other woman’s tone was much too gentle. “We could simply head, for Tear, you know. We do not have to stay fixed to this just because you…”
She trailed off, but Nynaeve knew what she had been going to say. Just because she was stubborn. Just because she was so furious that she could not remember a simple name that she intended to remember it and go there if it killed her. Well, none of that was true. She intended to find these Aes Sedai who might just support Rand and bring them to him, not trail into Tear like a pitiful refugee fleeing for safety.
“I will remember,” she said in a level tone. It ended with “bar.” Or was it “dar”? “Lar”? “Before you are tired of flaunting yourself highwalking, I will.” I will not wear that dress!
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 34
(Dream Ring) A Silver Arrow
Elayne had the cooking that evening, which meant that none of the food was simple, despite the fact that they were eating on stools around a cookfire, with crickets chirping in the surrounding woods, and now and again some nightbird’s thin, sad cry in the deepening darkness. The soup was served cold and jellied, with chopped green ferris sprinkled on top. The Light knew where she had found ferris, or the tiny onions she put in with the peas. The beef was sliced nearly thin enough to see through and wrapped around something made from carrots, sweetbeans, chives and goatcheese, and there was even a small honeycake for dessert.
It was all tasty, though Elayne fretted that nothing was exactly the way it should be, as if she thought she could duplicate the cooks’ work in the Royal Palace in Caemlyn. Nynaeve was fairly sure the girl was not fishing for compliments. Elayne would always brush away compliments and tell you exactly what was not right. Thom and Juilin grumbled about there being so little beef, but Nynaeve noticed that they not only ate every scrap but looked disappointed when the last pea was gone. When she cooked, for some reason they always seemed to eat at one of the other wagons. When one of them made supper, it was always stew or else meat and beans so full of dried peppers that your tongue blistered.
They did not eat alone, of course. Luca saw to that, bringing his own stool and placing it right next to her, his red cloak spread to best effect and his long legs stretched out so that his calves showed well, above his turneddown boots. He was there almost every night. Oddly, the only nights he missed were when she cooked.
It was interesting, really, having his eyes on her when a woman as pretty as Elayne was there, but he did have his motives. He sat altogether too close — tonight she moved her stool three times, but he followed without missing a word or seeming to notice — and he alternated comparing her with various flowers, to the blossoms’ detriment, ignoring the black eye he could not miss without being blind, and musing over how beautiful she would be in that red dress, with compliments on her courage thrown in. Twice, he slipped in suggestions that they take a stroll by moonlight, hints so veiled that she was not entirely sure that was what they were until she thought about it.
“That gown will frame your unfolding bravery to perfection,” he murmured in her ear, “yet not a quarter so well as you display yourself, for nightblooming dara lilies would weep with envy to see you stroll beside the moonlit water, as I would do, and make myself a bard to sing your praises by this very moon.”
She blinked at him, working that out. Luca seemed to believe she was fluttering her lashes; she accidentally hit him in the ribs with her elbow before he could nibble her ear. At least that seemed to be his intention, even if he was coughing now and claiming he had swallowed a cake crumb the wrong way. The man was
certainly handsome — Stop that! — and he did have a shapely calf — What are you doing, looking at his legs? — but he must think her a brainless ninny. It was all in aid of his bloody show.
She moved her stool again while he was trying to get his breath back; she could not move it far without making it clear that she was running from him, though she held her fork ready in case he followed again. Thom studied his plate as though more than a smear remained on the white glaze. Juilin whistled tunelessly and nearly silently, peering into the dying fire with false intensity. Elayne looked at her and shook her head.
“It was so pleasant of you to join us,” Nynaeve said, and stood up. Luca stood when she did, a hopeful look in his eye along with the shine of the firelight. She set her plate atop the one in his hand. “Thom and Juilin will be grateful for your help with the dishes, I am sure.” Before his mouth finished falling open, she turned to Elayne. “It is late, and I expect we’ll be moving across the river early.”
“Of course,” Elayne murmured, with just the hint of a smile. And she put her plate atop Nynaeve’s before following her into the wagon. Nynaeve wanted to hug her. Until she said, “Really, you should not encourage him.” Lamps mounted in wall brackets sprang alight.
Nynaeve planted her fists on her hips. “Encourage him! The only way I could encourage him less would be to stab him!” Sniffing for emphasis, she frowned at the lamps. “Next time, use one of Aludra’s firesticks. Strikers. You are going to forget one day and channel where you shouldn’t, and then where will we be? Running for our lives with a hundred Whitecloaks after us.”
Stubborn to a fault, the other woman refused to be diverted. “I may be younger than you, but sometimes I think I know more of men than you ever will. For a man like Valan Luca, that coy little flight of yours tonight was only asking him to keep pursuing you. If you would snap his nose off the way you did the first day, he might give up. You don’t tell him to stop, you do not even ask! You kept smiling at him, Nynaeve. What is the man supposed to think? You haven’t smiled at anyone in days!”
“I am trying to hold my temper,” Nynaeve muttered. Everybody complained about her temper, and now that she was trying to control it, Elayne complained about that! It was not that she was fool enough to be taken in by his compliments. She certainly was not so big a fool as that. Elayne laughed at her, and she scowled.
“Oh, Nynaeve. ‘You cannot hold the sun down at dawn.’ Lini could have been thinking of you.”
With an effort Nynaeve smoothed her face. She could too hold her temper. Didn’t I just prove it out there? She held out her hand. “Let me have the ring. He will want to cross the river early tomorrow, and I want at least some real sleep after I’m done.”
“I thought I would go tonight.” Concern touched Elayne’s voice. “Nynaeve, you’ve been entering Tel’aran’rhiod practically every night except the meetings with
Egwene. That Bair intends to pick a bone with you, by the way. I had to tell them why you weren’t there yet again, and she says you should not need rest however often you enter, unless you are doing something wrong.” Concern became firmness, and the younger woman planted her fists on her hips. “I had to listen to a lecture that was meant for you, and it was not pleasant, with Egwene standing there nodding her head to every word. Now; I really think that tonight I should—”
“Please, Elayne.” Nynaeve did not lower her outstretched hand. “I have questions for Birgitte, and her answers might make me think of more.” She did have, sort of; she could always think of questions for Birgitte. It had nothing to do with avoiding Egwene, and the Wise Ones. If she visited Tel’aran’rhiod so often that Elayne always went to the meetings with Egwene, that was simply how it fell out.
Elayne sighed, but fished the twisted stone ring from the neck of her dress. “Ask her again, Nynaeve. It is very difficult facing Egwene. She saw Birgitte. She doesn’t say anything, but she looks at me. It is worse when we meet again after the Wise Ones have gone. She could ask then, and she still doesn’t, and that makes it far worse.” She frowned as Nynaeve transferred the small ter’angreal to the leather cord around her own neck, with Lan’s heavy ring and her Great Serpent. “Why do you suppose none of the Wise Ones ever come with her then? We don’t learn very much in Elaida’s study, but you would think they would at least want to see the Tower. Egwene doesn’t even want to talk about it in front of them. If I seem to come close, she gives me such a look that you’d think she meant to hit me.”
“I think they want to avoid the Tower as much as possible.” And wise they were indeed for that. If not for Healing, she would avoid it, and Aes Sedai, too. She was not becoming Aes Sedai; she was just hoping to learn more of Healing. And to help Rand, certainly. “They are free women, Elayne. Even if the Tower was not in the mess it is, would they really want Aes Sedai traipsing through the Waste, scooping them up to carry back to Tar Valon?”
“I suppose that is it.” Elayne’s tone said she could not understand it, though. She thought the Tower wonderful, and could not see why any woman would want to evade Aes Sedai. Sealed to the White Tower forever, they said when they put that ring on your finger. And they meant it. Yet the fool girl did not see it as onerous at all.
Elayne helped her undress, and she stretched out on her narrow bed in her shift, yawning. It had been a long day, and it was surprising how tiring standing still could be when someone unseen was hurling knives at you. Idle thoughts drifted through her head as she closed her eyes. Elayne had claimed she was practicing when she had acted the fool with Thom. Not that the fondfatherandfavoritedaughter they tried on now was much less foolish to watch. Maybe she could practice herself, just a bit, with Valan. Now, that was foolish. Men’s eyes might wander — Lan’s had better not! — but she knew how to be constant. She was simply not going to wear that dress. Far too much bosom.
Vaguely, she heard Elayne say, “Remember to ask her again.”
Sleep took her.
She stood outside the wagon, in the night. The moon was high, and drifting clouds cast shadows over the camp. Crickets chirruped, and the nightbirds called. The lions’ eyes shone as they watched her from their cages. The whitefaced bears were dark sleeping mounds behind the iron bars. The long picket line stood empty of horses, Clarine’s dogs were not on their leashes beneath her and Petra’s wagon, and the space where the s’redit stood in the waking world was bare. She had come to understand that only wild creatures had reflections here, but whatever the Seanchan woman claimed, it was hard to think that those huge gray animals had been domesticated so long that they were no longer wild.
Abruptly she realized that she was wearing the dress. Blazing red, far too snug around the hips for decency, and a square neck cut so low she thought she might pop out. She could not imagine any woman but Berelain donning it. For Lan, she might. If they were alone. She had been thinking of Lan when she drifted off. I was, wasn’t I?
In any case, she was not about to let Birgitte see her in the thing. The woman claimed to be a soldier, and the more time Nynaeve spent with her, the more she realized that some of her attitudes and comments were as bad as any man’s. Worse. A combination of Berelain and a tavern brawler. The comments did not come out all the time, but they certainly did whenever Nynaeve allowed idle thoughts to put her in anything like this dress. She changed to good stout Two Rivers wool, dark, with a plain shawl she did not need, her hair decently braided again, and opened her mouth to call Birgitte.
“Why did you change?” the woman said, stepping out from the shadows to lean on her silver bow. Her intricate golden braid hung over her shoulder, and moonlight shone on her bow and arrows. “I remember wearing a gown that could have been twin to that, once. It was only to attract attention so Gaidal could sneak by — the guards’ eyes bulged like frogs’ — but it was fun. Especially when I wore it dancing with him later. He always hates dancing, but he was so intent on keeping any other man from getting close that he danced every dance.” Birgitte laughed fondly. “I won fifty gold solids from him that night at spin, because he stared so much, he never looked at his tiles. Men are peculiar. It was not as if he had never seen me —” “That’s as may be,” Nynaeve cut in primly, wrapping the shawl firmly around
her shoulders.
Before she could add her question, Birgitte said, “I have found her,” and all thought of the question fled.
“Where? Did she see you? Can you take me to her? Without her seeing?” Fear fluttered in Nynaeve’s belly — a fat lot Valan Luca would say about her courage if he could see her now — but she was sure it would turn to anger as soon as she saw Moghedien. “If you can bring me close…” She trailed off as Birgitte raised a hand.
“I cannot think she saw me, or I doubt I would be here now.” She was all seriousness now; Nynaeve found it much easier to be around her when she showed
this side of being a soldier. “I can take you close for a moment, if you want to go, but she is not alone. At least… You will see. You must be silent, and you must take no action against Moghedien. There are other Forsaken. Perhaps you could destroy her, but can you destroy five of them?”
The fluttering in Nynaeve’s middle spread to her chest. And her knees. Five. She should ask what Birgitte had seen or heard and let it go at that. Then she could return to her bed and… But Birgitte was looking at her. Not questioning her courage, only looking. Ready to do this thing if she said. “I will be silent. And I won’t even think of channeling.” Not with five Forsaken together. Not that she could have channeled a spark at that moment. She stiffened her knees to keep them from knocking. “Whenever you are ready.”
Birgitte hefted her bow and put a hand on Nynaeve’s arm…
…and Nynaeve’s breath caught in her throat. They were standing on nothing, infinite blackness all around, no way to tell up from down, and in every direction a fall that would last forever. Head spinning, she made herself look where Birgitte pointed.
Below them, Moghedien also stood on darkness, garbed nearly as black as what surrounded her, bent and listening intently. And as far below her, four huge, highbacked chairs, each different, sat on an expanse of glistening whitetiled floor floating in the blackness. Strangely, Nynaeve could hear what those in the chairs said as well as if she had been among them.
“… never been a coward,” a plumply pretty, sunhaired woman was saying, “so why begin?” Seemingly attired in silverygray mist and sparkling gems, she lounged in a chair of ivory worked so it appeared made of naked acrobats. Four carved men held it aloft, and her arms rested along the backs of kneeling women; two men and two women held a white silk cushion behind her head, while above more were contorted into shapes Nynaeve did not believe a human body could attain. She blushed when she realized that some were performing more than acrobatic tricks.
A compact man of middling height, with a livid scar across his face and a square golden beard, leaned forward angrily. His chair was heavy wood, carved with columns of armored men and horses, a steelgauntleted fist clasping lighting at the back’s peak. His red coat made up for the lack of gilding on the chair, for golden scrollwork rolled across his shoulders and down his arms. “No one names me coward,” he said harshly. “But if we continue as we are, he will come straight for my throat.”
“That has been the plan from the beginning,” said a woman’s melodious voice. Nynaeve could not see the speaker, hidden behind the towering back of a chair that seemed all snowwhite stone and silver.
The second man was large and darkly handsome, with white wings streaking his temples. He toyed with an ornate golden goblet, leaning back in a throne. That was the only possible word for the gemencrusted thing. A mere hint of gold showed here and there, but Nynaeve would not have doubted that it was solid gold beneath all
those glittering rubies and emeralds and moonstones; it had an air of weight quite apart from its massive size. “He will concentrate on you,” the big man said in a deep voice. “If need be, one close to him will die, plainly at your order. He will come for you. And while he is fixed on you alone, the three of us, linked, will take him. What has changed to alter any of that?”
“Nothing has changed,” the scarred man growled. “Least of all, my trust for you. I will be part of the link, or it ends now.”
The goldenhaired woman threw back her head and laughed. “Poor man,” she said mockingly, waving a beringed hand at him. “Do you think he would not notice that you were linked? He has a teacher, remember. A poor one, but not a complete fool. Next you will ask to include enough of those Black Ajah children to take the circle beyond thirteen, so you or Rahvin must have control.”
“If Rahvin trusts us enough to link when he must allow one of us to guide,” the melodious voice said, “you can display an equal trust.” The big man looked into his goblet, and the mistclad woman smiled faintly. “If you cannot trust us not to turn on you,” the unseen woman continued, “then trust that we will be watching each other too closely to turn. You agreed to all of this, Sammael. Why do you begin to quibble now?”
Nynaeve gave a start as Birgitte touched her arm…
… and they were back among the wagons, with the moon shining through the clouds. It seemed almost normal compared to where they had been.
“Why…?” Nynaeve began, and had to swallow. “Why did you bring us away?” Her heart leaped into her throat. “Did Moghedien see us?” She had been so intent on the other Forsaken — on the mingled strangeness and commonplaceness of them
— that she had forgotten to keep an eye on Moghedien. She heaved a fervent sigh when Birgitte shook her head.
“I never took my gaze from her for more than a moment, and she never moved a muscle. But I do not like being so exposed. If she had looked up, or one of the others…”
Nynaeve wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders and still shivered. “Rahvin and Sammael.” She wished she did not sound hoarse. “Did you recognize the others?” Of course Birgitte had; it was a foolish way to phrase it, but she was shaken.
“Lanfear was the one hidden by her chair. The other was Graendal. Do not think her a fool because she was in a chair that would make a Senje noroom keeper blush. She is devious, and she uses her pets in rites to cause the roughest soldier I ever knew to swear celibacy.”
“Graendal is devious,” Moghedien’s voice said, “but not devious enough.” Birgitte whirled, silver bow coming up, silver arrow almost flying to nock —
and abruptly hurtled thirty paces through the moonlight to crash against Nynaeve’s wagon so hard that she bounced back five and lay in a crumpled heap.
Desperately Nynaeve reached for saidar. Fear streaked through her anger, but
there was anger enough — and it ran into an invisible wall between her and the warm glow of the True Source. She almost howled. Something seized her feet, jerking them backward and up off the ground; her hands flew up and back until wrists met ankles above her head. Her clothes became powder that slid from her skin, and her braid dragged her head back until the braid rested on her bottom. Frantic, she tried to step out of the dream. Nothing happened. She hung doubled in midair like some netted creature, every muscle strained to its limit. Tremors ran through her; her fingers twitched feebly, brushing her feet. She thought if she tried to move anything else, her back would break.
Strangely, her fear was gone, now that it was too late. She was certain that she could have been quick enough, if not for the terror that had laced through her when she needed to act. All she wanted was a chance to put her hands around Moghedien’s throat. Much good that does now! Every breath came in strained panting.
Moghedien moved to where Nynaeve could see her, between the quivering triangle of her arms. The glow of saidar surrounded the woman mockingly. “A detail from Graendal’s chair,” the Forsaken said. Her dress was mist like Graendal’s, sliding from black fog to nearly transparent and back to gleaming silver. The fabric changed almost constantly. Nynaeve had seen her wear it before, in Tanchico. “Not something I would have thought of on my own, but Graendal can be …edifying.” Nynaeve glared at her, but Moghedien did not appear to notice. “I can hardly believe that you actually came hunting me. Did you really believe that because once you were lucky enough to catch me off guard, you might be my equal?” The woman’s laugh was cutting. “If you only knew the effort I have put into finding you. And you came to me.” She glanced around at the wagons, studying the lions and bears for a moment before turning back to Nynaeve. “A menagerie? That would make you easy enough to find. If I needed to, now.”
“Do your worst, burn you,” Nynaeve snarled. As best she could. Doubled up as she was, she had to force the words out one by one. She did not dare look straight toward Birgitte — not that she could have shifted her head enough to — but rolling her eyes as if caught between fury and fear, she caught a glimpse. Her stomach went hollow, even stretched tight as a sheepskin for drying. Birgitte lay sprawled on the ground, silver arrows spilling from the quiver at her waist, her silver bow a span from her unmoving hand. “Lucky, you say? If you hadn’t managed to sneak up on me, I’d have striped you till you wailed. I’d have wrung your neck like a chicken.” She had only one chance, if Birgitte was dead, and a bleak one. To make Moghedien so angry that she killed her quickly in a rage. If only there was some way to warn Elayne. Her dying would have to do it. “Remember how you said you’d use me for a mounting block? And later, when I said I’d do the same for you? That was after I had beaten you. When you were whimpering and pleading for your life. Offering me anything. You are a gutless coward! The leavings from a nightjar! You piece of —!” Something thick crawled into her mouth, flattening her tongue
and forcing her jaws wide.
“You are so simple,” Moghedien murmured. “Believe me, I am quite angry enough with you already. I do not think I will use you for a mounting block.” Her smile made Nynaeve’s skin crawl. “I think I will turn you into a horse. It is quite possible, here. A horse, a mouse, a frog…” She paused, listening. “… a cricket. And every time you come to Tel’aran’rhiod, you’ll be a horse, until I change it. Or some other with the knowledge does so.” She paused again, looking almost sympathetic. “No, I’d not want to give you false hope. There are only nine of us now who know that binding, and you would not want any of the others to have you any more than myself. You will be a horse every time I bring you here. You will have your own saddle and bridle. I will even braid your mane.” Nynaeve’s braid jerked almost out of her scalp. “You will remember who you are even then, of course. I think I will enjoy our rides, though you may not.” Moghedien took a deep breath, and her dress darkened to something that glistened in the pale light; Nynaeve could not be sure, but she thought it might be the color of wet blood. “You make me approach Semirhage. It will be well to be done with you, so I can turn my full attention to matters of importance. Is the little yellowhaired chit with you in this menagerie?”
The thickness vanished from Nynaeve’s mouth. “I am alone, you stupid —” Pain. As if she had been beaten from ankles to shoulders, every stroke landing at once. She bellowed shrilly. Again. She tried to clamp her teeth shut, but her own endless shriek filled her ears. Tears rolled shamingly down her cheeks as she sobbed, waiting hopelessly for the next.
“Is she with you?” Moghedien said patiently. “Do not waste time trying to make me kill you. I won’t. You will live many years serving me. Your rather pitiful abilities might be of some use once I train them. Once I train you. But I can make you think that what you just felt was a lover’s caress. Now, answer my question.”
Nynaeve managed to gather breath. .“No,” she wept. “She ran off with a man after we left Tanchico. A man old enough to be her grandfather, but he had money. We heard what happened in the Tower” she was sure Moghedien must know of that
—“and she was afraid to go back.”
The other woman laughed. “A delightful tale. I can almost see what fascinates Semirhage about breaking the spirit. Oh, you are going to provide me with a great deal of entertainment, Nynaeve al’Meara. But first, you are going to bring the girl Elayne to me. You will shield her and bind her and bring her to lie at my feet. Do you know why? Because some things are actually stronger in Tel’aran’rhiod than in the waking world. That is why you will be a glossy white mare whenever I bring you here. And it is not only hurts taken here that last into waking. Compulsion is another. I want you to think of it for a moment or two, before you begin believing it your own idea. I suspect that the girl is your friend. But you are going to bring her to me like a pet —” Moghedien screamed as a silver arrow suddenly stuck its head out from below her right breast.
Nynaeve fell to the ground like a dropped sack. The fall knocked every speck of
breath from her lungs as surely as a hammer in the belly. Straining to breathe, she struggled to make racked muscles move, to fight through pain to saidar.
Staggering on her feet, Birgitte fumbled another arrow from her quiver. “Go, Nynaeve!” It was a mumbling shout. “Get away!” Birgitte’s head wavered, and the silver bow wobbled as she raised it.
The glow around Moghedien increased until it seemed as if the blinding sun surrounded her.
The night folded in over Birgitte like an ocean wave, enveloping her in blackness. When it passed, the bow dropped atop empty clothes as they collapsed. The clothes faded like fog burning off, and only the bow and arrows remained, shining in the moonlight.
Moghedien sank to her knees, panting, clutching the protruding arrow shaft with both hands as the glow around her faded and died. Then she vanished, and the silver arrow fell where she had been, stained dark with blood.
After what seemed an eternity, Nynaeve managed to push up to hands and knees. Weeping, she crawled to Birgitte’s bow. This time it was not pain that made tears come. Kneeling, naked and not caring, she clutched the bow. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “Oh, Birgitte, forgive me. Birgitte!”
There was no answer except the mournful cry of a nightbird.
Liandrin leaped to her feet as the door to Moghedien’s bedchamber crashed open and the Chosen staggered into the sitting room, blood soaking her silk shift. Chesmal and Temaile rushed to her side, each taking an arm to keep the woman on her feet, but Liandrin remained by her chair. The others were out; perhaps out of Amador, for all Liandrin knew. Moghedien told only what she wanted the hearer to know, and punished questions she did not like.
“What happened?” Temaile gasped.
Moghedien’s brief look should have fried her where she stood. “You have some small ability with Healing,” the Chosen told Chesmal thickly. Blood stained her lips, trickled from the corner of her mouth in an increasing stream. “Do it. Now, fool!”
The darkhaired Ghealdanin woman did not hesitate in laying hands to Moghedien’s head. Liandrin sneered to herself, as the glow surrounded Chesmal; concern painted Chesmal’s handsome face, and Temaile’s delicate, foxlike features were contorted with pure fright and worry. So faithful, they were. Such obedient lapdogs. Moghedien lifted up onto her toes, head flung back; eyes wide, she shook, breath rushing from her gaping mouth as if she had been plunged into ice.
In moments it was done. The glow around Chesmal disappeared, and Moghedien’s heels settled to the blueandgreen patterned carpet. Without Temaile’s support, she might have fallen. Only a part of the strength for Healing came from the Power, the rest came from the person being Healed. Whatever wound had caused all that bleeding would be gone, but Moghedien was surely as weak as if she had lain in bed an invalid for weeks. She pulled the fine goldandivory silk scarf
from Temaile’s belt to wipe her mouth as the woman helped her turn toward the bedchamber door. Weak, and her back turned.
Liandrin struck as hard as she ever had, with everything she had puzzled out of what the woman had done to her.
Even as she did, saidar seemed to fill Moghedien like a flood. Liandrin’s probe died as the Source was shielded from her. Flows of Air picked her up and slammed her against the paneled wall hard enough to make her teeth rattle. Spreadeagled, helpless, she hung there.
Chesmal and Temaile exchanged confused glances, as if they did not understand what had occurred. They continued to support Moghedien as she came to stand in front of Liandrin, still calmly wiping her mouth on Temaile’s scarf. Moghedien channeled, and the blood on her shift turned black and flaked away, falling to the carpet.
“Yyou do not understand, Great Mmistress,” Liandrin said frantically. “I only wished to help you to have the good sleep.” For once in her life, slipping back into the accents of a commoner did not concern her in the least. “I only —” She cut off with a strangled gagging as a flow of Air seized her tongue, stretching it out between her teeth. Her brown eyes bulged. A hair more pressure, and…
“Shall I pull it out?” Moghedien studied her face, but spoke as if to herself. “I think not. A pity for you that the al’Meara woman makes me think like Semirhage. Otherwise, I might only kill you.” Suddenly she was tying off the shield, the knot growing ever more intricate, until Liandrin lost the twists and turns completely. And still it went on. “There,” Moghedien said finally in tones of satisfaction. “You will search a very long time to find anyone who can unravel that. But you will have no opportunity to search.”
Liandrin searched Chesmal’s face, and Temaile’s, for some sign of sympathy, pity, anything. Chesmal’s eyes were cold and stern; Temaile’s shone, and she touched her lips with the tip of her tongue and smiled. Not a friendly smile.
“You thought you had learned something of compulsion,” Moghedien went on. “I will teach you a bit more.” For an instant Liandrin shivered, Moghedien’s eyes filling her vision as the woman’s voice filled her ears, her entire head. “Live.” The instant passed, and sweat beaded on Liandrin’s face as. the Chosen smiled at her. “Compulsion has many limits, but a command to do what someone wants to do in their inmost depths will hold for a lifetime. You will live, however much you think you want to take your life. And you will think of it. You will lie weeping many nights, wishing for it.”
The flow holding Liandrin’s tongue vanished, and she barely paused to swallow. “Please, Great Mistress, I swear I did not mean —” Her head rang and silvery black spots danced before her eyes from Moghedien’s slap.
“There are… attractions… to doing a thing physically,” the woman breathed. “Do you wish to beg more?”
“Please, Great Mistress —” The second slap sent her hair flying.
“More?”
“Please —” A third nearly unhinged her jaw. Her cheek burned.
“If you cannot be more inventive than that, I will not listen. You will listen instead. I think what I have planned for you would delight Semirhage herself.” Moghedien’s smile was almost as dark as Temaile’s. “You will live, not stilled, but knowing that you could channel again, if only you found someone to untie your shield. Yet that is only the beginning. Evon will be glad of a new scullery girl, and I am sure the Arene woman will want to have long talks with you about her husband. Why, they will enjoy your company so much that I doubt you will see the outside of this house during the years to come. Long years in which to wish that you had served me faithfully.”
Liandrin shook her head, mouthing “no” and “please”; she was crying too hard to force the words out.
Turning her head to Temaile, Moghedien said, “Prepare her for them. And tell them they are not to kill or maim her. I want her always to believe she might escape. Even futile hope will keep her alive to suffer.” She turned away on Chesmal’s arm, and the flows holding Liandrin to the wall vanished.
Her legs gave way like straw, crumpling her to the carpet. Only the shield remained; she hammered at it futilely as she crawled after Moghedien, trying to catch the hem of her shift, sobbing brokenly. “Please, Great Mistress.”
“They are with a menagerie,” Moghedien told Chesmal. “All of your searching, and I had to find them myself. A menagerie should, not be too difficult to locate.”
“I will serve faithfully,” Liandrin wept. Fear turned her limbs to water, she could not crawl fast enough to catch up. They did not even look back at her, scrabbling across the carpet after them. “Bind me, Great Mistress. Anything. I will be the faithful dog!”
“There are many menageries traveling north,” Chesmal said, eagerness to negate her failure filling her voice. “To Ghealdan, Great Mistress.”
“Then I must to Ghealdan,” Moghedien said. “You will procure fast horses and follow —” The bedchamber door closed on her words.
“I will be the faithful dog,” Liandrin sobbed in a heap on the carpet. Lifting her head, she blinked tears away to see Temaile watching her, rubbing her arms and smiling. “We could overwhelm her, Temaile. We three together could —”
“We three?” Temaile laughed. “You could not overwhelm fat Evon.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied the shield fastened to Liandrin. “You might as well be stilled.”
“Listen. Please.” Liandrin swallowed hard, trying to clear her voice, but it was still thick, if burning with urgency, when she went on at frantic speed. “We have spoken of the dissension that must rule among the Chosen. If Moghedien hides herself so, she must hide from the other Chosen. If we take her and give her to them, think of the places we could have. We could be exalted above kings and queens. We could be Chosen ourselves!”
For a moment — one blessed, wonderful moment — the childfaced woman hesitated. Then she shook her head. “You have never known how high to lift your eyes. ‘Who reaches for the sun will be burned.’ No, I think that I will not be burned for reaching too high. I think that I will do as I am told, and soften you for Evon.” Suddenly she smiled, showing teeth that made her even more vulpine. “How surprised he will be when you crawl to kiss his feet.”
Liandrin started screaming before Temaile even began.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 35
(Serpent and Wheel) Ripped Away
Yawning, Elayne watched Nynaeve from her bed, her head propped up on one elbow and black hair spilling down her arm. It was really quite ridiculous, this insistence that whoever did not go to Tel’aran’rhiod remain awake. She did not know how long an interval Nynaeve had experienced in the World of Dreams, but Elayne had been lying here for a good two hours, with no book to read, no needlework to do, nothing at all to occupy her except staring at the other woman stretched out on her own narrow bed. Studying the a’dam was no good; she thought she had wrung everything out of it that she could. She had even tried a slight touch of Healing on the sleeping woman, perhaps all the Healing she knew. Nynaeve would never have consented to it awake — she did not think much of Elayne’s abilities in that direction — or maybe she would have, in this case — but her black eye was gone. In truth, that was the most complicated Healing Elayne had ever done, and it really had exhausted her skill. Nothing to do. If she had some silver, she might have tried making an a’dam; silver was not the only metal, but she would have to melt coins to get enough. The other woman would be less pleased at that than at finding a second a’dam. If Nynaeve had been willing to tell Thom and Juilin about this, at least she could have invited Thom in for conversation.
They really did have the most delightful talks. Like a father passing on his knowledge to his daughter. She had never realized that the Game of Houses was so deeply embedded in Andor, if thankfully not so deeply as it was in some other lands. Only the Borderlands escaped it entirely, according to Thom. With the Blight right to the north, and Trolloc raids a daily fact, they had no time for maneuvering and scheming. She and Thom had wonderful talks, now that he was sure she was not going to try snuggling into his lap. Her face burned at the memory; she had actually thought of that once or twice, and mercifully had not quite brought herself to it.
“Even a queen stubs her toe, but a wise woman watches the path,” she quoted softly. Lini was a wise woman. Elayne did not think she would make that particular mistake again. She knew she made many, but seldom the same twice. One day, perhaps, she would make few enough to be worthy to follow her mother on the throne.
Suddenly she sat up. Tears were leaking from Nynaeve’s closed eyes, trickling down the sides of her face; what Elayne had taken for a faint snore — Nynaeve did snore, whatever she said — was a tiny, whimpering sob deep in her throat. That should not be. If she had been injured, the hurt would have appeared, although she would not feel it here until she woke.
Perhaps I should wake her. But she hesitated, even as her hand stretched toward the other woman. Waking someone out of Tel’aran’rhiod was far from easy —
shaking, even icy water in the face would not always do — and Nynaeve would not appreciate being pummeled awake after the bruising Cerandin had given her. I wonder what really happened. I will have to ask Cerandin. Whatever was going on, Nynaeve should be able to step out of the dream whenever she wished. Unless… Egwene said that the Wise Ones could hold someone in Tel’aran’rhiod against their will, though if they had taught her the trick, she had not passed it on to Elayne or Nynaeve. If someone was holding Nynaeve now, hurting her, it could not be Birgitte, or the Wise Ones. Well, the Wise Ones might, if they caught her wandering where they thought she should not. But if not them, that left only…
She took hold of Nynaeve’s shoulders to shake her — if that did not work, she would freeze the pitcher of water on the table, or slap her face silly — and Nynaeve’s eyes popped open.
Immediately Nynaeve began to weep aloud, the most despairing sound Elayne had ever heard. “I killed her. Oh, Elayne, I killed her with my foolish pride, thinking I could…” The words trailed off in openmouthed sobs.
“You killed who?” It could not be Moghedien; that woman’s death would surely not bring this grief. She was about to take Nynaeve in her arms to comfort her, when, a pounding came at the door.
“Send them away,” Nynaeve mumbled, curbing herself into a trembling ball in the middle of the bed.
Sighing, Elayne made her way to the door and pulled it open, but before she could say a word, Thom pushed past her out of the night, rumpled shirt bagging out of his breeches, carrying someone shrouded in his cloak in his arms. Only a woman’s bare feet showed.
“She was just there,” Juilin said behind him, as if he did not believe the words coming out of his own mouth. Both men were barefoot, and Juilin was stripped to the waist, lean and hairlesschested. “I woke for a moment, and suddenly she was standing there, naked as the day she was born, collapsing like a cut net.”
“She’s alive,” Thom said, laying the cloakwrapped figure on Elayne’s bed, “but only barely. I could hardly hear her heart.”
Frowning, Elayne pulled aside the cloak’s hood — and found herself staring at Birgitte’s face, pale and wan.
Nynaeve scrambled stiffly from the other bed to kneel beside the unconscious woman. Her face glistened with tears, but her weeping had stopped. “She is alive,” she breathed. “She is alive.” Abruptly she seemed to realize that she was in her shift in front of the men, but she barely spared them a glance, and all she said was “Get them out of here, Elayne. I can do nothing with them gawking like sheep.”
Thom and Juilin rolled their eyes toward each other when Elayne made a herding motion at them, and shook their heads slightly, but they backed toward the door without complaint. “She is… a friend,” Elayne told them. She felt as if she were moving in a dream, floating, without feeling. How could this be? “We will take care of her.” How could it possibly have happened? “Now, don’t say a word to
anyone.” The looks they gave her as she closed the door nearly made her blush. Of course they knew better than to talk. But men did have to be reminded of the simplest things sometimes, even Thom. “Nynaeve, how under the Light,” she began, turning, and cut off as the glow of saidar surrounded the kneeling woman.
“Burn her!” Nynaeve growled, channeling fiercely. “Burn her forever for doing this!” Elayne recognized the flows being woven for Healing, but recognition was as far as she could go. “I will find her, Birgitte,” Nynaeve muttered. Strands of Spirit predominated, but Water and Air were in there, and even Earth and Fire. It looked as complicated as embroidering one dress with either hand, and two more with your feet. Blindfolded. “I will make her pay.” The glow shining about Nynaeve grew and grew, until it overwhelmed the lamps, until it hurt to book at her except through slitted eyes. “I swear it! By the Light and my hope of salvation and rebirth, I will!” The anger in her voice changed, becoming deeper if anything. “It isn’t working. There is nothing wrong with her to Heal. She is as perfect as anyone can be. But she is dying. Oh, Light, I can feel her slipping away. Burn Moghedien! Burn her! And burn me along with her!” She was not giving up, though. The weaving continued, complex flows weaving into Birgitte. And the woman lay there, golden braid flung over the side of the bed, the rise and fall of her chest slowing.
“I can do something that might help,” Elayne said slowly. You were supposed to have permission, but it had not always been so. Once it had been done almost as often without as with. There was no reason it should not work on a woman. Except that she had never heard of it being done to any but men.
“Linking?” Nynaeve did not look away from the woman on the bed, or stop her efforts with the Power. “Yes. You will have to do it — I don’t know how — but let me guide. I do not know half what I am doing right this minute, but I know that I can do it. You could not Heal a bruise.”
Elayne’s mouth tightened, but she let the remark lie. “Not linking.” The amount of saidar that Nynaeve had drawn into herself was amazing. If she could not Heal Birgitte with that, what Elayne could add would not make a difference. Together, they would be stronger than either apart, but not as strong as if their two strengths were simply added. Besides, she was not certain that she could link. She had only been linked once, and an Aes Sedai had done it, to show her what it was like more than how. “Stop, Nynaeve. You said yourself it is not working. Stop and let me try. If it doesn’t work, you can…” She could what? If Healing worked, it worked; if it did not… There was no point in trying again if it failed.
“Try what?” Nynaeve snapped, yet she moved away awkwardly, letting Elayne come close. The weave of Healing faded, but not the shining nimbus.
Instead of answering, Elayne put one hand on Birgitte’s forehead. Physical contact was as necessary for this as for Healing, and the two times she had watched it done in the Tower, the Aes Sedai had touched the man’s forehead. The flows of Spirit she wove were complex, if not so intricate as Nynaeve’s of a moment before. She barely understood some of what she was doing, and none at all of other parts,
yet she had paid close attention, from her hiding place, to how the weave was shaped. Watched closely because she had built up a stock of stories in her head, made silly romances where there so seldom were any. After a moment, she sat down on the other bed and let saidar go.
Nynaeve frowned at her, then bent to examine Birgitte. The unconscious woman’s color was perhaps a little better, her breathing a little stronger. “What did you do, Elayne?” Nynaeve did not take her eyes from Birgitte, but the glow around her faded away slowly. “It wasn’t Healing. I think I could do it myself, now, but it was not Healing.”
“Will she live?” Elayne asked faintly. There was no visible link between her and Birgitte, no flows, but she could sense the woman’s weakness. A terrible weakness. She would know the moment Birgitte died, even if she was sleeping, or hundreds of miles away.
“I do not know. She isn’t fading anymore, but I do not know.” Weariness made Nynaeve’s voice soft, and pain touched it strongly, as if she shared Birgitte’s injury. Wincing, she rose and unfolded a redstriped blanket to spread over the woman lying there. “What did you do?”
Silence held Elayne long enough for Nynaeve to join her, lowering herself awkwardly onto the bed. “Bonding,” Elayne said finally. “I… bonded her. As a Warder.” The incredulous stare on the other woman’s face made her rush on. “Healing was doing no good. I had to do something. You know the gifts a Warder gets from being bonded. One is strength, energy. He can keep going when other men would collapse and die, survive wounds that would kill anyone else. It was the only thing I could think of.”
Nynaeve drew a deep breath. “Well, it is working better than what I did, at least. A woman Warder. I wonder what Lan will think of that? No reason why she shouldn’t be. If any woman can, it would be her.” Wincing, she curled her legs up beneath her, her gaze kept returning to Birgitte. “You will have to keep this secret. If anyone learns that an Accepted has bonded a Warder, whatever the circumstances…”
Elayne shivered. “I know,” she said simply, and quite fervently. It was not quite a stilling offense, but any Aes Sedai would very likely make her wish she had been stilled. “Nynaeve, what happened?”
For a long moment she thought the other woman was going to start crying again as her chin quivered and her lips worked. When she began speaking, her voice was iron, her face a blend of fury and too many tears ever to shed. She told the tale starkly, almost sketchily, until she came to Moghedien’s appearance among the wagons. That she rendered in painful detail.
“I should be welted from the neck down,” she said bitterly at last, touching a smooth, unmarked arm. Unmarked or not, she flinched. “I don’t understand why I am not. I feel it, but I deserve the welts, for stupid, foolish pride. For being too afraid to do what I should. I deserved being hung up like a ham in a smokehouse. If
there was any justice, I would still be dangling there, and Birgitte would not be lying on that bed, with us wondering whether she’ll live or not. If only I knew more. If only I could have Moghedien’s knowledge for five minutes, I could Heal her. I am sure of it.”
“If you were still hanging,” Elayne said practically, “in a very short while you would be waking up and shielding me. I don’t doubt Moghedien would have seen to it that you were angry enough to channel — she knows us all too well, remember
— and I do doubt very much that I would have suspected anything until you had done it. I do not fancy being carted off to Moghedien, and I cannot believe you do either.” The other woman did not look at her. “It must have been a link, Nynaeve, like an a’dam. That is how she made you feel pain without marking you.” Nynaeve still sat there in a glowering sulk. “Nynaeve, Birgitte is still alive. You did everything you could for her, and the Light willing, she will live. It was Moghedien who did this to her, not you. A soldier who takes blame for his comrades who fall in battle is a fool. You and I are soldiers in a battle, but you are not a fool, so stop behaving like one.”
Nynaeve did look at her then, a scowl that lasted only a moment before she turned her face completely away. “You don’t understand.” Her voice sank almost to a whisper. “She… was… one of the heroes bound to the Wheel of Time, destined to be born again and again to make legends. She wasn’t born this time, Elayne. She was ripped out of Tel’aran’rhiod as she stood. Is she still bound to the Wheel? Or has she been ripped away from that, too? Ripped away from what her own courage earned her, because I was so proud, so manstubborn stupid, that I made her hunt for Moghedien?”
Elayne had hoped that those questions had not occurred to Nynaeve yet, would not until she had had a little time to recover first. “Do you know how badly Moghedien was hurt? Maybe she is dead.”
“I hope not,” the other woman almost snarled. “I want to make her pay…” She took a deep breath, but instead of invigorating her, it seemed to make her sag. “I would not count on her dying. Birgitte’s shot missed her heart. A wonder she managed to hit the woman at all, staggering as she was. I could not have stood up if I were thrown that far, hard enough to bounce like that. I couldn’t even stand up after what Moghedien did to me. No, she is alive, and we had best believe that she can have her wound Healed and be after us by morning.”
“She would still need time to rest, Nynaeve. You know that. Can she even know where we are? From what you said, she had no time to do more than see that this is a menagerie.”
“What if she did see more?” Nynaeve rubbed her temples as if it were difficult to think. “What if she knows exactly where we are? She could send Darkfriends after us. Or send word to Darkfriends in Samara.”
“Luca is livid because eleven menageries are already around the city, and three more are waiting to cross the bridge. Nynaeve, it will take her days to regain
strength after a wound like that, even if she does find some Black sister to Heal her, or one of the other Forsaken. And more days to search through fifteen menageries. That is if there are not more on the road behind us, or coming from Altara. If she does come after us or send Darkfriends, either one, we are forwarned, and we have days to find a boat that can carry us downriver.” She paused a moment, thinking. “Do you have anything to dye your hair in that bag of herbs? I’ll wager anything that you had your hair braided in Tel’aran’rhiod. Mine is always its natural color, there. If yours is loose, as it is now, and another color, it will make us that much harder to find.”
“Whitecloaks everywhere,” Nynaeve sighed. “Galad. The Prophet. No boats. It is as if everything is conspiring to hold us here for Moghedien. I am so tired, Elayne. Tired of being afraid of who might be around the next corner. Tired of being afraid of Moghedien. I cannot seem to think of what to do next. My hair? Nothing that would make it any color I’d have.”
“You need to sleep,” Elayne, said firmly. “Without the ring. Give it to me.” The other woman hesitated, but Elayne merely waited with her hand outstretched until Nynaeve fished the flecked stone ring from the cord around her neck. Stuffing it into her pouch, Elayne went on. “Now you lie down here, and I will watch Birgitte.”
Nynaeve stared at the woman stretched out on the other bed for a moment, then shook her head. “I can’t sleep. I need to be alone. To walk.” Getting to her feet as stiffly as if she really had been beaten, she took her dark cloak from its peg and swung it over her shift. At the door she paused. “If she wants to kill me,” she said bleakly, “I do not know that I could make myself stop her.” She went into the night barefoot and sadfaced.
Elayne hesitated, unsure which woman needed her more, before settling back where she sat. Nothing she said could make things better for Nynaeve, but she had faith in the woman’s resilience. Time alone to work it all over in her mind, and she would see that blame lay at Moghedien’s door, not hers. She had to.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 36
(Elephant)
A New Name
For a long time Elayne sat there, watching Birgitte sleep. It did seem to be sleep. Once she stirred, muttering in a desperate voice, “Wait for me, Gaidal. Wait. I’m coming, Gaidal. Wait for…” Words trailed off into slow breath again. Was it stronger? The woman still looked deathly ill. Better than she had, but pale and drawn.
After perhaps an hour, Nynaeve returned, her feet dirty. Fresh tears shone on her cheeks. “I could not stay away,” she said, hanging her cloak back on its peg. “You sleep. I will watch her. I have to watch her.”
Elayne rose slowly, smoothing her skirts. Perhaps watching over Birgitte for a time would help Nynaeve work matters out. “I don’t feel like sleeping yet, either.” She was exhausted, but not sleepy any longer. “I think I will stroll outside myself.” Nynaeve only nodded as she took Elayne’s place on the bed, her dusty feet dangling over the side, her eyes fastened to Birgitte.
To Elayne’s surprise, Thom and Juilin were not asleep either. They had built a small fire beside the wagon and sat on either side of it, crosslegged on the ground, smoking their longstemmed pipes. Thom had tucked his shirt in, and Juilin had donned his coat, though no shirt, and turned the cuffs back. She took a look around before joining them. No one stirred in the camp, dark except for the light of this one fire and the glow of the lamps from their wagon’s windows.
Neither man said anything while she settled her skirts; then Juilin looked at Thom, who nodded, and the thiefcatcher took something from the ground and held it out to her. “I found it where she was lying,” the dark man said. “As if it had dropped from her hand.”
Elayne took the silver arrow slowly. Even the fletching feathers appeared to be silver.
“Distinctive,” Thom said conversationally around his pipe. “And added to the braid… Every story mentions the braid for some reason. Though I’ve found some I think might be her under other names, without it. And some under other names with.”
“I do not care about stories,” Juilin put in. He sounded no more agitated than Thom. But then, it took a great deal to agitate either one of them. “Is it her? Bad enough if it isn’t, a woman appearing naked out of nothing like that, but… What have you gotten us into, you and N… Nana?” He was troubled; Juilin did not make mistakes, and his tongue never slipped. Thom merely bubbled at his pipe, waiting.
Elayne turned the arrow in her hands, pretending to study it. “She is a friend,” she said finally. Until — unless — Birgitte released her, her promise held. “She is not Aes Sedai, but she has been helping us.” They looked at her, waiting for her to say more. “Why didn’t you give this to Nynaeve?”
One of those glances passed between them — men seemed to carry on entire conversations through glances, around women at least — saying as clearly as spoken words what they thought of her keeping secrets. Especially when they all but knew for certain already. But she had given her word.
“She seemed upset,” Juilin said, sucking at his pipe judiciously, and Thom took his from between his teeth and blew out his white mustaches.
“Upset? The woman came out in her shift, looking lost, and when I asked if I could help her, she didn’t snap my head off. She cried on my shoulder!” He plucked at his linen shirt, muttering something about dampness. “Elayne, she apologized for every cross word she has ever said to me, which is very nearly every other word out of her mouth. Said she ought to be switched, or maybe that she had been; she was incoherent half the time. She said she was a coward, and a stubborn fool. I don’t know what is the matter with her, but she isn’t herself by a mile.”
“I knew a woman who behaved like this, once,” Juilin said, peering into the fire. “She woke to find a burglar in her bedchamber and stabbed the man through the heart. Only, when she lit a lamp, it was her husband. His boat had come back to the docks early. She walked around like Nynaeve for half a month.” His mouth tightened. “Then she hanged herself.”
“I hate to lay this burden on you, child,” Thom added gently, “but if she can be helped, you are the only one of us who can do it. I know how to take a man out of his miseries. Give him a swift kick, or else get him drunk and find him a pr—” He harrumphed loudly, trying to make it seem a cough, and knuckled his mustaches. The one bad thing about him seeing her as a daughter was that now sometimes he seemed to think she was perhaps twelve. “Anyway, the point is that I do not know how to do this. And while Juilin might be willing to dandle her on his knee, I doubt she’d thank him for it.”
“I would sooner dandle a fangfish,” the thiefcatcher muttered, but not as roughly as he would have yesterday. He was as concerned as Thom, though less willing to admit it.
“I will do what I can,” she assured them, turning the arrow again. They were good men, and she did not like lying to them, or hiding things from them. Not unless it was absolutely necessary, anyway. Nynaeve claimed that you had to manage men for their own good, but there was such a thing as taking it too far. It was not right to lead a man into dangers he knew nothing of.
So she told them. About Tel’aran’rhiod and the Forsaken being loose, about Moghedien. Not quite everything, of course. Some events in Tanchico had been too shaming for her to want to think of them. Her promise held her concerning Birgitte’s identity, and there was certainly no need to go into detail about what Moghedien had done to Nynaeve. It made explaining this night’s happenings a little difficult, yet she managed. She did tell them everything she thought they should know, enough to make them aware for the first time what they were really up against. Not just the Black Ajah — that had certainly made them stare crosseyed
when they learned it — but the Forsaken, and one of them very likely hunting her and Nynaeve. And she made it quite plain that they two would be hunting Moghedien as well, and that anyone close to them was in danger of being caught between hunter and prey either way.
“Now that you know,” she finished, “the choice to stay or go is yours.” She left it at that, and was careful not to look at Thom. She hoped almost desperately that he would stay, but she would not let him think that she was asking, not by so much as a glance.
“I haven’t taught you half what you need to know if you’re to be as good a queen as your mother,” he said, trying to sound gruff and spoiling it by brushing a strand of blackdyed hair from her cheek with a gnarled finger. “You’ll not rid yourself of me this easily, child. I mean to see you mistress of Daes Dae’mar if I must drone in your ear until you go deaf. I haven’t even taught you to handle a knife. I tried to teach your mother, but she always said she could tell a man to use a knife if one needed using. Fool way to look at it.”
She leaned forward and kissed his leathery cheek, and he blinked, bushy eyebrows shooting up, then smiled and stuck his pipe back into his mouth.
“You can kiss me, too,” Juilin said dryly. “Rand al’Thor will have my guts for fish bait if I don’t hand you back to him in the same health he last saw you.”
Elayne lifted her chin. “I will not have you stay for Rand al’Thor, Juilin.” Hand her back? Indeed! “You will stay only if you want to. And I do not release you — or you, Thom!” — he had grinned at the thiefcatcher’s comment — “from your promise to do as you are told.” Thom’s startled look was quite satisfying. She turned back to Juilin. “You will follow me, and Nynaeve of course, knowing full well the enemies we face, or you may pack your belongings and ride Skulker where you wish. I will give him to you.”
Juilin sat up straight as a post, his dark face going darker. “I have never abandoned a woman in danger in my life.” He pointed his pipestem at her like a weapon. “You send me away, and I will be on your heels like a soarer on a sternchase.”
Not exactly what she wanted, but it would do. “Very well, then.” Rising, she held herself erect, the silver arrow at her side, and kept her slightly frosty manner. She thought they had finally realized who was in charge. “Morning is not far off.” Had Rand actually had the nerve to tell Juilin to “hand her back”? Thom would just have to suffer along with the other man for a time, and it served him right for that grin. “You will put out this fire and go to sleep. Now. No excuses, Thom. You’ll be no good at all tomorrow without sleep.”
Obediently they began scuffing dirt over the flames with their boots, but when she reached the plain wooden steps of the wagon, she heard Thom say, “Sounds like her mother sometimes.”
“Then I am glad I have never met the woman,” Juilin grumbled in reply. “Flip for first guard?” Thom murmured an assent.
She almost went back, but found herself smiling instead. Men! It was a fond thought. Her good mood lasted until she was inside.
Nynaeve sat on the very edge of the bed, holding herself up with both hands, eyes trying to drift shut as she watched Birgitte. Her feet were still dirty.
Elayne put Birgitte’s arrow into one of the cupboards behind some rough sacks of dried peas. Luckily, the other woman never so much as glanced at her. She did not think the sight of the silver arrow was what Nynaeve needed right at that moment. But what was?
“Nynaeve, it is past time for you to wash your feet and go to sleep.”
Nynaeve swayed in her direction, blinking sleepily. “Feet? What? I must watch her.”
It would have to be one step at a time. “Your feet, Nynaeve. They are dirty.
Wash them.”
Frowning, Nynaeve peered down at her dusty feet, then nodded. She spilled water tipping the big white pitcher over the washbasin, and sloshed more out before she was washed and ready to towel dry, but even then she resumed her seat. “I must watch. In case… In case… She cried out once. For Gaidal.”
Elayne pressed her back on the mattress. “You need sleep, Nynaeve. You can’t keep your eyes open.”
“I can,” Nynaeve muttered sullenly, trying to sit up against Elayne’s pressure on her shoulders. “I must watch her, Elayne. I must.”
Nynaeve made the two men outside look sensible and biddable. Even if Elayne had had a mind to, there was no way to get her drunk and find her a — a pretty young man, she supposed it would have to be. That left a swift kick. Sympathy and common sense had surely made no impression. “I have had enough of this sulking and selfpity, Nynaeve,” she said firmly. “You are going to sleep now, and in the morning you are not going to say one word about what a miserable wretch you are. If you cannot behave like the clearheaded woman you are, I will ask Cerandin to give you two black eyes for the one I took away. You did not even thank me for that. Now go to sleep!”
Nynaeve’s eyes widened indignantly — at least she did not look on the point of tears — but Elayne slid them shut with her fingers. They closed easily, and despite softly murmured protests, the deep slow breath of sleep followed quickly.
Elayne patted Nynaeve’s shoulder before straightening. She hoped it was a peaceful sleep, with dreams of Lan, but any sort of sleep was better for her now than none. Fighting a yawn, she bent to check Birgitte. She could not tell whether the woman’s color or breathing was any better. There was nothing to do but wait and hope.
The lamps did not seem to be bothering either of the women, so she left them alight and sat on the floor between the beds. They should help keep her awake. Not that she knew why she should remain awake, really. She had done what she could as much as Nynaeve had. Unthinkingly she leaned back against the front wall, and her
chin sank slowly to her chest.
The dream was a pleasant one, if odd. Rand knelt before her, and she put a hand on his head and bonded him as her Warder. One of her Warders; she would have to choose Green now, with Birgitte. There were other women there, faces changing between one glance and the next. Nynaeve, Min, Moiraine, Aviendha, Berelain, Amathera, Liandrin, others she did not know. Whoever they were, she knew that she had to share him with them, because in the dream she was certain that that was what Min had viewed. She was not sure how she felt about that — some of those faces she wanted to claw to shreds — but if it was fated by the Pattern, it would have to be. Yet she would have one thing of him the others could never have, the bond between Warder and Aes Sedai.
“Where is this place?” Berelain said, ravenhaired and so beautiful that Elayne wanted to bare her teeth. The woman wore the lowcut red dress that Luca wanted Nynaeve to wear; she always dressed revealingly. “Wake up. This is not Tel’aran’rhiod.”
Elayne started awake to find Birgitte leaning over the side of the bed, gripping her arm weakly. Her face was too pale, and damp with sweat as if a fever had broken, but her blue eyes were sharp and intent on Elayne’s face.
“This is not Tel’aran’rhiod.” It was not a question, but Elayne nodded, and Birgitte sank back with a long sigh. “I remember everything,” she whispered. “I am here as I am, and I remember. All is changed. Gaidal is out there, somewhere, an infant, or even a young boy. But even if I find him, what will he think of a woman more than old enough to be his mother?” She scrubbed angrily at her eyes, muttering, “I do not cry. I never cry. I remember that, the Light help me. I never cry.”
Elayne got up on her knees beside the woman’s bed. “You will find him, Birgitte.” She kept her voice low. Nynaeve still seemed sound asleep — a small, rasping snore rose from her regularly — but she needed rest, not to confront this all over again now. “Somehow you will. And he will love you. I know he will.”
“Do you think that is what matters? I could stand him not loving me.” Her glistening eyes gave her the lie. “He will need me, Elayne, and I will not be there. He always has more courage than is good for him; I always must supply him with caution. Worse, he will wander, searching for me, not knowing what he is looking for, not knowing why he feels incomplete. We are always together, Elayne. Two halves of a whole.” The tears welled up, flowing across her face. “Moghedien said she would make me cry forever, and she…” Suddenly her features contorted; low ragged sobs came as if ripped from her throat.
Elayne gathered the taller woman into her arms, murmuring words of comfort she knew were useless. How would she feel if Rand were taken away from her? The thought was nearly enough to make her put her head down atop Birgitte’s and join her weeping.
She was not sure how long it took Birgitte to cry herself out, but eventually she
pushed Elayne away and settled back, wiping her cheeks with her fingers. “I have never done that except as a small child. Never.” Twisting her neck, she frowned at Nynaeve, still asleep on the other bed. “Did Moghedien hurt her badly? I have not seen anyone trussed like that since the Tourag took Mareesh.” Elayne must have looked confused, because she added, “In another Age. Is she hurt?”
“Not badly. Her spirit, mainly. What you did allowed her to escape, but only after…” Elayne could not make herself say it. Too many wounds were too fresh. “She blames herself. She thinks that… everything… is her fault, for asking you to help.”
“If she had not asked me, Moghedien would be teaching her to beg right now. She has as little caution as Gaidal.” Birgitte’s dry tone sounded odd with her wet cheeks. “She did not drag me into this by my hair. If she claims responsibility for the consequences, then she claims responsibility for my actions.” If anything, she sounded angry. “I am a free woman, and I made my own choices. She did not decide for me.”
“I must say you are, taking this better than… I would.” She could not say “better than Nynaeve.” That was true, but the other was as well.
“I always say, if you must mount the gallows, give a jest to the crowd, a coin to the hangman, and make the drop with a smile on your lips.” Birgitte’s smile was grim. “Moghedien sprang the trap, but my neck is not yet snapped. Perhaps I will surprise her before it is done.” The smile faded into a frown as she studied Elayne. “I can… feel you. I think I could close my eyes and point to you a mile away.”
Elayne took a very deep breath. “I bonded you as a Warder,” she said in a rush. “You were dying, and Healing did no good, and…” The woman was looking at her. Not frowning anymore, but her eyes were disconcertingly sharp. “There was no other choice, Birgitte. You would have died, else.”
“A Warder,” Birgitte said slowly. “I think I remember hearing a tale of a female Warder, but it was in a life so long ago that I cannot remember more than that.”
It was time for another deep breath, and this time she had to force the words. “There is something you should know. You will discover it sooner or later, and I’ve decided not to keep things from people who have a right to know, not unless I absolutely must.” A third breath. “I am not Aes Sedai. I am only Accepted.”
For a long moment, the goldenbraided woman stared up at her, then slowly shook her head. “An Accepted. In the Trolloc Wars, I knew an Accepted who bonded a fellow. Barashelle was due to be tested the next day for raising to full Aes Sedai, and certain to be given the shawl, but she was afraid that a woman testing that same day would take him. In the Trolloc Wars, the Tower tried to raise women as quickly as possible, from necessity.”
“What happened?” Elayne could not stop herself from asking. Barashelle? That name sounded familiar.
Lacing her fingers over the blanket atop her bosom, Birgitte shifted her head on the pillow and put on a look of mock sympathy. “Needless to say, she was not
allowed to take the tests once it was discovered. Necessity did not outweigh such an offense. They made her pass the poor fellow’s bond to another, and to teach her patience, put her into the kitchens among the scullions and spitgirls. I heard that she stayed there three years, and when she did receive her shawl, the Amyrlin Seat herself chose her Warder, a leatherfaced, stonestubborn man named Anselan. I saw them a few years after, and I could not tell which of them gave the commands. I do not think Barashelle was certain either.”
“Not pleasant,” Elayne muttered. Three years in the… Wait. Barashelle and Anselan? It could not be the same pair, that story said nothing about Barashelle being Aes Sedai. But she had read two versions and heard Thom tell another, and all had Barashelle doing some long, arduous service to earn Anselan’s love. Two thousand years could change a great deal in a story.
“Not pleasant,” Birgitte agreed, and suddenly her eyes were much too large and innocent in her pale face. “I suppose, since you wish me to keep your dreadful secret, you will not ride me as hard as some Aes Sedai ride their Warders. It would not do to push me to tell just to escape you.”
Elayne’s chin came up instinctively. “That sounds very like a threat. I do not take well to threats, from you or anyone else. If you think —”
The reclining woman caught her arm and cut her off apologetically; her grip was noticeably stronger. “Please. I did not intend it that way. Gaidal claims I have a sense of humor like a rock tossed into a shojacircle.” A cloud swept across her face at Gaidal’s name, and was gone. “You saved my life, Elayne. I will keep your secret and serve you as Warder. And be your friend, if you will have me.”
“I will be proud to have you for friend.” Shojacircle? She would ask another time. Birgitte might be stronger, but she needed rest, not questions. “And for Warder.” It seemed that she really was going to choose the Green Ajah; aside from everything else, that was the only way she could bond Rand., The dream was still clear in her mind, and she intended to convince him to accept it one way or another. “Perhaps you could try to… moderate your sense of humor?”
“I will try.” Birgitte sounded as if she were saying she would try to pick up a mountain. “But if I am to be your Warder, even in secret, then I will be Warder to you. You can barely hold your eyes open. It is time for you to sleep.” Elayne’s eyebrows and chin shot up together, but the woman gave her no opportunity to speak. “Among many other things, it is a Warder’s place to tell his — her — Aes Sedai when she pushes herself too hard. Also to provide a dose of caution when she thinks she can walk into the Pit of Doom. And to keep her alive so she can do what she must. I will do these things for you. Never fear for your back when I am near, Elayne.”
She did need sleep, she supposed, but Birgitte needed it more. Elayne dimmed the lamps and got the woman settled and asleep, though not until Birgitte had seen her put a pillow and blankets on the floor between the beds for herself. There was some slight argument over who would sleep on the floor, but Birgitte was still weak
enough that Elayne had no trouble making her stay in the bed. Well, not very much anyway. At least Nynaeve’s soft snore never broke.
She herself did not go to sleep immediately, whatever she had told Birgitte. The woman could not put her nose outside the wagon until she had something to wear, and she was taller than Elayne or Nynaeve. Sitting down between the beds, Elayne began letting out the hem on her dark gray silk riding dress. There would hardly be time in the morning for more than a quick fitting and stitching the new hem. Sleep overtook her with her ripping no more than half done.
She had the dream of bonding Rand again, more than once. Sometimes he knelt voluntarily, and sometimes she had to do what she had done with Birgitte, even sneaking into his bedchamber while he slept. Birgitte was one of the other women now. Elayne did not mind that too much. Not her, or Min, or Egwene, or Aviendha, or Nynaeve, though she could not imagine what Lan would say to that last. Others, though… She had just ordered Birgitte, in a Warder’s colorshifting cloak, to drag Berelain and Elaida to the kitchens for three years, when suddenly the two women began pummeling her. She awakened to find Nynaeve trampling her to reach Birgitte and check on the woman. The gray light just before dawn showed in the small windows.
Birgitte woke claiming she was as strong as ever, and ravenous besides. Elayne was not certain whether Nynaeve had finished her bout of selfblame. She did not wring her hands or speak of it, but while Elayne washed her face and hands, and explained about the menagerie and why they had to remain with it a while longer, Nynaeve hastily peeled and cored red pears and yellow apples, sliced cheese, and handed it all to Birgitte on a plate with a cup of watered wine with honey and spices. She would have fed the woman had Birgitte let her. Nynaeve washed Birgitte’s hair in white henpepper herself, until it was as black as Elayne’s — Elayne did her own, of course — donated her best stockings and shift, and looked disappointed when a pair of Elayne’s slippers fit better. She insisted on helping Birgitte into the gray silk as soon as her hair had been toweled dry and braided again — the hips and bosom needed letting out, too, but that would have to wait — and even wanted to stitch the hem herself, until Elayne’s incredulous stare made her retreat to her own ablutions, muttering as she scrubbed her face that she could sew as well as anyone. When she wanted to.
When they went outside at last, the first sharp golden edge of the sun was peeking above the trees to the east. For this little while, the day felt deceptively comfortable. There was not a cloud to be seen in the sky, and by noon the air would be hot and gritty:
Thom and Juilin were hitching the team to the wagon, and the whole camp bustled in preparation for moving. Skulker was already saddled, and Elayne made a note to herself to speak up about riding today herself before one of the men took possession of the saddle. Even if Thom or Juilin got there first, though, she would not be too disappointed. This very afternoon she would highwalk in front of people
for the first time. The costume Luca had shown her made her a little nervous, but at least she was not moaning about it as Nynaeve did.
Luca himself came striding rapidly through the camp, red cloak fluttering behind, chivvying and shouting unneeded instructions. “Latelle, wake those bloody bears! I want them on their feet, snarling, when we drive through Samara. Clarine, you watch those dogs this time. If one of them goes chasing after a cat again… Brugh, you and your brothers do your tumbling just ahead of my wagon, mind. Just ahead. This is supposed to be a stately procession, not a race to see which of you can backflip the fastest! Cerandin, keep those boarhorses in hand. I want people to gasp in amazement, not run in terror!”
He stopped at their wagon, glowering at Nynaeve and herself equally with a bit left over for Birgitte. “Kind of you to decide to come with the rest of us, Mistress Nana, my Lady Morelin. I thought you meant to sleep until midday.” He nodded toward Birgitte. “Having a chat with someone from across the river, are you? Well, we’ve no time for visitors. I mean to be set up and performing by noon.”
Nynaeve looked taken aback by the onslaught, but by the end of his second sentence she was meeting him glare for glare. Whatever her awkwardness toward Birgitte, it apparently did not hinder her temper where others were concerned. “We will be ready as soon as anyone, and you know it, Valan Luca. Besides, an hour or two will make no difference anyway. There are enough people gathered on the other side of the river that if one in a hundred comes to your show it will be more than you ever dreamed. If we decide to make a leisurely breakfast, you can just twiddle your thumbs and wait. You’ll not get what you want if you leave us behind.”
That was her bluntest reminder yet of the promised hundred gold marks, but for once it did not slow him. “Enough people? Enough people! People must be attracted, woman. Chin Akima has been in place three days, and he has a fellow who juggles swords and axes. And nine acrobats. Nine! Some woman I’ve never heard of has two women acrobats who do things on a hanging rope that would make the Chavanas’ eyes pop. You would not believe the crowds. Sillia Cerano has men with their faces painted like court fools, splashing each other with water and hitting each other over the head with bladders, and people are paying an extra silver penny just to watch!” Suddenly his eyes narrowed, focusing on Birgitte. “Would you be willing to paint your face? Sillia doesn’t have a woman among her fools. Some of the horse handlers would be willing. It doesn’t hurt, getting hit with an inflated bladder, and I will pay you… ” He trailed off, musing — he did not like parting with money any more than Nynaeve did — and Birgitte spoke into his momentary silence.
“I am not a fool, and will not be a fool. I am an archer.”
“An archer,” he muttered, eyeing the intricate glossy black braid pulled over her left shoulder. “And I suppose you call yourself Birgitte. What are you? One of those idiots hunting the Horn of Valere? Even if the thing exists, what chance any one of you will find it more than another? I was in Illian when the Hunters’ oaths were
given, and there were thousands in the Great Square of Tammaz. But for glory that you can attain, nothing can outshine the applause of —”
“I am an archer, pretty man,” Birgitte broke in firmly. “Fetch a bow, and I will outshoot you or anyone you name, a hundred crowns gold to your one.” Elayne expected Nynaeve to yelp — it was they who would have to cover the wager if Birgitte lost, and whatever she claimed, Elayne did not think Birgitte could be fully recovered already — yet all Nynaeve did was close her eyes briefly and draw a deep, long breath.
“Women!” Luca growled. Thom and Juilin did not have to look as if they agreed. “You are a fine match for the Lady Morelin and Nana, or whatever their names are.” He swept his silk cloak in a wide gesture at the surrounding hustle of men and horses. “It may have escaped your keen eye, Brigitte, but I have a show to get under way, and my rivals are already draining Samara of coin like the cutpurses they are.”
Birgitte smiled, a slight curving of her lips. “Are you afraid, pretty man? We can make your side a silver penny.”
Elayne thought Luca might have apoplexy from the color that crept into his face. His neck suddenly looked too big for his collar. “I will fetch my bow,” he almost hissed. “You can work off the hundred marks with your face painted, or cleaning cages for all I care!”
“Are you sure that you are well enough?” Elayne asked Birgitte as he stalked off muttering to himself. The only word she caught was a repeat of “women!” Nynaeve was looking at the woman with the braid as if she wanted the ground to open and swallow her; herself, not Birgitte. A number of the horse handlers had gathered around Thom and Juilin for some reason.
“He has nice legs,” Birgitte said, “but I have never liked tall men. Add a pretty face, and they are always insufferable.”
Petra had joined the group of men, twice as wide as any other. He said something, then shook hands with Thom. The Chavanas were there as well. And Latelle, talking earnestly with Thom while darting dark looks at Nynaeve and the two women with her. By the time Luca returned with an unstrung bow and a quiver of arrows, no one was making preparations any longer. The wagons and horses and cages — even the tethered boarhorses — stood abandoned, the people all clustered around Thom and the thiefcatcher. They followed as Luca led the way a short distance out of the camp.
“I am accounted a fair shot,” he said, carving a white cross chesthigh to himself on the trunk of a tail oak. He had some of his jauntiness back, and he swaggered as he strode off fifty paces. “I will take the first shot, so you can see what you face.”
Birgitte plucked the bow from his hand and walked off another fifty as he stared after her. She shook her head over the bow, but braced it on her slippered foot and strung it in one smooth motion before Luca joined her and Elayne and Nynaeve. Birgitte pulled an arrow from the quiver he held, examined it a moment, then tossed
it aside like rubbish. Luca frowned and opened his mouth, but she was already discarding a second shaft. The next three went to the leafcovered ground as well before she stuck one pointdown in the soil beside her. Of twentyone, she kept only four.
“She can do it,” Elayne whispered, trying to sound certain. Nynaeve nodded bleakly; if they had to pay out a hundred gold crowns, they would soon be selling the jewelry Amathera had given them. The lettersofrights were all but useless, as she had explained to Nynaeve; their use would eventually point a finger to where they had been for Elaida, if not where they were. If I had just spoken up in time, I could have stopped this. As my Warder, she has to do as I say. Doesn’t she? From the evidence so far, obedience was no part of the bond. Had those Aes Sedai she had spied on made the men give oaths as well? Now that she thought of it, she believed one of them had.
Birgitte nocked an arrow, raised the bow, and loosed seemingly without pausing to aim. Elayne winced, but the steel point struck dead center in the middle of the carved white cross. Before it stopped quivering, the second brushed in beside it. Birgitte did wait a moment then, but only for the two arrows to still. A gasp rose from the onlookers as the third shaft split the first, but that was nothing to the absolute silence as the last split the other just as neatly. Once could have been chance. Twice…
Luca looked as if his eyes were coming out of his head. Mouth hanging open, he stared at the tree, then at Birgitte, at the tree then Birgitte. She proffered the bow, and he shook his head weakly.
Suddenly he flung the quiver away, spreading his arms wide with a glad cry. “Not knives! Arrows! From a hundred paces!”
Nynaeve sagged against Elayne as the man explained what he wanted, but she made not one sound of protest. Thom and Juilin were collecting money; most handed over coins with a sigh or a laugh, but Juilin had to snag Latelle’s arm as she tried to slip away, and speak some angry words before she dug coins from her pouch. So that was what they had been up to. She would have to speak to them firmly. But later. “Nana, you don’t have to go through with this.” The woman only stared at Birgitte, eyes haggard.
“Our wager?” Birgitte said when Luca ran out of wind. He grimaced, then fished slowly into his pouch and tossed her a coin. Elayne caught the glint of gold in the sun as Birgitte examined it, then tossed it right back. “The bet was a silver penny on your part.”
Luca’s eyes widened in startlement, but the next moment he was laughing and pressing the gold crown into her hand. “You are worth every copper of it. What do you say? Why, the Queen of Ghealdan herself might come to see a performance such as yours. Birgitte and her arrows. We will paint them silver, and the bow!”
Desperately Elayne wanted Birgitte to look at her. They might as well put up a sign for Moghedien as do what the man suggested.
But Birgitte only bounced the coin on her hand, grinning. “Paint will ruin an already shabby bow,” she said finally. “And call me Maerion; I was called that, once.” Leaning on the bow, she let her smile widen. “Can I have a red dress, too?”
Elayne heaved a sigh of fervent relief. Nynaeve looked as if she were going to sick up.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 37
(Lion Rampant) Performances in Samara
For what seemed the hundredth time, Nynaeve held a lock of her hair up to look at it and sighed. Thick murmurs of talk and laughter from hundreds if not thousands of throats, distant music that was nearly drowned out, drifted in through the wagon walls. She had not minded spending the parade through the streets of Samara in the wagon with Elayne — occasional peeks through the windows had convinced her that she would just as soon not be put in those packed crowds, yelling and barely making way for the wagons — but every time she looked at the brassy red of her hair, she wished she had been doing somersaults with the Chavanas rather than dyeing it.
Carefully not looking at herself, she wrapped up completely in her plain dark gray shawl, turned, and gave a start to find Birgitte standing in the doorway. The woman had ridden in Clarine and Petra’s wagon during the parade, with Clarine altering a spare red dress she had been making for Nynaeve at Luca’s direction; he had given Clarine her instructions before Nynaeve ever agreed. Birgitte wore it now, her blackdyed braid pulled over her shoulder so it nestled between her breasts, totally unconscious of the low square neck. Just looking at her made Nynaeve fold her shawl tighter; Birgitte could not show a fingernail more of pale bosom and retain the slightest claim to decency. As it was, such a claim would be feeble, really quite laughable. Looking at her made Nynaeve’s stomach knot up, but not for reasons of clothes or skin.
“If you are going to wear the dress, why cover up?” Birgitte came inside and closed the door behind her. “You are a woman. Why not be proud of it?”
“If you think I shouldn’t,” Nynaeve replied hesitantly, and slowly let the shawl slide down to her elbows, revealing the twin of the other woman’s garment. She felt all but naked. “I only thought… I thought…” Gripping her silk skirts hard to keep her hands at her sides, she held her gaze on the other woman. Even knowing she wore exactly the same herself, it was easier that way.
Birgitte grimaced. “And if I wanted you to lower the neck another inch?”
Nynaeve opened her mouth, face going as scarlet as the gown, but for a moment nothing came out. When it did, she sounded as if she were being strangled. “There isn’t an inch to lower it. Look at your own. There isn’t a tenth!”
Three quick, frowning strides, and Birgitte bent slightly to put her face right in Nynaeve’s. “And if I said I wanted you to rid yourself of that inch?” she snarled, showing teeth. “What if I wanted to paint your face, so Luca could have his fool? What if I stripped you out of it altogether and painted you from head to toe? A fine target you would make then. Every man inside fifty miles would come to see.”
Nynaeve’s mouth worked, but this time no sound emerged at all. She wanted very much to close her eyes; maybe when she opened them, none of this would be
happening.
With a disgusted shake of her head, Birgitte took a seat on one of the beds, one elbow on her knee and her blue eyes sharp. “This must stop. When I look at you, you flinch. You run about waiting on me hand and foot. If I glance for a stool, you fetch one. If I lick my lips, you have a cup of wine in my hands before I know I am thirsty. You would wash my back and put the slippers on my feet if I let you. I am neither monster nor invalid nor child, Nynaeve.”
“I am only trying to make up for —” she began timidly, and jumped when the other woman roared.
“Make up? You are trying to make me less!” “No. No, it is not that, truly. I am to blame — ”
“You take responsibility for my actions,” Birgitte broke in fiercely. “I chose to speak to you in Tel’aran’rhiod. I chose to help you. I chose to track Moghedien. And I chose to take you to see her. Me! Not you, Nynaeve, me! I was not your puppet, your pack hound, then, and I will not be now.”
Nynaeve swallowed hard and gripped her skirts more tightly. She had no right to be angry with this woman. No right at all. But Birgitte had every right. “You did what I asked. It is my fault that you… that you are here. It is all my fault!”
“Have I mentioned fault? I see none. Only men and dimwitted girls take blame where there is none, and you are neither.”
“It was my foolish pride that made me think I could best her again, and my cowardice that let her… that let her… If I had not been so afraid I could not spit, I might have done something in time.”
“A coward?” Birgitte’s eyes widened, openly incredulous, and scorn touched her voice. “You? I thought you had more sense than to confuse fear with cowardice. You could have fled Tel’aran’rhiod when Moghedien released you, but you stayed to fight. No fault or blame to you that you could not.” Drawing a deep breath, she rubbed her forehead for a moment, then leaned forward intently again. “Listen to me close, Nynaeve. I take no blame for what was done to you. I saw, but I could not twitch. Had Moghedien tied you into a knot or cored you like an apple, still I would take no blame. I did what I could, when I could. And you did the same.”
“It was not the same.” Nynaeve tried to take the heat out of her voice. “It was my fault that you were there. My fault that you are here. If you…” She stopped to swallow again. “If you… miss… when you shoot at me today, I want you to know that I will understand.”
“I do not miss where I aim,” Birgitte said dryly, “and where I aim will not be at you.” She began taking things from one of the cabinets and laying them on the small table. Halffinished arrows, scraped shafts, steel arrow points, stone glue pot, fine cord, gray goose feathers for fletchings. She had said she would make her own bow, too, as soon as she could. Luca’s she called “a knotriddled branch broken from a crossgrained tree by a blind idiot in the middle of the night.”
“I liked you, Nynaeve,” she said as she laid everything out. “Thorns, warts and
all. I no longer do, as you are now…”
“You have no reason to like me, now,” Nynaeve said miserably, but the other woman spoke right over her without looking up.
“…and I will not allow you to make me less, to make my decisions less, by claiming responsibility for them. I have had few women friends, but most have had tempers like snowghosts.”
“I wish you could be my friend once more.” What under the Light was a snowghost? Something from another Age, no doubt. “I would never try to make you less, Birgitte. I only —”
Birgitte paid her no mind, except to raise her voice. Her attention seemed all on her arrow shafts. “I would like to like you again, whether you return the liking or not, but I cannot until you are yourself again. I could live with you a milktongued sniveling wretch if that was what you were. I take people as they are, not as I would like them to be, or else I leave them. But that is not what you are, and I will not accept your reasons for playing at it. So. Clarine told me of your encounter with Cerandin. Now I know what to do the next time you claim my decisions as your own.” She swished a length of ashwood vigorously. “I am sure Latelle will be happy to provide the switch.”
Nynaeve forced her jaws to unclench, forced her tone as smooth as she could make it. “You have a perfect right to do whatever you wish to me.” Her fists in her skirts quivered more than her voice.
“A touch of temper showing? Just at the edges?” Birgitte grinned at her, at once amused and startlingly feral. “How long before it bursts into flame? I am willing to wear out any number of switches, if need be.” The grin faded into seriousness. “I will make you see the right of this, or I will drive you away. There is no other course. I cannot — will not — leave Elayne. That bond honors me, and I will honor it, and her. And I will not allow you to think that you make my decisions, or made them. I am myself, not an appendage to you. Now go away. I must finish these arrows if I am to have even a few shafts that will fly true. I do not mean to kill you, and I would not have it happen by accident.” Unstopping the glue pot, she bent over the table. “Do not forget to curtsy like a good girl on your way out.”
Nynaeve made it as far as the foot of the steps before pounding her fist on her thigh in a fury. How dare the woman? Did she think that she could just…? Did she think that Nynaeve would put up with…? I thought she could do anything she wanted to you, a small voice whispered in her head. I said she could kill me, she snarled at it, not humiliate me! Before much longer everybody would be threatening her with that bloody Seanchan woman!
The wagons stood abandoned, except for a few roughcoated horse handlers for guards, near the tall sprawling canvas fence erected to contain Luca’s show. From this large browngrass meadow half a mile from Samara the gray stone walls of the city were clearly visible, with squat towers at the gates, and a few of the taller buildings showing roofs of thatch or tile. Outside the walls, villages of huts and
rude shanties sprouted like mushrooms in every direction, full of the Prophet’s followers, and they had stripped every tree for miles either for building or for firewood.
The show’s entrance for patrons was on the other side, but two of the horse handlers with stout cudgels stood on this side to discourage any who did not want to pay from entering as the performers did. Nynaeve was almost upon them, striding as hard as she could and muttering angrily to herself, when their idiotic grins made her realize that the shawl was still looped over her elbows. Her stare wiped their faces blank. Only then did she cover herself properly, and slowly; she was not about to have these louts think they could make her yelp and leap. The skinny one, with a nose that took up half of his face, held the canvas flap aside, and she ducked through into pandemonium.
Everywhere people thronged, in noisy milling clusters of men and women and children, in chattering streams flowing from one attraction to the next. All but the s’redit performed on raised wooden stages Luca had had built. Cerandin’s boarhorses had the largest crowd, the huge gray animals actually balancing on their forelegs, even the baby, long snouts curved up sinuously, while Clarine’s dogs had the smallest, for all they did backsprings and flips over each others’ backs. A good many people paused to stare at the lions and the hairy boarlike capars in their cages, the strangely horned deer from Arafel and Saldaea and Arad Doman and the bright birds from the Light knew where, and some waddling, brownfurred creatures with big eyes and round ears that sat placidly eating leaves from branches gripped in their forepaws. Luca’s tale on where they came from varied — she supposed he did not know — and he had not been able to make up a name for them that pleased him. A huge snake from the marshes of Illian, four times as long as a man, earned nearly as many gasps as the s’redit, although simply lying there, apparently asleep, but she was pleased to see that Latelle’s bears, at the moment standing atop huge red wooden balls that they rolled in circles with their feet, attracted few more than the dogs. Bears these people could see in their own forests, even if these did have white faces.
Latelle sparkled in the afternoon sunlight in her black spangles. Cerandin glittered almost as much in blue, and Clarine in green, though neither had quite as many sequins sewn on as Latelle, but every last one of the dresses had a collar right up under the chin. Of course, Petra and the Chavanas were performing attired only in bright blue breeches, but that was to show off their muscles. Only understandable. The acrobats were standing one atop the other’s shoulders, four high. Not far from them, the strongman took a long bar with a large iron ball at each end — two men were needed to hand the thing up to him — and immediately began twirling it in his thick hands, even spinning the bar around his neck and across his back.
Thom was juggling fire, and eating it as well. Eight flaming batons made a perfect circle: then suddenly he had four in each hand, one sticking up from each
cluster. Deftly popping each upraised flaming end into his mouth in turn, he appeared to swallow, and took them out extinguished, looking as if he had just had something tasty. Nynaeve could not fathom how he did not scorch his mustaches off, much less burn his throat. A twist of his wrists, and the unlit batons folded into the lit like fans. A moment later they were making two interlinked circles above his head. He wore the same brown coat he always did, though Luca had given him a red one sewn with sequins. From the way Thom’s bushy eyebrows rose as she stalked past, he did not understand why she glared at him. His own coat, indeed!
She hurried on toward the thick, impatiently buzzing crowd circled around the two tall poles with the rope stretched tightly between. She had to use her elbows to reach the front row, though two women did glare and snatch their men out of her way when the shawl slipped. She would have glared back had she not been so busy blushing and covering herself. Luca was there, frowning as anxiously as a husband outside a birthing room, next to a thick fellow with his head shaved except for a grizzled topknot. She slipped in on the other side of Luca. The shavenheaded man had a villainous look; a long scar sliced down his left cheek, and a patch over that eye was painted with a scowling red replacement. Few of the men she had seen here were armed with more than a belt knife, but he wore a sword strapped to his back, the long hilt rising above his right shoulder. He looked vaguely familiar for some reason, but her mind was all on the highrope. Luca frowned at the shawl, smiled at her, and tried to put an arm around her waist.
While he was still trying to catch his breath from her elbow and she was still getting her shawl decently back in place, Juilin came staggering out of the crowd on the other side, conical red hat tilted jauntily, coat half off one shoulder and a wooden mug in his fist slopping over the rim. With the overcareful steps of a man whose head contains more wine than brains, he approached the rope ladder leading up to one of the high platforms and stared at it.
“Go on!” someone shouted. “Break your fool neck!”
“Wait, friend,” Luca called, starting forward with smiles and flourishes of his cloak. “That is no place for a man with a belly full of —”
Setting the mug on the ground, Juilin scampered up the ladder and stood swaying on the platform. Nynaeve held her breath. The man had a head for heights, and well he should after a life of chasing thieves across the rooftops of Tear, but still…
Juilin turned as if lost; he appeared too drunk to see or remember the ladder. His eyes fixed on the rope. Tentatively, he put one foot onto the narrow span, then drew it back. Pushing the hat back to scratch his head, he studied the taut rope, and abruptly brightened visibly. Slowly he got down on hands and knees and crawled wobbling out onto the rope. Luca shouted for him to come down, and the crowd roared with laughter.
Halfway across, Juilin stopped, swaying awkwardly, and peered back, his eyes latching onto the mug he had left on the ground. Plainly he was considering how to
get back to it. Slowly, with exceeding care, he stood, facing the way he had come and wavering from side to side. A gasp rose from the crowd as his foot slipped and he fell, somehow catching himself with one hand and a knee hooked around the rope. Luca caught the Taraboner hat as it fell, shouting to everyone that the man was mad, and whatever happened was no responsibility of his. Nynaeve pressed both hands tight against her middle; she could imagine being up there, and even that was enough to make her feel ill. The man was a fool. A pure bullgoose fool!
With an obvious effort, Juilin managed to catch the rope with his other hand, and pulled himself along it handoverhand. To the far platform. Swaying from side to side, he brushed his coat, tried to pull it straight and succeeded only in changing which shoulder hung down — and spotted his mug at the floor of the other pole. Pointing to it gleefully, he stepped out onto the rope again.
This time at least half the onlookers shouted for him to go back, shouted that there was a ladder behind him; the others only laughed uproariously, no doubt waiting for him to break his neck. He walked across smoothly, slid down the rope ladder with his hands and feet on the outside, and snatched up the wooden mug to take a deep drink. Not until Luca clapped the red hat on Juilin’s head and they both bowed — Luca flourishing his cloak in such a way that Juilin was behind it half the time — did the watchers realize that it had all been part of the show. A moment of silence, and then they exploded with applause and cheers and laughter. Nynaeve had half thought they might turn ugly after being duped. The fellow with the topknot looked villainous even while laughing.
Leaving Juilin standing beside the ladder, Luca came back to stand between, Nynaeve and the man with the topknot. “I thought that would go well.” He sounded incredibly selfsatisfied, and he made little bows to the crowd as if he had been the one up on the rope.
Giving him a sour frown, she had no time to speak the acid comment on her tongue, because Elayne came bounding through the crowd to stand beside Juilin with her arms upraised and one knee bent.
Nynaeve’s mouth tightened, and she shifted her shawl irritably. Whatever she thought of the red dress that she had found herself wearing without really knowing how, she was not sure that Elayne’s costume was not worse. The DaughterHeir of Andor was all in snow white, with a scattering of white sequins sparkling on her short coat and snug breeches. Nynaeve had not really believed that Elayne would actually appear in the clothes in public, but she had been too concerned over her own attire to give her opinion. The coat and breeches made her think of Min. She had never approved of Min wearing boy’s clothes, but the color and spangles made these even more — flagrant.
Juilin held the rope ladder for Elayne to climb, though there was no need. She went up as adeptly as he could have. He vanished into the crowd as soon as she reached the top, where she posed again, beaming at the thunderous applause as if at the adulation of her subjects. As she stepped out onto the rope — somehow it
seemed even thinner than when Juilin had been on it — Nynaeve all but ceased breathing, and she stopped thinking of Elayne’s clothes, or her own, at all.
Elayne made her way out onto the rope, arms outstretched to either side, and she was not channeling a platform of Air. Slowly she stepped her way across, one foot in front of the other, never wavering, supported only by the rope. Channeling would be far too dangerous if Moghedien had even a clue to where they were; the Forsaken or Black sisters could be in Samara, and they would be able to feel the weave. And if they were not in Samara now, they might be soon. On the far platform, Elayne paused to considerably more applause than Juilin had received — Nynaeve could not understand that — and started back. Almost to the end, she pivoted smoothly, walked back halfway, pivoted again. And wobbled, just catching herself. Nynaeve felt as though a hand had her by the throat. At a slow steady pace, Elayne highwalked to the platform, once more posing to thunderous shouts and clapping.
Nynaeve swallowed her heart and breathed again, raggedly, but she knew it was not over.
Raising her hands above her head, Elayne suddenly cartwheeled herself along the rope, black tresses whipping, whitesheathed legs flashing in the sun. Nynaeve yelped and clutched Luca’s arm as the girl reached the far platform, stumbled in landing and caught herself just short of going over the edge.
“What’s the matter?” he murmured beneath the gasp rising from the crowd. “You’ve seen her do this every evening since Sienda. And a good many other places, too, I would think.”
“Of course,” she said weakly. Eyes fixed on Elayne, she barely noticed the arm he slipped around her shoulders, certainly not enough to do anything about it. She had tried to talk the girl into feigning a sprained ankle, but Elayne insisted that after all of that practice with the Power, she did not need it now. Maybe Juilin did not — apparently he did not — but Elayne had never gone scrambling over rooftops in the night.
The return cartwheels went perfectly, and the landing, but Nynaeve did not look away, or loose her hold on Luca’s sleeve. After what now seemed the inevitable pause for applause, Elayne returned to the rope for more pivots, one leg raised and whipping down and up so quickly that it seemed she kept it outstretched the whole while, and for a slow handstand that lifted her straight as a dagger, whiteslippered toes pointed to the sky. And a backflip that had the crowd gasping and her swaying from side to side, only just catching her balance. Thom Merrilin had taught her that, and the handstand.
From the corner of her eye Nynaeve caught Thom, two places down from her, eyes riveted to Elayne, poised on the balls of his feet. He looked as proud as a peacock. He looked ready to rush forward and catch her if she fell. If she did fall, it would be at least partly his fault. He should never have taught her those things!
One last passage of cartwheels, white legs flashing and glittering in the sun,
faster than before. A passage that had never been mentioned to Nynaeve! She would have eviscerated Luca with her tongue had he not muttered angrily that Elayne adding to the act just for applause was a good way to break her neck. One last pause to pose for more of that applause and Elayne at last climbed down.
Shouting, the crowd rushed in on her. Luca and four horse handlers with cudgels appeared around her as if by the Power, but even so Thom beat them to her, limp and all.
Nynaeve jumped as high as she could, just managing to see over enough heads to make out Elayne. The girl did not seem frightened, or even taken aback, by all the waving hands trying to touch her, stretching between her encircling guards. Head high, face flushed from effort, she still managed a cool and regal grace as she was escorted away. How she could do that, garbed as she was, Nynaeve simply could not imagine.
“Face like a bloody queen,” the oneeyed man muttered to himself. He had not gone running with the others, but merely let them stream past. Roughly dressed in a plain coat of dark gray wool, he certainly looked solid enough to have no fears of being knocked down and trampled. He appeared as if he could use that sword. “Burn me for a sheepgutted farmer, but she’s flaming well brave enough for a bloody queen.”
Nynaeve gaped at him as he strode away through the crowd, and it was not his language. Or rather, it was, partly. Now she remembered where she had seen him, a oneeyed man with a topknot who could not say two sentences without the vilest curses.
Forgetting about Elayne — she was certainly safe enough — Nynaeve began pushing her way through the throng after him.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 38
(Serpent and Wheel) An Old Acquaintance
With the crowds, it took Nynaeve some little time to catch up, muttering every time she was jostled by a man gaping at everything in sight or a woman dragging a child with either hand, children usually trying to drag her to two different attractions at once. The oneeyed man barely paused to look at anything except the big snake and the lions, until he reached the boarhorses. He had to have seen them earlier, situated as they were near the patrons’ entrance. Every time the s’redit stood on their hind legs, as they were doing now, the great tusked heads of the adults could be seen by those outside the canvas fence, and the press to enter intensified a little more.
Beneath a wide red sign that said VALAN LUCA in ornate gold script on both sides, two of the horse handlers collected admission from people funneled between two thick ropes, taking the money in clear blownglass pitchers — both thick and flawed; Luca would never lay out coin for better — so they could see that the coins were right without touching them. They dumped the money straight from the pitchers through a hole in the top of an ironstrapped box so wrapped about with chain that Petra had to have put it in place before the first silver penny went in. Another pair of horse handlers — thickshouldered, brokennosed men with the sunken knuckles of brawlers — stood nearby with cudgels to make sure that the crowd remained orderly. And to keep an eye on the men taking the money, Nynaeve suspected. Luca was not a trusting man, especially when it came to coin. In fact, he was as tight as the skin on an apple. She had never met anyone so stingy.
Slowly she elbowed close to the man with the graystreaked topknot. He had had no trouble reaching the front rank before the s’redit, of course; his scar and painted eyepatch would have seen to that, even without the sword on his back. At the moment he was watching the big gray animals with a grin, and what she supposed was wonder on that stony face.
“Uno?” She thought that was the right name.
His head turned to stare at her. Once she had the shawl back in place, he raised the stare to her face, but no recognition lit in his dark eye. The other, the painted red glaring one, made her a little queasy.
Cerandin waved her goad, shouting something slurred beyond intelligibility, and the s’redit turned, Sanit, the cow, placing her feet, on Mer’s broad, rounded back while he remained upright. Nerin, the calf, put her feet low on Sanit’s back.
“I saw you in Fal Dara,” Nynaeve said. “And again on Toman Head, briefly. After Falme. You were with…” She did not know how much she could say with people cheekbyjowl around her, rumors of the Dragon Reborn had circulated all through Amadicia, and some even had his name right. “With Rand.”
Uno’s real eye narrowed — she tried not to see the other — and after a moment
he nodded. “I remember the face. I never forget a flaming pretty face. But the hair was bloody well different. Nyna?”
“Nynaeve,” she told him sharply.
He shook his head, eyeing her up and down, and before she could say another word, he had seized her arm and was all but dragging her out through the entrance. The horse handlers there recognized her, of course, and the brokennosed fellows started forward hefting their cudgels. She waved them away furiously even as she was yanking her arm free; it took three tries, and still it was more a matter of his letting go. The man had a grip like iron. The men with the clubs hesitated, then drifted back to their places when they saw Uno drop his grip. Apparently they knew what Valan Luca would prefer them to be guarding.
“What do you think you are doing?” she demanded, but Uno only motioned her to follow, watching to see that she did so without more than slowing his stride through the crowd waiting to get in. He had slightly bowed legs, and moved like a man more used to the back of a horse than his own feet. Growling to herself, she picked up her skirts and stalked after him toward the town.
Two other menageries were set up behind brown canvas walls not far off, and beyond them more lay scattered among the crowded shanty villages. None too close to the city walls, though. Apparently the governor, as they called the woman Nynaeve could have named mayor — though she had never heard of a woman mayor — had decreed half a mile as the distance, to protect the town in case any of the animals got loose.
The sign over the entrance to the nearest show said MAIRIN GOME in florid green and gold. Two women were clearly visible above the sign, clinging to a rope hanging from a tall framework of poles that had not been there when Luca’s walls went up. Apparently the boarhorses’ rearing high enough to be seen was having an effect. The women contorted themselves into positions that made Nynaeve think uncomfortably of what Moghedien had done, and somehow even managed to hold themselves out in horizontal handstands to either side of the rope. The crowd waiting impatiently in front of Mistress Gome’s sign was almost as large as the one in front of Luca’s. None of the other shows had anything visible that she could see, and their crowds were much smaller.
Uno refused to answer her questions or say a word or do more than give her dire frowns until they were out of the jam of people and onto a cart path of hardpacked dirt. “What I am flaming trying to do,” he growled then, “is to take you where we can flaming well talk without you being torn to flaming bits by flaming folk trying to kiss your flaming hem when they find out you flaming know the Lord Dragon.” There was no one within thirty paces of them, but he still stared around for anyone who might hear. “Blood and bloody ashes, woman! Don’t you know what these flaming goatheads are like? Half of them think the Creator talks to him over bloody supper every night, and the other half think he is the bloody Creator!”
“I will thank you to moderate your language, Master Uno. And I will thank you
to slow down, too. We are not running a footrace. Where are you going, and why should I stir another step with you?”
He rolled his eye toward her, chuckling wryly. “Oh, I do remember you. The one with the fla— the mouth. Ragan thought you could skin and butcher a blo— a bull at ten paces with your tongue. Chaena and Nangu thought fifty.” At least he did shorten his stride.
Nynaeve stopped dead. “Where and why?”
“Into the town.” He did not stop. He strode right on, flipping a hand for her to follow. “I don’t know what you’re flam— what you’re doing here, but I remember you were mixed up with that blue woman.”
Snarling under her breath, she gathered her skirts and hurried after him again; it was the only way to hear. He continued as if she had been beside him the whole time. “This is no blood— no place for you to be. I can scrape together enough blo— aagh! — enough coin to get you to Tear, I think. Rumor says that’s where the Lord Dragon is.” Again he looked around warily. “Unless you want to go to the island instead.” He must have meant Tar Valon. “There’s blo— there’s odd rumors floating around about that, too. Peace, if there aren’t!” He came from a land that had not known peace in three thousand years; Shienarans used the word as talisman and oath both. “They say the old Amyrlin’s been deposed. Executed maybe. Some say they fought — and burned the whole —” He paused, taking a deep breath and grimacing horribly. “the whole city.”
Walking along, she studied him in amazement. She had not seen him in nearly a year, had never spoken more than two words together to him, and yet he… Why did men always think a woman needed a man to look after her? Men could not lace up their own shirts without a woman to help! “We are doing quite well as we are, thank you. Unless you know when a river trader will dock on his way downriver.”
“We? Is the blue woman with you, or the brown?” That had to be Moiraine and Verin. He was certainly being cautious.
“No. Do you remember Elayne?” He gave a blunt nod, and a mischievous impulse seized her; nothing seemed to faze the man, and he obviously expected to just take charge of her welfare. “You saw her again just now. You said she had a” — she made her voice gruff in imitation of his — “face like a bloody queen.”
He stumbled in a quite satisfactory way, and glared around him so fiercely that even two Whitecloaks riding by skirted wide around him, though they tried to pretend he had nothing to do with it, of course. “Her?” he growled incredulously. “But her bloody hair was black as a raven’s… ” He glanced at hers, and the next minute he was pacing up the cart path again, muttering half to himself, “The flaming woman is daughter to a queen. A bloody queen! Showing her bloody legs that way.” Nynaeve nodded in agreement. Until he added, “You bloody southlanders are bloody strange! No flaming decency at all!” He had fine room to talk. Shienarans might dress properly, but she still blushed to remember that in Shienar men and women bathed together as often as not, and thought no more of it
than of eating together.
“Did your mother never teach you to talk decently, man?” His real eye frowned at her almost as darkly as the painted one, and he rolled his shoulders. In Fal Dara he and everyone else had treated her as nobly born, or the next thing to. Of course, it was hard to pass herself off as a lady in that dress, and with her hair a shade that nature never made. She arranged her shawl more snugly and folded her arms to hold it in place. The gray wool was terribly uncomfortable in that dry heat, and she herself was not feeling very dry at all; she had never heard of anyone who died of sweating, but she thought she might well be the first. “What are you doing here, Uno?”
He looked around before answering. Not that he had need; there was little traffic on the path — an occasional oxdrawn cart, a few folk in farm clothes or rougher, here and there a man on a horse — and no one seemed willing to come any closer to him than they had to. He appeared a man who might cut somebody’s throat on a whim. “The blue woman gave us a name in Jehannah, and said we were to wait there until she sent instructions, but the woman in Jehannah was dead and buried when we arrived. An old woman. Died in her sleep, and none of her relatives had ever heard the blue woman’s name. Then Masema started talking to people, and… Well, there was no point staying there for orders we’d never hear if they did come. We stay close to Masema because he slips us enough to live on, though none except Bartu and Nengar listen to his trash.” The grizzled topknot swung as he shook his head in irritation.
Suddenly Nynaeve realized that there had not been a single obscene word in that. He looked about to swallow his tongue. “Perhaps if you cursed only occasionally?” She sighed. “Maybe once every other sentence?” The man smiled at her so gratefully that she wanted to throw up her hands in exasperation. “How is it that Masema has money when the rest of you do not?” She remembered Masema: a dark sour man who liked no one and nothing.
“Why, he’s the bloody Prophet they’ve all come to hear. Would you like to meet him?” He gave the impression of counting his sentences. Nynaeve breathed deeply; the man was going to take her literally. “He might find you a flaming boat, if you want one. In Ghealdan, what the Prophet wants, the Prophet usually gets. No, he always flaming gets it in the end, one way or another. The man was a good soldier, but who’d have ever thought he would turn out like this?” His frown took in all the rude villages and the people, even the shows and the city ahead.
Nynaeve hesitated. The dreaded Prophet, rousing mobs and riots, was Masema? But he did preach the coming of the Dragon Reborn. They were almost to the town gate, and there was time yet before she must stand up and let Birgitte shoot arrows at her. Luca had been more than disappointed that the woman insisted on being called Maerion. If Masema could find a boat heading downriver… Today, maybe. On the other hand, there were the riots. If rumor inflated them tenfold, then only hundreds had died in towns and cities farther north. Only hundreds.
“Just don’t remind him that you have anything to do with that bloody island,” Uno went on, eyeing her thoughtfully. Now that she thought of it, she realized that he very likely did not know what her connection to Tar Valon actually was. Women did go there without becoming Aes Sedai, after all, to seek help or answers. He was aware that she was involved in some way, but no more than that. “He isn’t much friendlier to women from there than the Whitecloaks are. If you just keep your mouth bloody well shut about it, he’ll likely pass it over. For somebody who comes from the same village as the Lord Dragon, Masema will probably have a flaming boat built.”
The crowds were thicker at the city gates, flanked by squat gray towers, men and women streaming in and out, afoot and mounted, in every sort of garb from rags to embroidered silk coats and dresses. The gates themselves, thick and ironbound, stood open under the guard of a dozen spearmen in scaled tunics and round steel caps with flat rims. Actually, the guards paid more attention to half their number of Whitecloaks lounging nearby than to anything else. It was the men in snowy cloaks and burnished mail who watched the flow of people.
“Do the Whitecloaks cause much trouble?” she asked quietly.
Uno pursed his lips as if to spit, glanced at her, and did not. “Where do they bloody not? There was a woman with one of these traveling shows who did tricks, sleight of hand. Four days ago a flaming mob of pigeongutted sheepheads tore the show apart.” Valan Luca had certainly never mentioned that! “Peace! What they wanted was the woman. Claimed she was” — he glowered at the folk hurrying by, and lowered his voice —“Aes Sedai. And a Darkfriend. Broke her bloody neck getting her to a rope, so I hear, but they hung her corpse anyway. Masema had the ringleaders beheaded, but it was Whitecloaks whipped up the bloody mob.” His scowl matched thered eye painted on his patch. “There’s been too many flaming hangings and beheadings, if you bloody well ask me. Bloody Masema’s as bad as the bloody Whitecloaks when it comes to finding a Darkfriend under every flaming rock.”
“Once every other sentence,” she murmured, and the man actually blushed. “Don’t know what I’m thinking,” he grumped, coming to a stop. “Can’t take you
in there. It’s half festival and half riot, with a cutpurse every third step and a woman not safe outofdoors after dark.” He sounded more scandalized about the last than the rest; in Shienar, a woman was safe anywhere, any time — except from Trollocs and Myrddraal, of course — and any man would die to see it so. “Not safe. I’ll take you back. When I find a way, I’ll come for you.”
That settled it for her. Pulling her arm loose before he could get a grip on it, she quickened her pace toward the gates. “Come along, Uno, and do not dawdle. If you dawdle, I will leave you behind.” He caught up to her, grumbling under his breath about the stubbornness of women. Once she understood that that was his subject, and that apparently he did not think her injunction against cursing held when talking to himself, she stopped listening.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 39
(Dragon)
Encounters in Samara
The Whitecloaks at the gates gave Uno and Nynaeve no more mind than they gave anyone else in the steady throng, which was to say a cold suspicious stare, searching yet quick. Too many people made anything else impossible, and maybe the scalearmored guards did, too. Not that there was any reason for more except in her mind. Her Great Serpent ring and Lan’s heavy gold ring both nestled in her pouch — the dress’s low neckline meant she could not wear them on the thong — but somehow she almost expected Children of the Light to pick out a Towertrained woman by instinct. Her relief was palpable when those icy, unfeeling eyes swept past her.
The soldiers paid the two of them as little attention — once she rearranged her shawl yet again. Uno’s scowl might have helped send their eyes back to the Whitecloaks, but the man had no right to scowl in the first place. It was her business.
Rewrapping the folded length of gray wool one more time, she tied the ends around her waist. The shawl defined her bosom more than she wished, and still exposed a bit of cleavage, yet it was a considerable improvement on the dress alone. At least she would not have to worry about the shawl slipping again. If only the thing were not so hot. The weather really should be turning soon. They were not that far south of the Two Rivers.
Uno patiently waited on her for a change. She was of two minds as to whether this was simple courtesy — his scarred face looked a deal too patient — but finally they walked together into Samara. Into chaos.
A babble of noise hung over everything, no one sound distinguishable. People jammed the rough stonepaved streets all but shoulder to shoulder from slateroofed taverns to thatchroofed stables, from raucous inns with simple painted signs like The Blue Bull or The Dancing Goose to shops where the signs had no words, only a knifeandscissors here, a bolt of cloth there, a goldsmith’s scales or a barber’s razor, a pot or a lamp or a boot. Nynaeve saw faces as pale as that of any Andorman and as dark as that of any of the Sea Folk, some clean, some dirty, and coats with high collars, low collars, no collars, drably colored and bright, plain and embroidered, shabby and near newmade, in styles strange as often as familiar. One fellow with a dark forked beard wore silver chains across the chest of his plain blue coat, and two with their hair in braids — men, with a black braid over each ear below their shoulders! — had tiny brass bells sewn to their red coatsleeves and the turneddown tops of thighhigh boots. Whatever land they hailed from, those two were not fools; their dark eyes were hard and searching as Uno’s, and they carried curved swords on their backs. A barechested man in a bright yellow sash, skin a deeper brown than aged wood and hands intricately tattooed, had to be one of the Sea Folk, though he
wore neither earrings nor nose ring.
The women were equally as diverse, hair ranging from raven black to yellow so pale it was nearly white, braided or gathered or hanging loose, cut short, to the shoulders, to the waist, dresses in worn wool or neat linen or shimmering silk, collars brushing chins with lace or embroidery and necklines every bit as low as the one she hid. She even saw a coppercomplexioned Domani woman in a barely opaque red gown that covered her to the neck and hid next to nothing! She wondered how safe that woman would be after dark. Or in this broad daylight, for that matter.
The occasional Whitecloaks and soldiers in that milling mass seemed overwhelmed, struggling to make ground as hard as anyone else. Oxcarts and horsedrawn wagons inched along the haphazardly crisscrossing streets, bearers jostled sedanchairs through the crowds, and now and then a lacquered coach with a plumed team of four or six made its laborious way, liveried footman and steelcapped guards vainly trying to clear a path. Musicians with flute or zither or bittern played at every corner where there was not a juggler or an acrobat — their skill certainly nothing to make Thom or the Chavanas worry — always with another man or woman holding out a cap for coins. Ragged beggars wove through it all, plucking at sleeves and proffering grimy hands, and hawkers bustled with trays of everything from pins to ribbons to pears, their cries lost in the din.
Her head spun by the time Uno drew her into a narrower street where the throng seemed thinner, if only by comparison. She paused to straighten her clothes, disarrayed from plunging through the crowd, before following him. It was a trifle quieter here, too. No street entertainers, and fewer hawkers and beggars. Beggars kept clear of Uno, even after he tossed a few coppers to a wary pack of urchins, for which she did not blame them. The man just did not look… charitable.
The town’s buildings loomed over these narrow ways, despite being only two or three stories, putting the streets themselves in shadow. But there was good light in the sky, hours yet till dusk. Still plenty of time to get back to the show. If she had to. With luck, they could all be boarding a riverboat by sunset.
She gave a start when another Shienaran suddenly joined them, sword on his back and head shaven but for that topknot, a darkhaired man only a few years older than she. Uno gave curt introductions and explanation without slowing.
“Peace favor you, Nynaeve,” Ragan said, the skin of his dark cheek dimpling around a triangular white scar. Even smiling, his face was hard; she had never met a soft Shienaran. Soft men did not survive along the Blight, nor soft women either. “I remember you. Your hair was different, was it not? No matter. Never fear. We will see you safely to Masema and to wherever you would go after. Just be sure not to mention Tar Valon to him.” No one was sparing them a second glance, but he lowered his voice anyway. “Masema thinks the Tower will try to control the Lord Dragon.”
Nynaeve shook her head. Another fool man who was going to take care of her.
At least he did not try to engage her in conversation; the mood she was in, she would have given him the rough side of her tongue if he so much as commented on the heat. Her own face felt a trifle damp, and no wonder, having to wear a shawl in this weather. Abruptly she remembered what the oneeyed man had said concerning Ragan’s opinion of her tongue. She did not think she more than glanced at him, but Ragan moved to the other side of Uno as if for shelter and eyed her warily. Men!
The streets grew still narrower, and though the stone buildings lining them did not grow smaller, it was more often than not the backs of the buildings they saw, and rough gray walls that could hide only small yards. Eventually they turned down an alley barely wide enough for all three of them abreast. At the far end, a lacquered and gilded coach stood surrounded by scalearmored men. More immediately, halfway between her and the coach, fellows lounged thickly along both sides of the alley. In a motley of coats, most clutched clubs or spears or swords as different as their garb. They could have been a pack of street toughs, but neither of the Shienarans slowed, so she did not either.
“The street out front will be full of bloody fools hoping to catch a glimpse of Masema at a bloody window.” Uno’s voice was pitched for her ears alone. “The only way to get in is by the back.” He fell silent as they came close enough for the waiting men to hear.
Two of those were soldiers with rimmed steel helmets and scaled tunics, swords at hip and spears in hand, but it was the others who studied the three newcomers and fingered their weapons. They had disturbing eyes, too intent, almost feverish. For once, she would have been pleased to see an honest leer. These men did not care whether she was a woman or a horse.
Without a word Uno and Ragan unfastened the scabbarded blades from their backs and handed them and their daggers to a plumpfaced man who might have been a shopkeeper once, from the look of his blue woolen coat and breeches. The clothing had been good; it was clean, but heavily worn, and wrinkled as if it had been slept in for a month. Plainly he recognized the Shienarans, and though he frowned at her for a moment, especially at her belt knife, he silently nodded to a narrow wooden gate in the stone wall. That was perhaps the most offputting fact of all; none of them made a sound.
On the other side of wall was a small yard where weeds stuck up between cobblestones. The tall stone house — three broad, palegray stories, with wide windows and scrollworked eaves and gables, roofed in dark red tiles — must have been one of the finest in Samara. Once the gate was closed behind them, Ragan spoke softly. “There have been attempts to kill the Prophet.”
It took Nynaeve a moment to realize that he was explaining why their weapons had been taken. “But you are his friends,” she protested. “You all followed Rand to Falme together.” She was not about to start calling him the Lord Dragon.
“That’s why we’re bloody let in at all,” Uno said dryly. “I told you we don’t see everything the way… the Prophet does.” The slight pause, and the quick halfglance
back at the gate to see if anyone was listening, spoke volumes. It had been Masema, before. And Uno was clearly a man who did not temper his tongue easily.
“Just watch what you say for once,” Ragan told her, “and likely you will get the help you want.” She nodded, as agreeably as anyone could wish — she knew sense when she heard it, even if he had no right to offer it — and he and Uno exchanged doubtful glances. She was going to stuff these two into a sack with Thom and Juilin and switch anything that stuck up.
Fine house as it might be, the kitchen was dusty, and empty except for one bony, grayhaired woman, her drab gray dress and white apron the only clean things in sight as they walked through. Sucking her teeth, the old woman hardly glanced up from stirring a small kettle of soup over a tiny blaze in one of the wide stone fireplaces. Two battered pots hung on hooks where twenty could have, and, a cracked pottery bowl on a bluelacquered tray stood on the broad table.
Beyond the kitchen, moderately fine hangings decorated the walls. Nynaeve had developed something of an eye in the last year, and these scenes of feasts and hunts for deer and bear and boar were only good, not excellent. Chairs and tables and chests lined the halls, dark lacquer streaked with red, inlaid with motherofpearl. Hangings and furniture alike were also dusty, and the redandwhite tiled floor had had only a halfhearted lick with a broom. Cobwebs decorated the corners and cornices of the high plaster ceiling.
There were no other servants — or anyone else — in sight until they came to a weedy fellow sitting on the floor beside an open door, his grimy red silk coat much too large for him and at odds with a filthy shirt and worn woolen breeches. One of his cracked boots had a large hole in the sole; a toe poked through another in the other one. He held up a hand, whispering, “The Light shine on you, and praise the name of the Lord Dragon?” He made it sound a question, querulously twisting a narrow face as unwashed as his shirt, but then he did the same with everything. “The Prophet can’t be disturbed now? He’s busy? You’ll have to wait a bit?” Uno nodded patiently, and Ragan leaned against the wall; they had been through this before.
Nynaeve did not know what she had expected of the Prophet, not even now that she was aware who he was, but certainly not filth. That soup had smelled like cabbage and potatoes, hardly the fare for a man who had an entire city dancing for him. And only two servants, both of whom could well have come from the rudest huts outside the city.
The skinny guard, if such he was — he had no weapon; perhaps he was not trusted either — seemed to have no objection when she moved to where she could see through the doorway. The man and woman inside could not have been more different. Masema had shaved even his topknot, and his coat was plain brown wool, heavily wrinkled but clean, although his kneehigh boots were scuffed. Deepset eyes turned his permanently sour look to a scowl, and a scar made a pale triangle on his dark cheek, a near mirror image of Ragan’s, only more faded with age and a hair
nearer the eye. The woman, in elegantly goldembroidered blue silk, was short of her middle years and quite lovely despite a nose perhaps too long for beauty. A simple blue net cap gathered dark hair spilling almost to her waist, but she wore a broad necklace of gold and firedrops with a matching bracelet, and gemmed rings decorated nearly every finger. Where Masema seemed poised to rush at something, teeth bared, she bore herself with stately reserve and grace.
“…so many follow wherever you go,” she was saying, “that order flies over the wall when you arrive. People are not safe in themselves or their property —”
“The Lord Dragon has broken all bonds of law, all bonds made by mortal men and women.” Masema’s voice was heated, but intense, not angry. “The Prophecies say that the Lord Dragon will break all chains that bind, and it is so. The Lord Dragon’s radiance will protect us against the Shadow.”
“It is not the Shadow that threatens here, but cutpurses and slipfingers and headcrackers. Some who follow you — many — believe that they can take what they wish from whoever has it without payment or leave.”
“There is justice in the hereafter, when we are born again. Concern with things of this world is useless. But very well. If you wish earthly justice” — his lip curled contemptuously —“let it be this. Henceforth, a man who steals will have his right hand cut off. A man who interferes with a woman, or insults her honor, or commits murder will be hung. A woman who steals or commits murder will be flogged. If any accuses and finds twelve who will agree, it will be done. Let it be so.”
“As you say, of course,” the woman murmured. Aloof elegance remained on her face, but she sounded shaken. Nynaeve did not know how Ghealdanin law ran, but she did not think it could be so casual as that. The woman took a deep breath. “There is still the matter of food. It becomes difficult to feed so many.”
“Every man, woman and child who has come to the Lord Dragon must have a full belly. It must be so! Where gold can be found, food can be found, and there is too much gold in the world. Too much concern with gold.” Masema’s head swung angrily. Not angry with her, but in general. He looked to be searching for those who concerned themselves with gold so he could unleash fury on their heads. “The Lord Dragon has been Reborn. The Shadow hangs over the world, and only the Lord Dragon can save us. Only belief in the Lord Dragon, submission and obedience to the word of the Lord Dragon. All else is useless, even where it is not blasphemy.”
“Blessed be the name of the Lord Dragon in the Light.” It had the sound of a rote reply. “It is no longer simply a matter of gold, my Lord Prophet. Finding and transporting food in sufficient —”
“I am not a lord,” he broke in again, and now he was angry. He leaned toward the woman, spittle on his lips, and though her face did not change, her hands twitched as if they wanted to clutch her dress. “There is no lord but the Lord Dragon, in whom the Light dwells, and I am but one humble voice of the Lord Dragon. Remember that! High or low, blasphemers earn the scourge!”
“Forgive me,” the begemmed woman murmured, spreading her skirts in a curtsy
fit for a queen’s court. “It is as you say, of course. There is no lord save the Lord Dragon, and I am but a humble follower of the Lord Dragon — blessed be the name of the Lord Dragon — who comes to hear the wisdom and guidance of the Prophet.”
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Masema was suddenly cold. “You wear too much gold. Do not let earthly possession seduce you. Gold is dross. The Lord Dragon is all.”
Immediately she began plucking rings from her fingers, and before the second was off, the weedy fellow scurried to her side, pulling a pouch from his coat pocket and holding it for her to drop them in. The bracelet and necklace followed as well.
Nynaeve looked at Uno and raised an eyebrow.
“Every penny goes to the poor,” he told her in a low voice that barely reached her ear, “or somebody who needs it. If some merchant hadn’t bloody given him her house, he’d be in a bloody stable, or one of those huts outside the city.”
“Even his food comes as a gift,” Ragan said just as quietly. “They used to bring him dishes fit for a king, until they learned he just gave away everything but a little bread, and soup or stew. He hardly drinks wine, now.”
Nynaeve shook her head. She supposed it was one way to find money for the poor. Simply rob anyone who was not poor. Of course, that would just make everyone poor in the end, but it might work for a time. She wondered if Uno and Ragan knew the whole of it. People who claimed they were collecting money to help others often had a way of letting a good bit stick in their own pockets, or else they liked the power that spreading it about gave them, liked it far too much. She had better feeling for the man who freely gave one copper from his own purse than for the fellow who wrested a gold crown from someone else’s. And less for fools who abandoned their farms and shops to follow this… this Prophet, with no idea where their next meal would come from.
Inside the room, the woman curtsied to Masema even more deeply than before, spreading her skirts wide and bowing her head. “Until I once again have the honor of the Prophet’s words and counsel. The name of the Lord Dragon be blessed in the Light.”
Masema waved her away absently, already half forgotten. He had seen them in the hall, and was looking at them with as close to pleasure as his dour face could come. It was not very close. The woman swept out, not even appearing to see Nynaeve or the two men. Nynaeve sniffed as the weedy fellow in the red coat waved anxiously for them to come in. For someone who had just given up her jewelry on demand, that woman managed a fine queenly air.
The skinny man scampered back to his place by the door as the other three men shook hands in the Borderlands fashion, gripping forearms.
“Peace favor your sword,” Uno said, echoed by Ragan.
“Peace favor the Lord Dragon” was the reply, “and his Light illumine us all.” Nynaeve’s breath caught. There was no doubt to his meaning; the Lord Dragon was
the source of the Light. And he had the nerve to speak of blasphemy from others! “Have you come to the Light at last?”
“We walk in the Light,” Ragan said carefully. “As always.” Uno kept silent, his face blank.
Weary patience made an odd play on Masema’s sour features. “There is no way to the Light save through the Lord Dragon. You will see the way and the truth in the end, for you have seen the Lord Dragon, and only those whose souls are swallowed in the Shadow can see and not believe. You are not such. You will believe.”
In spite of the heat and the wool shawl, goose bumps crawled along Nynaeve’s arms. Total conviction filled the man’s voice, and this close she could see a glint in his nearly black eyes that bordered on madness. He swept those eyes over her, and she stiffened her knees. He made the most rabid Whitecloak she had ever seen appear mild. Those fellows in the alley were only a pale imitation of their master.
“You, woman. Are you ready to come to the Light of the Lord Dragon, abandoning sin and flesh?”
“I walk in the Light as best I can.” She was irritated to find herself speaking as carefully as Ragan. Sin? Who did he think he was?
“You are too concerned with the flesh.” Masema’s gaze was withering as it swept over her red dress and the shawl wrapped tightly around her.
“And what do you mean by that?” Uno’s eye widened in startlement, and Ragan made small shushing motions, yet she could as soon have flown as stopped. “Do you think you have a right to tell me how to dress?” Before she quite realized what she was doing, she had untied the shawl and looped it over her elbows; it really was much too hot, anyway. “No man has that right, for me or any other woman! If I chose to go naked, it would be none of your concern!”
Masema contemplated her bosom for a moment — not so much as a hint of admiration lit his deep eyes, only acid contempt — then raised that stare to her face. Uno’s real eye and painted made a perfect match, scowling at nothing, and Ragan winced, surely muttering to himself inside his head.
Nynaeve swallowed hard. So much for guarding her tongue. For perhaps the first time in her life, she truly regretted speaking her mind without thinking first. If this man could order men’s hands cut off, order men hung, with only a jackfool excuse of a trial, what was he not capable of? She thought she was angry enough to channel.
But if she did… If Moghedien or any Black sisters were in Samara… But if I don’t…! She wanted very much to wrap the shawl back around her, up to her chin. But not with him staring at her. Something in the back of her mind shouted at her not to be a complete woolhead — only men let pride overcome sense — but she met Masema’s gaze defiantly, even if she did have to stop herself from swallowing again.
His lip curled. “Such garments are worn to entice men, and for no other reason.” She could not understand how his voice could be so fervent and so icy at the, same
time. “Thoughts of the flesh distract the mind from the Lord Dragon and the Light. I have considered banning dresses that distract men’s eyes, and minds. Let women who would waste time in attracting men, and men who would attract women, be scourged until they know that only in perfect contemplation of the Lord Dragon and the Light can joy be found.” He was not really looking at her any longer. That dark burning stare looked through her, to something distant. “Let taverns, and places that sell strong drink, and all places that would take the minds of people from that perfect contemplation, be closed and burned to the ground. I frequented such places in my days of sin, but now I heartily regret, as all should regret their transgressions. There is only the Lord Dragon and the Light! All else is illusion, a snare set by the Shadow!”
“This is Nynaeve al’Meara,” Uno said quickly into the first pause for breath. “From Emond’s Field, in the Two Rivers, whence the Lord Dragon comes.” Masema’s head turned slowly to the oneeyed man, and she hastily took the opportunity to redo the shawl as she had had it. “She was at Fal Dara with the Lord Dragon, and at Falme. The Lord Dragon rescued her at Falme. The Lord Dragon cares for her as for a mother.”
Another time, she would have given him a few choice words, and maybe a wellboxed ear. Rand had not rescued her — or not exactly, anyway — and she was only a handful of years older than he. A mother, indeed!
Masema turned back to her. The zealous light that had burned in his eyes before was nothing to what was there now… They almost glowed.
“Nynaeve. Yes.” His voice quickened. “Yes! I remember your name, and your face. Blessed are you among women, Nynaeve al’Meara, none more so save the blessed mother of the Lord Dragon herself, for you watched the Lord Dragon grow. You attended the Lord Dragon as a child.” He seized her arms, hard fingers biting in painfully, but he seemed unaware of it. “You will speak to the crowds of the Lord Dragon’s boyhood, of his first words of wisdom, of the miracles that accompanied him. The Light has sent you here to serve the Lord Dragon.”
She was not exactly sure what to say. There had never been any miracles around Rand that she had seen. She had heard of things, in Tear, but you could hardly call what a ta’veren caused miracles. Not really. Even what had occurred at Falme had a rational explanation. Sort of. And as for words of wisdom, the first she had heard out of him had been a fervent promise never to throw a rock at anyone again, offered after she had paddled his young backside for it. She did not believe she had heard another word since that she could call wise. In any case, if Rand had given sage advice from his cradle, if there had been comets by night and apparitions in the sky by day, she still would not have stayed with this madman.
“I must travel downriver,” she said guardedly. “To join him. The Lord Dragon.” That name curdled on her tongue, so soon after her promise to herself, but Rand was apparently never anything as simple as “he” around the Prophet. I am just being sensible. That’s all it is. “A man is an oak, a woman a willow,” the saying ran.
The oak fought the wind and was broken, while the willow bent when it must and survived. That did not mean she had to like bending. “He… the Lord Dragon… is in Tear. The Lord Dragon has summoned me there.”
“Tear.” Masema took his hands away, and she surreptitiously rubbed her arms. She did not have to try hiding it, though; he was staring at something beyond sight again. “Yes, I have heard.” Speaking to something beyond sight, too, or to himself. “When Amadicia has come to the Lord Dragon as Ghealdan has, I will lead the people to Tear, to bask in the radiance of the Lord Dragon. I will send disciples to spread the word of the Lord Dragon throughout Tarabon and Arad Doman, to Saldaea and Kandor and the Borderlands, to Andor, and I will lead the people to kneel at the Lord Dragon’s feet.”
“A wise plan… uh… O Prophet of the Lord Dragon.” A fool plan if she had ever heard one. That was not to say it would not work. Fool plans often did, for some reason, when men made them. Rand might even enjoy having all those people kneel to him, if he was half as arrogant as Egwene claimed. “But we… I cannot wait. I have been summoned, and when the Lord Dragon summons, mere mortals must obey.” Some day she was going to get a chance to box Rand’s head for her need to do this! “I have to find a boat going downriver.”
Masema stared at her for so long that she began to grow nervous. Sweat trickled down her back, and between her breasts, and it was only partly the heat. That stare would have made Moghedien sweat.
Finally he nodded, fiery zealotry fading to leave only his usual dour scowl. “Yes,” he sighed. “If you have been summoned, you must go. Go with the Light, and in the Light. Dress more appropriately — those who have been close to the Lord Dragon must be virtuous above all others — and meditate on the Lord Dragon and his Light.”
“A riverboat?” Nynaeve insisted. “You must know whenever a boat reaches Samara, or any village along the river. If you could just tell me where I might find one, it would make my journey much… swifter.” She had been going to say “easier,” but she did not think ease mattered much to Masema.
“I do not concern myself with such things,” he said testily. “But you are right. When the Lord Dragon commands, you must come on the hour. I will ask. If a vessel can be found, someone will tell me of it eventually.” His eyes shifted to the other two men. “You must see that she is safe until then. If she persists in clothing herself in this manner, she will attract men with vile thoughts. She must be protected, like a wayward child, until she is reunited with the Lord Dragon.”
Nynaeve bit her tongue. A willow, not an oak, when a willow was needed. She managed to mask her irritation behind a smile that had to carry all the gratitude the idiot man could wish. A dangerous idiot, however. She had to remember that.
Uno and Ragan made their goodbyes quickly, with more forearm clasping, and hustled her out, one on either arm, as if they thought it necessary to hurry her away from Masema for some reason. Masema appeared to have forgotten them before
they reached the door; he was already frowning at the weedy man, waiting next to a bluff fellow in a farmer’s coat who was crumpling his cap in thick hands, awe painted across his broad face.
She did not say a word as they retraced their steps through the kitchen, where the grayhaired woman was sucking her teeth and stirring the soup as if she had not moved in the interval. Nynaeve held her tongue while they retrieved their weapons, held it until they were out of the alleyway, into something approaching the width of a street. Then she rounded on them, shaking her finger under each nose alternately. “How dare you drag me out like that!” People passing by grinned — men ruefully, women appreciatively — though none could have had an idea what she was berating them over. “Another five minutes, and I would have had him finding a boat today! If you ever lay hands on me again —!” Uno snorted so loudly that she cut off with a start.
“Another five bloody minutes, and Masema would have bloody well laid hands on you. Or rather, he’d have said that someone should, and then someone flaming well would have! When he says something should be done, there are always fifty flaming hands, or a hundred, or a flaming thousand if need be, to do it!” He stalked off down the street, Ragan at his side, and she had to go with them or be left. Uno paced on as if he knew she would trail after. She almost went the other way just to prove him wrong. Following had nothing to do with fear of getting lost in that rabbit warren of streets. She could have found her way out. Eventually. “He had a flaming Lord of the Crown High Council flogged — flogged! — for half the heat in his voice that you had,” the oneeyed man growled. “Contempt for the word of the Lord Dragon, he called it. Peace! Demanding what bloody right he had to comment on your flaming clothes! For a few minutes you did well enough, but I saw your face there at the end. You were ready to flaming lace into him again. The only thing worse you could have done would be to bloody name the Lord Dragon. He calls that blasphemy. As well name the flaming Dark One.”
Ragan’s topknot bobbed as he nodded. “Remember the Lady Baelome, Uno? Right after the first rumors came from Tear naming the Lord Dragon, Nynaeve, she said something about ‘this Rand al’Thor’ in Masema’s hearing, and he called for an axe and a chopping block without pause for breath.”
“He had someone beheaded for that?” she said incredulously.
“No,” Uno muttered in disgust. “But only because she bloody well groveled when she realized he flaming meant it. She was dragged out and hung up by her flaming wrists from the back of her own coach, then strapped the bloody length of whatever village it was we were in then. Her own flaming retainers stood like a bunch of sheepgutted farmers and watched it.”
“When it was done,” Ragan added, “she thanked Masema for his mercy, the same as Lord Aleshin did.” His tone had too much pointedness to suit her; he was delivering a moral, and intended her to take it in. “They had reason, Nynaeve. Theirs would not have been the first heads he has put on a stake. Yours could have
been the latest. And ours with it, if we tried to give aid. Masema plays no favorites.”
She drew breath. How could Masema have all this power? And not only among his own followers, apparently. But then, there was no reason lords or ladies could be not as great fools as any farmer; a good many were greater, in her estimation. That idiot woman with her rings had surely been a lady; no merchant ever wore firedrops. Yet surely Ghealdan had laws and courts and judges. Where was the queen, or the king? She could not remember which Ghealdan had. No one in the Two Rivers had ever had much truck with kings or queens, yet that was what they were for, them and lords and ladies, seeing justice fairly done. But whatever Masema did here was no concern of hers. She had more important problems than worrying over a flock of imbeciles who let a madman trample them.
Still, curiosity made her say, “Does he mean that about trying to stop men and women looking at one another? What does he think will happen if there are no marriages, no children? Will he stop people farming next, or weaving or making shoes, so they can think about Rand al’Thor?” She enunciated the name deliberately. These two went around calling him “the Lord Dragon” at the drop of a pin almost as much as Masema did. “I will tell you this. If he tries telling women how to dress, he will start a riot. Against him.” Samara must have something like a Women’s Circle — most places did, even if they called it something else, even when it was not a formal arrangement at all; there were some things men just did not have the sense to see to — and they surely could and did call women down for wearing inappropriate clothes, but that was not the same as a man putting his finger into it. Women did not meddle in men’s affairs — well, no more than was necessary — and men should not meddle in women’s. “And I expect the men will react no better if he tries closing taverns and the like. I never knew a man yet who wouldn’t cry himself to sleep if he could not put his nose in a mug now and then.”
“Maybe he will,” Ragan said, “and maybe he won’t. Sometimes he orders things, and sometimes he forgets, or puts it off anyway, because something more important comes along. You would be surprised,” he added dryly, “at what his followers will accept from him without a whimper.” He and Uno were flanking her, she realized, and watching the other folk in the street warily. Even to her, the pair of them appeared ready to draw swords in a heartbeat. If they actually thought to carry out Masema’s instructions, they had another think coming.
“He isn’t against bloody marriage,” Uno growled, staring so hard at a peddler with meat pies on a tray that the man turned and ran without taking the coins from two women holding pies in their hands. “You’re lucky he did not remember you have no husband, or he might have sent you to the Lord Dragon with one. Sometimes he picks out three or four hundred unmarried men and as many women, and flaming well marries them. Most have never seen each other before that day. If the pigeongutted dirtgrubbers don’t bloody complain about that, do you think they’ll open their flaming mouths about ale?”
Ragan muttered something under his breath, but she caught enough to narrow her eyes. “Some man doesn’t know how bloody lucky he is.” That was what he had said. He did not even notice her glare. He was too busy scanning the street, watching against someone who might try to abscond with her like a pig in a sack. She was half tempted to take off the shawl and throw it away. He did not seem to hear her sniff, either. Men could be insufferably blind and deaf when they wished to.
“At least he didn’t try to steal my jewelry,” she said. “Who was that fool woman who gave him hers?” She could not have much sense if she had become one of Masema’s followers.
“That,” Uno said, “was Alliandre, Blessed of the Light, Queen of bloody Ghealdan. And a dozen more titles, the way you southlanders like to pile them up.”
Nynaeve stubbed her toe on a cobblestone and almost fell. “So that is how he does it,” she exclaimed, shaking off their helping hands. “If the queen is fool enough to listen to him, no wonder he can do whatever he wants.”
“Not a fool,” Uno said sharply, flashing a frown at her before returning to watching the street. “A wise woman. When you bloody find yourself straddling a wild horse, you bloody well ride it the way it’s bloody going, if you’re smart enough to pour water out of a bloody boot. You think she’s a fool because Masema took her rings? She’s flaming smart enough to know he might demand more if she stopped wearing jewelry when she comes to him. The first time, he went to her — been the other way round, since — and he did take the rings right off her flaming fingers. She had strands of pearls in her hair, and he broke the strings pulling them out. All of her ladiesinwaiting were down on their knees gathering the bloody things off the floor. Alliandre even picked up a few herself.”
“That doesn’t sound so wise to me,” she said stoutly. “It sounds like cowardice.” Whose knees were shaking because he looked at her? a voice in her head asked. Who was sweating herself silly? At least she had managed to face up to him.I did. Bending like a willow isn’t the same as cowering like a mouse. “Is she the queen, or isn’t she?”
The two men exchanged those irritating looks, and Ragan said quietly, “You don’t understand, Nynaeve. Alliandre is the fourth to sit on the Light Blessed Throne since we came to Ghealdan, and that’s barely half a year. Johanin wore the crown when Masema began attracting a few crowds, but he thought Masema a harmless madman and did nothing even when the crowds grew and his nobles told him he had to put an end to it. Johanin died in a hunting accident —”
“Hunting accident!” Uno interjected, sneering. A hawker who happened to be looking at him dropped his tray of pins and needles. “Not unless he didn’t know one bloody end of a flaming boar spear from the other. Flaming southlanders and their flaming Game of Houses!”
“And Ellizelle succeeded,” Ragan took up. “She had the army dispersing the crowds, until finally there was a pitched battle and it was the army that was chased
off.”
“Bloody poor excuse for soldiers,” Uno muttered. She was going to have to speak to him about his language again.
Ragan nodded agreement, but went on with what he had been saying. “They say Ellizelle took poison after that, but however she died, she was replaced by Teresia, who lasted a full ten days after her coronation, just until she had a chance to send two thousand soldiers against ten thousand folk who had gathered to hear Masema outside Jehannah. After her soldiers were routed, she abdicated to marry a rich merchant.” Nynaeve stared at him incredulously, and Uno snorted. “That is what they say,” the younger man maintained. “Of course, in this land, marrying a commoner means giving up any claim to the throne forever, and whatever Beron Goraed feels about having a pretty young wife with royal blood, I hear he was dragged from his bed by a score of Alliandre’s retainers and hauled to Jheda Palace for a wedding in the small hours of the morning. Teresia went off to live on her husband’s new country estate while Alliandre was being crowned, all before sunrise, and the new queen summoned Masema to the palace to tell him he would not be troubled again. Inside two weeks she was calling on him. I do not know whether she really believes what he preaches, but I know she took the throne of a land on the edge of civil war, with Whitecloaks ready to move in, and she stopped it the only way she could. That is a wise queen, and a man could be proud to serve her, even if she is a southlander.”
Nynaeve opened her mouth, and forgot what she was going to say when Uno said, in a casual tone, “There’s a flaming Whitecloak following us. Don’t look around, woman. You have more bloody sense than that.”
Her neck stiffened with the effort of keeping her eyes forward; prickles crawled up her back. “Take the next turn, Uno.”
“That carries us away from the main streets, and the flaming gates. We can flaming lose him in the crowds.”
“Take it!” She inhaled slowly, made her voice less shrill. “I need a sight of him.”
Uno glowered so fiercely that people stepped out of their way for ten paces ahead, but they turned down the next narrow street. She shifted her head a trifle as they made the turn, just enough to peek from the edge of her eye before the corner of a small stone tavern cut off her view. The snowy cloak with the flaring sun stood out among the thin crowd. There was no mistaking that beautiful face, the face she had been sure she would see. No other Whitecloak than Galad could have a reason to follow her, and none to follow Uno or Ragan.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 40
(Sunburst)
The Wheel Weaves
As soon as the building hid Galad, Nynaeve’s eyes darted down the street ahead. Fury bubbled up, at herself as much as Galadedrid Damodred. You witless woolhead! It was a narrow way like all the rest, paved with rounded stones, lined with gray shops and houses and taverns, populated with a scattered afternoon crowd. If you hadn’t come into town, he’d never have found you! Too scattered to hide anyone. You had to go see the Prophet! You had to go believing the Prophet would whisk you away before Moghedien gets here! When are you going to learn you can’t depend on anyone but yourself? In an instant she made her choice. When Galad turned that corner and did not see them, he would begin looking into shops, and maybe taverns as well.
“This way.” Gathering her skirts, she darted into the nearest alley and pressed her back against the wall. No one glanced at her twice, furtive as she was, and what that had to say about the way things were in Samara she did not want to consider. Uno and Ragan were beside her before she finished setting her feet, crowding her farther down the dusty dirt alleyway, past an old splintered bucket and a rain barrel dried to the point of collapse inside its hoops. At least they were doing what she wanted. In a manner of speaking. Tense hands on long sword hilts rising above their shoulders, they were ready to protect her whether she desired it or not. Let them, you fool! Do you think you can protect yourself?
She was certainly angry enough. Galad, of all people! She should never have left the menagerie! A fool whim, and one that might ruin everything. She could no more channel here than against Masema. Just the possibility that Moghedien or Black sisters were in Samara made her dependent on two men for her safety. It was enough to screw her anger tight; she could have chewed a hole in the stone wall behind her. She knew why Aes Sedai had Warders — all but Reds, anyway. In her head, she did. In her heart, it just made her want to snarl.
Galad appeared, threading his way slowly through the folk out in the street, eyes searching. By all reason, be should have gone on by — he should have — yet almost immediately his gaze settled on the alleyway. On them. He did not even have the grace to appear pleased or surprised.
Uno and Ragan moved together as Galad turned toward the alley. The oneeyed man had his sword out in the blink of an eye, and Ragan was scarcely slower for all he paused to push her deeper into the narrow passage. They positioned themselves one behind the other; should Galad make it past Uno, he would still have Ragan to face.
Nynaeve ground her teeth. She could make all these swords unnecessary, useless; she could sense the True Source, like a light unseen over her shoulder, waiting for her embrace. She could do it. If she dared.
Galad stopped at the alley mouth, cloak thrown back, one hand resting nonchalantly on his sword hilt, a picture of springsteel grace. Except for his burnished mail, he could have been at a ball.
“I do not want to kill either of you, Shienaran,” he said calmly to Uno. Nynaeve had heard Elayne and Gawyn speak of Galad’s sword skill, but for the first time she realized that he might really be as good as they said. At least, he thought he was. Two seasoned soldiers with blades bare, and he eyed them as a wolfhound would eye a pair of lesser dogs, not seeking a fight yet utterly confident he could take both. Never quite looking away from the two men, he addressed her. “Someone else might have run into a shop or an inn, but you never do what is expected. Will you let me speak with you? There is no need to make me kill these men.”
None of the passersby were stopping, but even with three men blocking her view she could see heads swiveling for a glimpse of what had drawn the Whitecloak. And plainly taking in the swords. Rumors would be hatching in all those minds and taking flight on wings that made dusk swallows seem slow.
“Let him by,” she commanded. When Uno and Ragan did not budge, she repeated herself, even more firmly. They did move aside then, slowly, as much as the narrow alley would allow, yet though neither said a word, there was an air of muttering about them. Galad came by smoothly, seeming to forget the Shienarans. She suspected that believing so would be a mistake; the topknotted men plainly did not.
Aside from one of the Forsaken, she could not imagine a man she would less like to see right then, but with that face in front of her, she was all too conscious of her own, breathing, her own heartbeat. It was ludicrous. Why could the man not be ugly? Or at least plain.
“You knew I knew that you were following.” Accusation rang strongly in her voice, though she was not sure what she was accusing him of. Not doing what she had expected and wanted, she imagined ruefully.
“I assumed as much as soon as I recognized you, Nynaeve. I remember that you generally see more than you let on.”
She would not let him divert her with compliments. Look where that had gotten her with Valan Luca. “What are you doing in Ghealdan? I thought you were on your way to Altara.”
For a moment he stared down at her with those dark, beautiful eyes, then abruptly laughed. “In all the world, Nynaeve, only you would ask me the question I should be asking you. Very well. I’ll answer you, for all it should be the other way round. I did have orders for Salidar, in Altara, but all changed when this Prophet fellow — What is the matter? Are you unwell?”
Nynaeve forced her face to smoothness. “Of course not,” she said irritably. “My health is quite good, thank you very kindly.” Salidar! Of course! The name was like one of Aludra’s firesticks going off in her head. All of that racking of her brain, and Galad casually handed her what she had been unable to dig up on her own. Now if
only Masema found a ship quickly. If only she could make sure Galad would not betray them. Without letting Uno and Ragan kill him, of course.
Whatever Elayne said, Nynaeve could not believe she would appreciate having her brother cut down. Small chance he would believe Elayne was not with her. “I just cannot get over my shock at seeing you.”
“A small patch on mine, when I learned you had slipped out of Sienda.” Sternness became that handsome face to an unfortunate degree, but his tone offset it. Somewhat. He could have been lecturing a small girl who had sneaked out of the house after her bedtime to climb trees. “I was sick near to death with worry. What under the Light possessed you? Have you any idea of the risks you ran? And to come here, of all places. Elayne always chooses to saddle a horse at the gallop if she can, but I thought that you, at least, had more sense. This socalled Prophet —” He cut off, eyeing the other two men. Uno had grounded his swordpoint, scarred hands folded atop the pommel. Ragan appeared to be inspecting his blade’s edge to the exclusion of everything else.
“I have heard rumors,” Galad went on slowly, “that he is Shienaran. You cannot have been witless enough to get yourself mixed up with him.” There was too much question in that for her taste by far.
“Neither of them is the Prophet, Galad,” she said wryly. “I’ve known them both for some little time, and I can assure you of that. Uno, Ragan, unless you intend to prune your toenails, put those things up. Well?” They hesitated before doing as they were told, Uno grumping under his breath and glaring, but they did it finally. Men usually responded to a firm voice. Most did. Sometimes, anyway.
“I hardly thought they were, Nynaeve.” Galad’s tone, even more arid than hers, made her bristle, but when he went on, he sounded annoyed rather than superior. And worried. Which made her bristle even more, of course. He all but gave her palpitations, and he had the nerve to be worried. “I do not know what you and Elayne have fallen into here, and I do not care, so long as I can extract you from it before you are hurt. Trade is slow on the, river, but a suitable boat of some sort should call in the next few days. Let me know where I can find you, and I will secure you passage to somewhere in Altara. From there, you can make your way to Caemlyn.”
She gaped in spite of herself. “You mean to find us a ship?”
“It is all I can do, now.” He sounded apologetic, and shook his head as if arguing with himself. “I cannot escort you to safety; my duty is here.”
“We wouldn’t want to take you from your duty,” she said, a touch breathless. If he wanted to misunderstand, let him. The most she had hoped for was that he would leave them be.
He seemed to feel the need to defend himself. “It is hardly safe to send you off alone, but a boat will take you away before the entire border explodes. Which it will, soon or late; all it needs is one spark, and the Prophet is sure to strike it if no one else does. You must see to setting yourselves to Caemlyn, you and Elayne. All I
ask is your promise that you will go there. The Tower is no place for either of you. Or for —” He clamped his teeth shut, but he might as well have gone ahead and named Egwene.
It could not hurt, having Galad looking for a boat too. If Masema could forget whether he intended to close the taverns, he could forget to have anyone find a riverboat. Especially if he thought a convenient bout of forgetfulness might keep her there to further his own plans. It could not hurt — if she could trust Galad. If she could not, then she would have to hope he was not as good with that sword as he thought he was. A stark thought, but not so stark as what might happen — would happen — if he proved untrustworthy.
“I am what I am, Galad, and Elayne is the same.” Dodging around Masema had put a bad taste on her tongue. A little White Tower sidestepping was as close as she could come. “And you are what you are, now.” She raised her eyebrows significantly at his white cloak. “That lot hates the Tower, and they hate women who can channel. Now that you are one of them, why shouldn’t I think there will be fifty of you after me inside the hour; trying to put an arrow in my back if they can’t haul me off to a cell? Me, and Elayne as well.”
Galad’s head jerked in irritation. Or maybe he was offended. “How often must I tell you? I would never let harm come to my sister. Or to you.”
It truly was annoying, realizing that she was annoyed at the pause that made it clear she was an afterthought. She was not some silly girl, to lose her wits because a man had eyes that somehow managed to be melting and incredibly penetrating at the same time. “If you say it so,” she told him, and his head tossed again.
“Tell me where you are put up, and I will bring word, or send it, as soon as I locate a suitable vessel.”
If Elayne was right, he could no more lie than could an Aes Sedai who had sworn the Three Oaths, but still she hesitated. A mistake here could be her last. She had a right to take risks for herself, but this risk involved Elayne too. And Thom and Juilin, for that matter; they were her responsibility, whatever they wanted to think. But she was here, and the decision had to be hers. Not that it might be any other way, frankly.
“Light, woman, what more do you want of me?” Galad growled, halfraising his hands as though to grab her shoulders. Uno’s blade was between them in a flash of bright steel, but Elayne’s brother actually brushed it aside like a twig, and paid it no more mind than one. “I mean no harm to you, now or ever; I swear it by my mother’s name. You say that you are what you are? I know what you are. And what you are not. Perhaps half the reason I wear this,” he touched an edge of his snowy cloak, “is because the Tower sent you out — you and Elayne and Egwene — for the Light knows what reason, when you are what you are. It was like sending a boy who has just learned to hold a sword into battle, and I will never forgive them. There is still time for both of you to turn aside; you do not have to carry that sword. The Tower is too dangerous for you or my sister, especially now. Half the world is
become too dangerous for you! Let me help you to safety.” The tightness slid from his voice, though it took on a raw edge. “I beg you, Nynaeve. If anything happened to Elayne… I halfwish that Egwene were with you, so I could…” Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he looked left and right, searching for how to convince her. Uno and Ragan held their blades ready to drive through his body, but he did not appear to see them. “In the name of the Light, Nynaeve, please allow me to do what I can.” It was a simple thing that finally tipped the balance in her mind. They were in Ghealdan. Amadicia was the only land that actually made a crime out of a woman being able to channel, and they were on the opposite bank of the river. That left only Galad’s oaths as a Child of the Light to battle against his duty to Elayne. She gave blood the edge in that struggle. Besides, he really was too gorgeous for her to let Uno and Ragan kill him. Not that that had anything to do with her decision, of
course.
“We are with Valan Luca’s show,” she said at last.
He blinked at her, frowned. “Valan Luca’s…? You mean one of the menageries?” Incredulity and disgust fought in his voice. “What under the Light are you doing in company like that? Those who keep such shows are no better than… No matter. If you need coin, I can supply some. Enough to see you in a decent inn.”
His tone bespoke his certainty that she would do as he wanted. Not a “can I help you with a few crowns?” or a “would you like me to find a room for you?” He thought they should be in an inn, so into an inn they would go. The man might have observed enough to know she would duck into an alley, but he did not know her at all, it seemed. Besides, there were reasons to stay with Luca.
“Do you think there is a room, or a hayloft, not taken in all of Samara?” she asked, a touch more tartly than intended.
“I am certain I can find —”
She cut him off. “The last place anyone would look for us is among the shows.” The last place anyone but Moghedien would look, at least. “You’ll agree we should keep from sight as much as possible? If you did find a room, more than likely you’d have to have someone put out of it. A Child of the Light securing a room so for two women? That would set tongues wagging and draw eyes like flies to a midden.”
He did not like it, grimacing, and glaring at Uno and, Ragan as if it were their fault, but he had enough sense to see sense. “It is no fit place for either of you, but it is probably safer than anywhere inside the city at that. Since you have at least agreed to go to Caemlyn, I will say no more on it.”
She kept her face smooth and let him think as he wished. If he thought she had promised what she had not, that was his affair. She had to keep him away from the show as much as possible, though. One glimpse of his sister in those spangled white breeches, and the uproar would overshadow any riot Masema could raise. “You will have to stay clear of the menagerie, mind. Until you find a ship, anyway. Then come to the performers’ wagons at nightfall and ask for Nana.” He liked that even less, if possible, but she forestalled him firmly. “I’ve not seen a single Child of the Light
near any of the shows. If you visit one, don’t you think people will notice and ask why?”
His smile was still gorgeous, but it showed too many teeth. “You have an answer for everything, it seems. Do you have any objection to my escorting you back there, at least?”
“I most certainly do. There will be rumors as it is — a hundred people must have noticed us talking here” — she could no longer see the street past the three men, yet she had no doubt passersby were still glancing into the alley, and Uno and Ragan had not resheathed their swords —“but if you accompany me, we’ll be seen by ten times as many.”
His wince was half rueful, half mirthful. “An answer for everything,” he muttered. “But you have the right of it.” Clearly he wished she did not. “Hear me, Shienarans,” he said, turning his head, and suddenly his voice was steel. “I am Galadedrid Damodred, and this woman is under my protection. As for her companion, I would count it small loss to die in order to save her the smallest harm. If you allow either to come to that smallest harm, I will find you both and kill you.” Ignoring the sudden, dangerous blankness of their faces as completely as he did their swords, he swung his eyes back to her. “I suppose you still will not tell me where Egwene is?”
“All you need know is that she is far from here.” Folding her arms beneath her breasts, she could feel her heart beating through her ribs. Was she making a dangerous mistake because of a pretty face? “And safer than any action of yours can make her.”
He looked as if he did not believe her, but he made no more of it. “With luck, I will find a vessel in a day or two. Until then, stay close to this Valan Luca’s… show. Stay low and avoid notice. As much as you can with your hair that color. And tell Elayne not to run away from me again. The Light shone on you to let me find you still in one piece, and it will have to shine twice as brightly to keep you from harm if you try haring off across Ghealdan. This Prophet’s blasphemous ruffians are everywhere, without respect for law or persons, and that does not count brigands taking advantage of disorder. Samara itself is a wasp nest, but if you will sit quietly and convince my headstrong sister to do the same I will find a way to get you out of it before you are stung.”
It was an effort to keep her mouth shut. Taking what she told him and making it an injunction to her! Next thing the man would want to pack her and Elayne in wool and sit them on a shelf! Wouldn’t it be best if someone did? a tiny voice asked. Haven’t you caused enough trouble going your own way? She told the voice to be quiet. It did not listen, but began listing disasters and near disasters sprung from her own stubbornness.
Apparently taking her silence for acquiescence, .he turned away from her — and stopped. Ragan and Uno had moved to block his way to the street, glancing at her with that strange, deceptive calm men so often adopted when they were a
hairsbreadth from sudden violence. The air seemed to crackle, until she motioned hurriedly. The Shienarans lowered their blades and stood aside, and Galad took his hands from his sword, brushed past them and melded into the crowd without a backward glance.
Nynaeve gave Uno and Ragan each a good glare before stalking off in the opposite direction. There she had had everything arranged properly, and they had to nearly ruin it all. Men always seemed to think violence could solve anything. If she had had a stout stick, she would have thumped all three of them about the shoulders until they saw reason.
The Shienarans seemed to see a little of it, now; they caught up to her, swords scabbarded on their backs once more, and followed without a word, even when she twice took a wrong turn and had to double back. It was especially well for them that they kept silent then. She had had enough of holding her tongue. First Masema, and then Galad. All she wanted was a waferthin excuse to tell someone exactly what she thought. Especially that little voice in her head, pushed back to an insect buzz now but refusing to be quiet.
By the time they were out of Samara and on that dirt cart track, with its sparse traffic, the voice refused to be denied. She worried over Rand’s arrogance, but hers had brought herself and others as near calamity as made no never mind. For Birgitte, perhaps it was well over the line, even if she was alive. The best thing was for Nynaeve not to confront them again, not the Black Ajah and not Moghedien, not until someone who knew what they were doing could decide what should be done. Protest welled up, but she stamped on it as firmly as she ever had on Thom or Juilin. She would go to Salidar and hand the matter over to the Blues. That was how it would be. She was set on it.
“Have you eaten something that disagrees with you?” Ragan said. “Your mouth is twisted as if you had chewed a ripe duckberry.”
She gave him a look that snapped his teeth shut and stalked on. The two Shienarans kept pace to either side.
What was she going to do with them? That she should put them to some use was never in doubt; their appearance was too providential to throw away. For one thing, two additional pairs of eyes — well, three eyes anyway; she was going to learn to look at that patch without swallowing if it killed her — more eyes hunting for a ship might mean finding one sooner. All very well if Masema or Galad found a vessel first, but she did not want either to know more of her doings than she had to allow. There was no telling what either might do.“Are you following me because Masema told you to look after me,” she demanded, “or because Galad did?”
“What flaming difference does it make?” Uno muttered. “If the Lord Dragon has summoned you, you bloody well —” He cut off, frowning, as she raised one finger. Ragan eyed it as if it were a weapon.
“Do you mean to help Elayne and me reach Rand?”
“We’ve nothing better to do,” Ragan said dryly. “As it is, we’ll not see Shienar
again till we are gray and toothless. We might as well ride with you to Tear or wherever he is.”
She had not considered that, but it made sense. Two more to help Thom and Juilin with chores and standing guard. No need to let them know how long that might take, or how many stops and detours could lie along the way. The Blues in Salidar might not let any of them go further. Once they reached Aes Sedai, they would be only Accepted again. Stop thinking about it! You are going to do it!
The crowd waiting in front of Luca’s garish sign appeared no smaller than it had before. A stream of people trickled into the meadow to join the throng as another stream meandered out, exclaiming over what they had seen. Now and again the “boarhorses” were visible, rearing above the canvas wall, to oohs and aahs from those waiting to get in. Cerandin was putting them through their paces again. The Seanchan woman always saw that the s’redit got plenty of rest. She was very firm about that, whatever Luca wanted. Men did do as they were told when you left no doubt that anything else was inconceivable. Usually they did.
Short of the welltrampled brown grass, Nynaeve stopped and turned to face the two Shienarans. She kept her face calm, but they looked suitably wary, though in Uno’s case, regrettably, that involved fiddling with his eyepatch in a queasymaking way. The folk heading to or from the show paid no heed to them.
“Then it will not be because of Masema or Galad,” she said firmly. “If you are going to travel with me, you will do as I say, else you can go your own way, for I’ll have none of you.”
Of course they had to exchange glances before nodding acceptance. “If that’s how it flaming has to be,” Uno growled, “then well enough. If you don’t have somebody to bloody well look after you, you’ll never flaming live to reach the Lord Dragon. Some sheepgutted farmer will have you for breakfast because of your tongue.” Ragan gave him a guarded look that said be agreed with every word but strongly doubted Uno’s wisdom in voicing them. Ragan, it seemed, had the makings of a wise man in him.
If they accepted her terms, it did not really matter why. For now. There would be plenty of time later to set them straight.
“I don’t doubt the others will agree, too,” Ragan said.
“Others?” she said, blinking. “You mean there are more than the two of you?
How many?”
“There are only fifteen of us altogether now. I don’t think Bartu or Nengar will come.”
“Sniffing after the bloody Prophet.” Uno turned his head and spat copiously. “Only fifteen. Sar went over that bloody cliff in the mountains, and Mendao had to get himself into a flaming duel with three Hunters for the Horn, and…
Nynaeve was too busy stopping herself from gaping to listen. Fifteen! She could not help toting up in her head what it would cost to feed fifteen men. Even when they were not particularly hungry, Thom or Juilin either one ate more than Elayne
and her combined. Light!
On the other hand, with fifteen Shienaran soldiers, there was no need to wait for a ship. A riverboat was certainly the fastest way to travel — she remembered what she had heard of Salidar, now; a river town, or close by; a boat could take them right to it — yet a Shienaran escort would make their wagon just as safe, from Whitecloaks or bandits or followers of the Prophet. But much slower. And a lone wagon heading away from Samara with such an escort would certainly stand out. A signpost for Moghedien, or the Black Ajah. I will let the Blues deal with them, and that is that!
“What is wrong?” Ragan asked, and Uno added apologetically, “I shouldn’t have mentioned how Sakaru died.” Sakaru? That must have been after she stopped listening. “I don’t spend much time around fla—, around ladies. I forget you have weak bell—, I mean, uh, delicate stomachs.” If he did not stop tugging at that eyepatch he was going to find out how delicate her stomach was.
The number changed nothing. If two Shienarans were good, fifteen were wonderful. Her own private army. No need to worry about Whitecloaks or brigands or riots, or whether she had made a mistake about Galad. How many hams could fifteen men eat every day? A firm voice. “Right, then. Every night just after dark, one of you — one, mind! — will come here and ask for Nana. That’s the name I am known by.” She had no reason for the order, except to put them in the habit of doing what she told them. “Elayne goes by Morelin, but you ask for Nana. If you need coin, come to me, not Masema.” She had to suppress a wince as the words left her mouth. There was still gold in the wagon’s stove, but Luca had not demanded his hundred gold crowns yet, and he would. There was always the jewelry, if need be, though. She had to be sure they were weaned away from Masema. “Aside from that, none of you are to come near me, or the show.” Without that, they would likely set a guard, or some such idiocy. “Not unless a riverboat arrives. In that case, you come running on the instant. Do you understand me?”
“No,” Uno muttered. “Why do we flaming have to keep away —?” His head jerked back as her admonitory finger almost touched his nose.
“Do you remember what I said about your language?” She had to make herself give him a level look; that glaring red eyepatch made her stomach do flips. “Unless you do remember, you will learn why men in the Two Rivers have decent tongues in their mouths.”
She watched him turn that over in his mind. He did not know what her connection with the White Tower was, only that it existed. She might be an agent of the Tower, or Towertrained. Or even Aes Sedai, though one not long to the shawl. And the threat was vague enough for him to put his own worst interpretation to it. She had known that technique long before hearing Juilin mention it to Elayne.
When it appeared the idea had taken hold — and before he could ask any questions — she lowered her hand. “You will stay away for the same reason Galad does. So as not to draw attention. For the rest, you will do it because I say so. If I
must explain my every decision to you, I’ll have time for nothing else, so you must make the best of it.”
That was a suitably Aes Sedai comment. Besides, they had no choice if they intended to help her reach Rand, as they thought, which meant they had no choice. All in all, she was feeling quite satisfied with herself as she shooed them off back toward Samara and strode past the waiting crowd and under the sign bearing Valan Luca’s name.
To her surprise, there was an addition to the show. On a new platform not far from the entry, a woman in gauzy yellow trousers was standing on her head, arms outstretched to either side with a pair of white doves on each hand. No, not on her head. The woman was gripping some sort of wooden frame in her teeth and balancing on that. As Nynaeve watched, aghast, the peculiar acrobat lowered her hands to the platform for a moment while bending herself double, until she seemed to be sitting on her own head. Even that was not enough. Her legs curved down in front of her, then impossibly back up under her arms, whereupon she transferred the doves to the upturned soles of her feet, now the highest part of the contorted ball she had knotted herself into. The onlookers gasped and applauded, but the sight made Nynaeve shiver. It was all too good a reminder of what Moghedien had done to her.
That isn’t why I mean to hand her over to the Blues, she told herself. I just do not want to cause calamity again. That was true, but she was also afraid that the next time, she would not escape so easily or so lightly. She would not have admitted that to another soul. She did not like admitting it to herself.
Giving the contortionist one last puzzled glance — she could not begin to puzzle out what the woman had twisted herself into now — she turned away. And started as Elayne and Birgitte suddenly appeared at her side out of the milling crowd. Elayne had a cloak decently covering her white coat and breeches; Birgitte was all but flaunting her lownecked red gown. No, there was no “all but” to it. She stood even straighter than usual and had tossed back her braid to remove even its minimal covering. Nynaeve fingered the knot of her shawl at her waist, wishing every glance at Birgitte did not remind her how much she herself would be showing once the gray wool came off. The other woman’s quiver hung at her belt, and she carried the bow Luca had found for her. Surely the day was too late for her to go through with the shooting.
A glance at the sky told Nynaeve she was wrong. Despite everything that had happened, the sun still stood well above the horizon. Shadows stretched long, but not long enough to dissuade Birgitte, she suspected.
In an attempt to cover checking the sun, she nodded toward the woman in the gauzy trousers, who had now begun to twist herself into something that Nynaeve knew was impossible. While still balancing on her teeth. “Where did she come from?”
“Luca hired her,” Birgitte answered calmly. “He bought some leopards, as well.
Her name is Muelin.”
If Birgitte was all selfpossessed coolness, Elayne very nearly quivered with emotion. “Where did she come from?” she spluttered. “She came from a show that a mob nearly destroyed!”
“I heard about that,” Nynaeve said, “but that isn’t what is important. I —”
“Not important!” Elayne rolled her eyes to the heavens as if for guidance. “Did you also hear why? I don’t know whether it was Whitecloaks or this Prophet, but somebody whipped up that mob because they thought…” She glanced around without slowing and lowered her voice; none of the crowd had stopped, but every passerby stared at two obvious performers standing. “… that a woman in the show might wear a shawl.” She emphasized the last word significantly. “Fools to think she’d be with a traveling menagerie, but then, you and I are. And you go dashing into the city without a word to anyone. We’ve heard everything from a baldheaded man carrying you off over his shoulder to you kissing a Shienaran and traipsing away with him arm in arm.”
Nynaeve was still gaping when Birgitte added, “Luca was upset, whatever the tale. He said…” She cleared her throat and made her voice deep. “’So she likes rough men, does she? Well, I can be as rough as a winter cob!’ And off he set, leading two lads with shoulders like s’Gandin quarrymen, to fetch you back. Thom Merrilin and Juilin Sandar went as well, in not much better temper. That did not improve Luca’s, but they were all so upset over you it left no room for anger at each other.”
For a moment Nynaeve stared in confusion. She liked rough men? What could he possibly mean by…? Slowly it sank in, and she groaned. “Oh, that is just what I need.” And Thom and Juilin running around Samara. The Light knew what trouble they could get into.
“I still want to know what you thought you were doing,” Elayne said, “but we are wasting time here.”
Nynaeve let them start her off through the crowd, one to either side, but even with the news of Luca and the others, she felt satisfied with her day’s work. “We should be out of here in a day or two, with luck. If Galad doesn’t find us a boat, Masema will. It turns out he is the Prophet. You remember Masema, Elayne. That sourfaced Shienaran we saw —” Realizing that Elayne had stopped, Nynaeve paused for her to catch up again.
“Galad?” the younger woman said disbelievingly, forgetting to hold her cloak closed. “You saw — you spoke to Galad? And the Prophet? You must have, or how would they be trying to find a vessel? Did you have tea with them, or did you just meet them in a common room? Where the baldheaded man carried you, no doubt. Maybe the King of Ghealdan was there, too? Would you please convince me I am dreaming so I can wake up?”
“Get a grip on yourself,” Nynaeve said firmly. “It is a queen, now, not a king, and yes, she was. And he wasn’t bald; he had a topknot. The Shienaran, I mean. Not
the Prophet. He’s as bald as —” She glared at Birgitte until the woman stopped snickering. The glower slipped a little when Nynaeve remembered who she was glowering at and what she had done to her, but if the woman had not smoothed her features, they might have found out whether she could bring herself to slap Birgitte crosseyed. They began walking again, and she said as levelly as she could manage, “This is what happened. I saw Uno, one of the Shienarans who was at Falme, watching you highwalk, Elayne. He doesn’t think any better of the DaughterHeir of Andor showing her legs than I do, by the way. In any case, Moiraine sent them here after Falme, but…”
She related everything quickly as they made their way through the crowd, riding roughshod over Elayne’s increasingly incredulous exclamations, answering their questions in as few words as possible. Despite a quick interest in the shifts of the Ghealdanin throne, Elayne concentrated on exactly what Galad had said and why Nynaeve had been fool enough to approach the Prophet, whoever he was. That word — fool — popped up often enough to make Nynaeve keep a tight leash on her, temper. She might doubt whether she could slap Birgitte, but Elayne had no such protection, DaughterHeir or not. A few more repetitions, and the girl woud discover it. Birgitte was more interested in Masema’s intentions on the one hand and the Shienarans on the other. It seemed she had encountered Borderlanders in previous lives, though their nations had had different names, and thought well of them by and large. She said little, really, but she appeared to approve of holding on to the Shienarans.
Nynaeve expected the news about Salidar to startle them, or excite them, or anything but what it did. Birgitte took it as matteroffactly as if she had said they would eat supper with Thom and Juilin that night. Plainly she meant to go where Elayne did, and all else mattered little. Elayne looked doubtful. Doubtful!
“Are you certain? You have tried so hard to remember, and… Well, it seems awfully fortuitous that Galad should just happen to mention it to you.”
Nynaeve glowered. “Of course I am certain. Coincidences do happen. The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, as you may have heard. I remember now that he mentioned it in Sienda, too, but I was so concerned over you being concerned about him that I didn’t —” She cut off short.
They had arrived at a long narrow area near the north wall, marked off by ropes. At one end stood something like a segment of wooden fence, two paces wide and two tall. People lined the ropes four deep, with children crouching down in front or holding a father’s leg or a mother’s skirts. A buzz rose as the three women appeared. Nynaeve would have stopped dead, but Birgitte had her by the arm, and it was walk or be dragged.
“I thought we were going to the wagon,” she said faintly. Busy with talking, she had paid too little attention to where they were going.
“Not unless you want to see me shoot in the dark,” Birgitte replied. She sounded all too willing to give it a try.
Nynaeve wished she could have made some other comment than a squeak. The bit of fence filled her vision as they progressed down the open space, to the exclusion of the onlookers. Even their increasing murmurs sounded distant. The fence looked a mile from where Birgitte would stand.
“Are you sure that he said he swore by… our mother?” Elayne demanded sourly.
Acknowledging Galad as her brother even that far was unpleasant for her.
“What? Yes. I said so, didn’t I? Listen. If Luca is in the city, he would not know whether we did this or not until it was too late to…” Nynaeve knew she was babbling, but she could not seem to stop her tongue. Somehow she had never realized how far a hundred paces really was. In the Two Rivers, grown men always shot targets at twice that. But then, none of those targets had ever been her. “I mean, it already is very late. The shadows… The glare… We really should do this in the morning. When the light is —”
“If he swore by her,” Elayne broke in as if she had not been listening, “then he will hold to it no matter what. He would sooner break an oath on his hope of salvation and rebirth than that. I think… no, I know we can trust him.” She did not sound as if she particularly liked it, though.
“The light is just fine,” Birgitte said, a hint of amusement in her calm voice. “I might try it blindfolded. This lot will want it to look difficult, I think.”
Nynaeve opened her mouth, but nothing came out. This time she would have settled for a squeak. Birgitte was only making a bad joke. She had to be joking.
They positioned her with her back against the rough wooden fence, and Elayne began tugging at the knot in the shawl as Birgitte turned back the way they had come, drawing an arrow from her quiver.
“You really did something foolish this time,” Elayne muttered. “We can trust Galad’s oath, I’m sure, but you could not know what he might do beforehand. And to approach the Prophet!” She jerked the shawl from Nynaeve’s shoulders roughly. “You could have had no idea whatsoever what he might do. You worried everybody and risked everything!”
“I know,” Nynaeve managed to get out. The sun was in her eyes; she could no longer see Birgitte at all. But Birgitte could see her. Of course she could. That was the important thing.
Elayne looked at her suspiciously. “You know?”
“I know I risked everything. I should have talked with you, asked you. I know I’ve been a fool. I should not be allowed outside without a keeper.” It all came in a breathless rush. Birgitte must be able to see her.
Suspicion became concern. “Are you all right? If you really do not want to do this…”
The woman thought she was afraid. Nynaeve could not, would not, allow that. She forced a smile, hoped her eyes were not too wide. Her face felt tight. “Of course I want to. I’m looking forward to it, actually.”
Elayne gave her a dubious frown, but nodded at last. “You are sure about
Salidar?”
She did not wait for an answer, but hurried off to one side, folding the shawl. For some reason, Nynaeve could not work up a proper indignation over the question, or Elayne not waiting. Her breath was coming so fast that she was dimly aware that she might come right out of the dress’s low neck, yet even that thought could not catch her. The sun filled her view; had she squinted, she might have been able to make out Birgitte after a fashion, but her eyes had a will of their own, increasingly widening.
There was nothing she could do now. It was a punishment for taking foolish risks. She could manage only the tiniest pique over being punished after working everything out so well. And Elayne did not even believe her about Salidar! She would have to take it stoically. She would —
Seemingly out of nowhere an arrow tchunked into the wood, vibrating against her right wrist, and stoic resolve broke with a low wail. It was all she could do to keep her knees straight. A second arrow brushed the other wrist, producing a slightly higher pitch to her yelp. She could as soon stop Birgitte’s shafts as silence herself. Arrow by arrow the yelps rose higher, and it seemed to her almost as if the crowd was cheering her cries. The louder she shrieked, the louder they cheered and applauded. By the time she was outlined from knees to head, the applause was thunderous. In truth, she felt some irritation at the finish, when the crowd all rushed to throng around Birgitte, leaving her standing there staring at the fletchings around her. Some still quivered. She still quivered.
Pushing away, she scurried off toward the wagons as quickly as she could before anyone noticed how much her legs were wobbling. Not that anyone was paying any attention to her. All she had done was stand there and pray Birgitte did not sneeze, or get an itch. And tomorrow she would have to go through it again. That or let Elayne — and worse, Birgitte — know she could not face it.
When Uno came that night asking after Nana, she told him in no uncertain terms to prod Masema as much as he dared and to find Galad and tell him he must find a boat quickly, whatever it required. Then she took to her bed without eating and tried to make herself believe that she could convince Elayne and Birgitte that she was too ill to stand against that wall. Only, she was all too certain they would know exactly what her illness was. That even Birgitte would likely be all sympathy just made it worse. One of those fool men had to find a riverboat!
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 41
(Rising Sun)
The Craft of Kin Tovere
One hand on his sword hilt, the other holding the greenandwhite tasseled length of Seanchan spear, Rand ignored the others on the sparsely treed hilltop for the moment while he studied the three camps spread out below in the midmorning sun. Three distinct camps, and that was the rub. They were all the Cairhienin and Tairen forces at his disposal. Every man else who could use sword or spear was penned in the city, or the Light alone knew where.
The Aiel had rounded up refugees in hordes between the Jangai Pass and here, and a few had even straggled in on their own, lured by rumors that these Aiel at least were not killing everyone in sight, or else too dispirited to care so long as they had a meal before dying. Too many thought they would die, at the hands of the Aiel or the Dragon Reborn, or in the Last Battle, which they seemed to think was shaping up for any day now. A goodly number all together, but farmers and craftsmen and shopkeepers for the most part. Some knew how to use bow or sling to fetch a rabbit, but there was not a soldier in the lot and no time to teach them. The city of Cairhien itself lay little, more than five miles to the west, some of the fabled “topless towers of Cairhien” visible above the intervening forest. The city sprawled across hills hard by the River Alguenya, encircled by Couladin’s Shaido and those who had joined him.
One haphazard set of tents and cookfires in the long shallow valley below Rand held some eight hundred Tairens, armored men. Nearly half were Defenders of the Stone in burnished breastplates and rimmed helmets, their plump coatsleeves striped black and gold. The rest were levies from a double handful of lords whose banners and pennants made a circle in the camp’s center around the silver CrescentandStars of the High Lord Weiramon. Guards stood thickly along their picket lines as if they expected a raid against the horses any minute.
Three hundred paces away, the second camp guarded their horses as tightly. The animals were a mixed lot, few approaching the fine archnecked stock of Tear, and some former plow and cart horses were tied along those ropes or Rand missed his guess. The Cairhienin numbered perhaps a hundred more than the Tairens, but their tents were fewer and most often patched, and their banners and con represented some seventyodd lords. Few Cairhienin nobles still had many retainers, and the army had broken apart early in the civil war.
The last gathering lay another five hundred paces along, full of Cairhienin for the most part, yet well and truly separated from the others by more than distance. Larger than the other pair combined, this camp held few tents or horses. It displayed no banners, and only the officers wore con, the small pennants on their backs in solid colors meant to pick them out for their men rather than signify a House. Infantry might be necessary, but rare was the lord of Tear or Cairhien, either one,
who would admit it. Certainty none would agree to actually lead such. It was the most orderly of the camps, though, the cookfires in neat rows, the long pikes stacked upright where they could be seized in a moment and clusters of archers or crossbowmen dotted along the lines. According to Lan, discipline kept men alive in battle, but infantry were more likely to know it and believe than cavalry.
The three groups were supposedly together, under the same command — the High Lord Weiramon had brought them in from the south late the day before — but the two camps of horsemen watched each other nearly as warily as they did the Aiel on the surrounding hills, the Tairens with a dose of contempt that the Cairhienin echoed in ignoring the third, which in turn eyed the others sullenly. Rand’s followers, his allies, and as ready to fight each other as anyone else.
Still pretending to study the camps, Rand examined Weiramon, helmetless and ironspined straight nearby. Two younger men, minor Tairen lords, hung at the High Lord’s heels, dark beards trimmed and oiled in perfect imitation of Weiramon’s except that his was streaked with gray, and their breastplates, worn over brightly striped coats, bore goldwork only a touch less ornate than his. Aloof, apart from everyone else on the hilltop yet close to Rand, they could have been waiting for some martial ceremony at a royal court, except for the sweat rolling down their faces. They ignored that as well, though.
The High Lord’s sigil lacked only a few stars to duplicate Lanfear’s, but the longnosed fellow was not her in disguise, with his mainly gray hair oiled like his beard and combed in a vain attempt to hide its thinness. He had been coming north with reinforcements from Tear when he heard that Aiel were attacking the city of Cairhien itself. Instead of turning back or sitting still, he continued north as hard as his horses could stand, gathering what forces he found along the way.
That was the good news of Weiramon. The bad was that he had fully expected to dispel the Shaido around Cairhien with what he had brought. He still did. And he was none too happy that Rand would not let him be about it or that he was surrounded by Aiel. One Aiel was no different from another to Weiramon. To the others, too, for that matter. One of the young lords pointedly sniffed a scented silk handkerchief whenever he looked at an Aiel. Rand wondered how long the fellow would survive. And what Rand would have to do about it when he died.
Weiramon noticed Rand watching, and cleared his throat. “My Lord Dragon,” he began in a gravelly bark, “one good charge will scatter them like quail.” He slapped his gauntlets against his palm loudly. “Foot never stands up to horse. I will send in the Cairhienin to flush them, then follow with my —”
Rand cut him off. Could the man count at all? Did the number of Aiel he could see here give him no clue to how many might be around the city? It did not matter. Rand had heard as much of this as he could stomach. “You are certain of the news you bring from Tear?”
Weiramon blinked. “News, my Lord Dragon? What—? Oh, that. Burn my soul, there’s nothing to that. Illianer pirates often try to raid along the coast.” They were
more than trying, by what the man had said when he arrived.
“And the attacks on the Plains of Maredo? Do they often do that, as well?” “Why, burn my soul, those are just brigands.” It was more statement of fact than
protest. “Perhaps not Illianers at all, but certainly not soldiers. The jumble those Illianers make of things, who can say whether king or Assemblage or Council of Nine has the whiphand on any given day, yet if they do decide to move, it will be armies striking at Tear under the Golden Bees, not raiders burning merchants wagons and border farms. You can mark me on that.”
“If you wish it,” Rand replied, as politely as he could. Whatever power the Assemblage, or the Council of Nine, or Mattin Stepaneos den Balgar had, it was what Sammael chose to leave them. But relatively few knew that the Forsaken were loose already. Some who should know refused to believe, or ignored it — as if that would make the Forsaken go away — or seemed to think that if it had to happen, it would be in some vague and preferably distant future. There was no point in trying to convince Weiramon, whichever group he belonged in. The man’s belief or disbelief changed nothing.
The High Lord scowled at the hollow between the hills. More specifically, at the two Cairhienin camps. “With no proper rule here as yet, who can say what riffraff have drifted south?” Grimacing, he slapped his gauntlets even harder before turning back to Rand. “Well, we will bring them to heel soon enough for you, my Lord Dragon. If you will only give the order, I can drive…”
Rand brushed past him, not listening, though Weiramon followed, still asking authority to attack, the other two trailing him like heelhounds. The man was a stoneblind fool.
They were not alone, of course. The hilltop was crowded, really. Sulin had a hundred Far Dareis Mai arrayed around the peak, for one thing, every last one looking even more ready to don her veil than Aiel usually did. It was not only the nearness of the Shaido that had Sulin on edge. In mockery of Rand’s contempt for the suspicions in the camps below, Enaila and two Maidens were never far from Weiramon and his lordlings, and the closer they stood to Rand, the more the three Maidens looked about to don veils.
Not far off, Aviendha stood talking with a dozen or more Wise Ones, shawls looped over their elbows, all but she decked in bracelets and necklaces. Surprisingly, it was a bony whitehaired woman, even older than Bair, who seemed to be taking the lead. Rand would have expected Amys or Bair, but even they shut up as soon as Sorilea spoke. Melaine was with Bael, halfway between the other Wise Ones and the other clan chiefs. She kept adjusting the coat of Bael’s cadin’sor as if he did not know how to dress himself, and he had the patient look of a man reminding himself of all the reasons he had married. It might be personal, but Rand suspected the Wise Ones were trying to influence the chiefs again. If that was the case, he would learn the particulars soon enough.
It was Aviendha who held Rand’s eye, though. She smiled at him briefly before
returning to listening to Sorilea. A friendly smile, but no more. That was something, he supposed. She had not lashed out at him once since what had happened between them, and if she sometimes made an acid comment it was no sharper than what he might have expected from Egwene. Except the one time he had brought up marriage again; then she had scorched his ears so thoroughly that he had left it alone thereafter. But friendly was as far as it went, though she was sometimes careless now about undressing in front of him at night. She still insisted on sleeping no more than three paces from him.
The Maidens, at any rate, seemed sure that there was a lot less than three paces between their blankets, and he kept expecting that certainty to spread, but so far it had not. Egwene would come down on him like a falling tree if she even suspected something like that. It was easy enough for her to talk of Elayne, but he could not even puzzle out Aviendha, and she was right there in front of him. All in all, he was tenser than ever when he as much as looked at Aviendha, but she seemed more relaxed than he had ever seen her. Somehow or other, that seemed the opposite of how it should be. It all seemed topsyturvy with her. But then, Min was the only woman who had not made him feel as if he were standing on his head half the time.
Sighing, he walked on, still not listening to Weiramon. One day he was going to understand women. When he had the time to apply to it. He suspected a lifetime would not be enough, though.
The clan chiefs had their own gathering, of sept chiefs and representatives from the societies. Rand recognized some of them. Dark Heirn, chief of the Jindo Taardad, and Mangin, who gave him a companionable nod and the Tairens a contemptuous grimace. Spearslender Juranai, leader of Aethan Dor, the Red Shields, on this expedition despite a few streaks of white in his pale brown hair, and Roidan, thickshouldered and gray, who led Sha’mad Conde, the Thunder Walkers. Those four had sometimes joined him in practicing the Aiel way of fighting without weapons since leaving the Jangai Pass.
“Do you want to go hunting today?” Mangin asked as Rand passed, and Rand looked at him in surprise.
“Hunting?”
“There is not much to give sport, but we could try catching sheep in a sack.” The wry glance Mangin darted at the Tairens left little doubt what “sheep” he meant, though Weiramon and the others did not see. Or affected not to. The lordling with the perfumed handkerchief sniffed it again.
“Another time, maybe,” Rand replied, shaking his head. He thought he could have been friends with any of the four, but especially Mangin, who had a sense of humor much like Mat’s. If he had no time to study women, he certainly had no time for making new friends. Little time for old friends, for that matter. Mat worried him. On the highest part of the hill, a heavy framework tower of logs thrust above the treetops, the wide platform at the top twenty spans or more above the ground. The Aiel knew nothing about working with wood on that scale, but there had been
plenty among the Cairhienin refugees who did.
Moiraine was waiting at the base of the first slanting ladder with Lan, and Egwene. Egwene had been getting a good bit of sun; she really could have passed for Aiel except for her dark eyes. A short Aiel. He scanned her face quickly, but detected nothing except tiredness. Amys and the others must be working her too hard with her training. She would not thank him for interceding, though.
“Have you decided?” Rand asked, stopping. Weiramon fell silent at last.
Egwene hesitated, but Rand noted that she did not look at Moiraine before nodding. “I will do what I can.”
Her reluctance bothered him. He had not asked Moiraine — she could not use the One Power as a weapon against the Shaido, not unless they threatened her or he managed to convince her they were all Darkfriends — but Egwene had not taken the Three Oaths, and he had been sure she would see the necessity. Instead, she had gone whitefaced when he suggested it and had avoided for him for three days until now. At least she had agreed. Whatever made the fight shorter against the Shaido must be for the good.
Moiraine’s face never changed, though he had no doubt what she thought. Those smooth Aes Sedai features, those Aes Sedai eyes, could register icy disapproval without altering a jot.
Thrusting the piece of spear through his belt, he put foot to the first rung — and Moiraine spoke.
“Why are you wearing a sword again?”
The last question he would have expected. “Why shouldn’t I?” he muttered, and scrambled upward. Not a good answer, but she had caught him off balance.
The halfhealed wound in his side tugged as he climbed, not quite hurting but seeming about to break open just the same. He paid it no mind; it often felt that way when he exerted himself.
Rhuarc and the other clan chiefs came after him, Bael leaving Melaine last of all, but thankfully Weiramon and his two toadies remained on the ground. The High Lord knew what was to be done; he needed and wanted no more information. Feeling Moiraine’s eyes following him, Rand glanced down. Not Moiraine. It was Egwene watching him climb, her face so close to Aes Sedai that he could not have slid a hair through the difference. Moiraine had her head together with Lan’s. He hoped Egwene was not going to change her mind.
On the broad platform at the top, two short, sweating young men in shirtsleeves were setting a brassbound wooden tube, three paces long and bigger around than either’s arm, on a pivoting frame fastened to the railing. An identical tube already sat a few paces away, where it had been almost since the tower was completed the day before. A third coatless man wiped his bald head with a striped kerchief while he growled at them.
“Easy with it. Easy, I said! You motherless weasels knock a lens out of alignment, and I will knock your brainless heads backward to front. Fasten it. Tight,
Jol. Tight! If it falls while the Lord Dragon is looking through it, you both had better jump after it. Not just for him. You break my work and you will wish you had broken your fool skulls.”
Jol and the other fellow, Cail, worked on, quickly but not very visibly perturbed. They had had years to grow used to Kin Tovere’s way of talking. It had been finding a craftsman who made lenses and looking glasses — and his two apprentices — among the refugees that had first given Rand the idea for this tower.
At first none of the three noticed they were not alone. The clan chiefs climbed on silent feet, and Tovere’s harangue was enough to cover the sound of Rand’s boots. Rand himself was startled when Lan’s head popped through the open trap after Bael; boots or no, the Warder made no more noise than the Aiel. Even Lan stood a head taller than the Cairhienin.
When they finally did see the new arrivals, the two apprentices gave wideeyed starts as if they had never seen an Aiel before, then bent themselves in half bowing to Rand and stayed that way. The lensmaker jerked almost as much at the sight of the Aiel, but made a more restrained bow, wiping his head again in the middle of it.
“Told you I would have the second finished today, my Lord Dragon.” Tovere managed to get respect into his tone without making his voice one bit less gruff. “A wonderful thought, this tower. I would never have conceived it, but once you started asking how far you could see with a looking glass… Give me time, and I will make you one to see Caemlyn from here. If the tower is built high enough,” he added judiciously. “There are limits.”
“What you’ve done already is more than enough, Master Tovere.” More than Rand had hoped for, certainly. He had already had a look through the first looking glass.
Jol and Cail were still bent at right angles, heads down. “Perhaps you had best take your apprentices below,” Rand said. “So we don’t get crowded.”
There was room for four times as many, but Tovere immediately poked Cail’s shoulder with a thick finger. “Come along, you hamfisted stableboys. We are in the Lord Dragon’s way.”
The apprentices barely straightened enough to follow him, gazing roundeyed at Rand even more than at the Aiel as they vanished down the ladder. Cail was a year older than he, Jol two. Both had been born in bigger towns than he had imagined before leaving the Two Rivers, had visited Cairhien and seen the king and the Amyrlin Seat, if at a distance, while he was still tending sheep. Very likely, they still knew more of the world than he in some ways. Shaking his head, he bent to the new looking glass.
Cairhien leaped into view. The forests, never particularly thick to one used to Two Rivers’ woods, stopped completely well short of the city, of course. High gray, squaretowered walls in a perfect square against the river mocked the hills’ flowing curves. Within, more towers rose in precise pattern, marking the points of a grid, some twenty times as high as the walls or more, yet all surrounded by scaffolding.
The legendary topless towers were still being rebuilt after their burning in the Aiel War.
When last he had seen the city, another city had surrounded it from riverbank to riverbank — Foregate, a rabbit warren as raucous as Cairhien was solemn, all in wood. Now only a wide stretch of ash and charred timbers bordered the walls. How that fire had been kept from spreading into Cairhien itself, he could not understand.
Banners decked every tower in the city, too distant to make out clearly, but scouts had described them to him. Half bore the Crescents of Tear; the other half, perhaps not surprisingly, duplicated the Dragon banner he had left flying over the Stone of Tear. Not one bore the Rising Sun of Cairhien.
Moving the looking glass only a little swept the city from his sight. On the far side of the river still stood the blackened stone shells of the granaries. Some of the Cairhienin Rand had talked to claimed the torching of the granaries had led to riots and then King Galldrian’s death, and thus to the civil war. Others said Galldrian’s assassination had caused the riots and the burning. Rand doubted that he would ever know which was the truth, or whether either was.
A number of burnedout hulks dotted both banks of the wide river, but none lay close to the city. Aiel had an uneasiness — fear might be too strong a word — about bodies of water they could not step across or wade, but Couladin had managed to put barriers of floating logs across the Alguenya both above and below Cairhien, along with enough men to see they were not cut. Firearrows had done the rest. Nothing except rats and birds could get into or out of Cairhien without Couladin’s leave.
The hills around the city showed little sign of a besieging army. Here and there vultures flapped heavily, no doubt feasting on the remains of some attempt to break out, but no Shaido were visible. Aiel seldom were unless they wanted to be.
Wait. Rand swung the looking glass back to a treeless hilltop perhaps a mile from the city walls. Back to a cluster of men. He could not discern faces, or much else aside from the fact that they all wore the cadin’sor. One thing more. One of those men had bare arms. Couladin. Rand was sure it must be imagination, but he thought that when Couladin moved he could see sunlight glittering off the metallic scales encircling the man’s forearms in imitation of his own. Asmodean had put those there. Just an attempt to divert Rand’s attention, to occupy him while Asmodean worked his own plans, but without that, how much would have turned out differently? Certainly, he would not be standing on this tower, watching a besieged city and awaiting a battle.
Suddenly, something streaked through the air on that distant hilltop, a long blur, and two of the men there went down thrashing. Staring at the fallen men, both apparently transfixed with the same spear, Couladin and the others seemed as stunned as Rand. Twisting the looking glass, Rand scanned for the man who had thrown with such force. He had to be brave — and a fool — to get close enough. Rand’s search widened quickly, beyond any possible range of a human arm. He was
beginning to think of Ogier — not likely; it took a great deal to rouse an Ogier into violence — when another streaking blur caught his eye.
Startled, he halfstraightened before jerking the glass back to Cairhien’s walls. That spear — or whatever it was — had come from there. He was certain of it. How was another matter entirely. At this distance it was all he could do to make out an occasional someone moving on the wails or atop a tower.
Raising his head, Rand found Rhuarc just stepping away from the other looking glass, giving up his place to Han. That was the whole reason for the tower and the glasses. Scouts brought back what word they could of how the Shaido were deployed, but this way the chiefs could see for themselves the terrain on which the battle would be fought. They had worked out a plan between them already, but one more look at the land could never go amiss. Rand did not know much about battles, but Lan thought their plan a good one. At least, Rand did not know much in his own mind; sometimes those other memories crept in, and then he seemed to know more than he wanted.
“Did you see that? Those… spears?”
Rhuarc looked as puzzled as Rand knew he himself must, but the Aiel nodded. “The last took another Shaido, but he crawled away. Not Couladin, worse luck.” He gestured to the looking glass, and Rand let him take his place.
Was it such bad luck? Couladin’s death would not end the threat to Cairhien, or to anywhere else. Now they were this side of the Dragonwall, the Shaido would not tamely return just because the man they thought was the true Car’a’carn died. It might well shake them, but not enough for that. And after all Rand had seen, he did not think Couladin deserved so easy a way out. I can be as hard as I must, he thought, stroking his sword hilt. For him, I can.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 42
(Dice)
Before the Arrow
The inside of a tent roof had to be the most boring sight in the world, but lying back in his shirtsleeves on scarlettasseled cushions that Melindhra had acquired, Mat studied the graybrown cloth intently. Or rather, he stared beyond it. One arm curled behind his head, he swirled a hammeredsilver goblet full of good wine from the south of Cairhien. A small cask had cost him as much as two good horses would
as much as two horses would have if the world and everything in it had not been stood on its head — but he counted it a small price for something decent. Sometimes a drop or two splashed over onto his hand, but he never noticed and he never took a drink.
By his book, matters had long since gone beyond merely serious. Serious was being stuck in the Waste with no idea of the way out. Serious was Darkfriends popping up when you least expected, Trolloc attacks in the night, the odd Myrddraal freezing your blood with an eyeless stare. That sort of thing came quickly, and usually was done before you had much chance to think. It was certainly not what you would seek out, yet if you had to, you could live with it if you could live through it. But for days he had known where they were heading, and why. Nothing quick about it. Days to think.
I am no bloody hero, he thought grimly, and I’m no bloody soldier. Fiercely he pushed down a memory of walking fortress walls, ordering his last reserves to where another crop of Trolloc scaling ladders had sprung up. That was not me the Light burn whoever it was! I’m… He did not know what he was — a sour thought
but whatever he was, it involved gambling and taverns, women and dancing. That he was sure of. It involved a good horse and every road in the world to choose from, not sitting and waiting for somebody to shoot arrows at him or try to stick a sword or a spear through his ribs. Any different would make him a fool, and he would not be that, not for Rand or Moiraine or anybody else.
As he sat up, the silver foxhead medallion, hanging on its leather thong, slipped from the unlaced neck of his shirt. He tucked it back before taking a long swallow of wine. The medallion made him safe from Moiraine, or any other Aes Sedai, as long as they did not get it away from him — surely one or another would try sooner or later — but nothing except his own wits kept him safe from some fool killing him along with a few thousand other fools. Or from Rand, or from being ta’veren.
A man ought to be able to find a profit in something like that, having events twist themselves around him. Rand certainly had, in a way. He himself had never noticed anything twisting around him except the fall of dice. He would not turn away from some of the things that happened to ta’veren in stories. Wealth and fame dropped into their pockets as if from the sky; men who wanted to kill them decided to follow instead, and women with ice in their eyes decided to melt.
Not that he was complaining at what he had, really. And certainly not that he wanted anything like Rand’s bargain; the price to get into the game was too high. It was just that he seemed to be stuck with all the burdens of being ta’veren and none of the pleasure.
“It is time to go,” he told the empty tent, then paused thoughtfully and sipped at the goblet. “It is time to get on Pips and ride. Ride to Caemlyn, maybe.” Not a bad city, so long as he avoided the Royal Palace. “Or Lugard.” He had heard rumors about Lugard. A fine place, that, for the likes of him. “Time to leave Rand in my dust. He’s got a bloody Aiel army and more Maidens than he can count taking care of him. He doesn’t need me.”
That last was not strictly true. In some strange way he was tied to Rand’s success or failure in Tarmon Gai’don, him and Perrin both, three ta’veren all tangled together. The histories would probably only mention Rand. Small chance he or Perrin would find any place in the stories. And then there was the Horn of Valere. Which he did not want to think about, and would not. Not until he had to. There might be some way out of that particular mess yet. Any way he looked at it, the Horn was a problem for another day. A distant day. With luck, all those bills would come due on a very distant day. Only, that might take more luck than he had.
The point now was that he had said all of that about going and felt scarcely a twinge. Not long ago, he had been unable even to speak of leaving; when he got too far from Rand, he had been drawn back like a hooked fish on some invisible line. Then he had become able to say it, even to lay plans, but the slightest thing would distract him, make him put off his schemes for stealing away. Even in Rhuidean, when he had told Rand he was going, he had been sure something would get in the way. It had, in a manner of speaking; Mat had made it out of the Waste, but he was no further from Rand than before. This time, he did not think he would be diverted.
“Not like I was abandoning him,” he muttered. “If he can’t bloody take care of himself by now, he’ll never be able to. I’m not his bloody nursemaid.”
Draining the goblet, he scrambled into his green coat, settled his knives in their hiding places, arranged a dark yellow silk scarf to hide the hanging scar on his throat, then snatched up his hat and ducked out.
Heat hit him in the face after the relatively cool shade inside. He was not sure how the seasons changed here, but summer was hanging on too long to suit him. One thing he had looked forward to on leaving the Waste was the arrival of autumn. A little coolness. No luck here. At least the hat’s wide brim kept the sun off.
This hilly Cairhienin forest was a pitiful thing, more clearings than trees and half of them going brown in the drought. Not a patch on the Westwood, back home. Low Aiel tents were everywhere, though at any distance they took on the look of a pile of dead leaves or a bare hummock of ground unless the side flaps were up, and even then they were not easy to see. The Aiel going about their business did not look at him twice.
From one crest as he crossed the encampment, he caught sight of Kadere’s
wagons, all in a circle, the drivers lying in the shade underneath and the peddler nowhere in view. Kadere kept to his wagon more and more, seldom poking his nose out except when Moiraine came to inspect the ladings. The Aiel ringing the wagons, small knots with spears and bucklers, bows and quivers, made little pretense of being anything but guards. Moiraine must think Kadere or some of his men would try to make off with what she had brought out of Rhuidean. Mat wondered whether Rand realized that he was giving her anything and everything she asked. For a while Mat had thought Rand had gotten the upper hand there, but he was not so sure any longer, even if Moiraine did do everything but curtsy and fetch Rand’s pipe.
Rand’s tent was on a hilltop by itself, naturally, that red banner on a staff at its front. It rippled in a light breeze, sometimes standing out enough to show the blackandwhite disc. The thing made Mat’s skin crawl as much as the Dragon banner had. If a man wanted to avoid Aes Sedai entanglements, as any but an idiot would, the last thing to do was wave that symbol about.
The slopes of the hill were bare, but Maidens’ tents encircled the foot of the hill and spread through the trees up surrounding slopes and down the other side. That was as usual, too, and so was the Wise Ones’ camp within the Far Dareis Mai, dozens of low tents in shouting distance of Rand’s hill, with whiterobed gai’shain bustling about.
There were only a few of the Wise Ones to be seen, yet they made up for lack of numbers with the stares that followed him. He had no idea how many could channel in that bunch, but they were a fair equal of Aes Sedai weighing and measuring when it came to stares. He picked up his pace, making an effort not to shrug uncomfortably; he could feel those eyes on his back as surely as he could have a poke from a stick. And he would have to run the same gauntlet coming out. Well, a few words with Rand, and it would be the last time he had to run it.
Only, when he pulled off his hat and ducked into Rand’s tent, no one was there except Natael, lounging on the cushions with his gilded, dragoncarved harp propped against his knee and a gold goblet in his hand.
Mat grimaced, and swore under his breath. He should have known as much. If Rand had been here, he would have had to pass through a circle of Maidens right around the tent. Most likely he was up at that newbuilt tower. A good idea, that. Know the terrain. That was the second rule, close behind “Know your enemy,” and not much to choose between them.
The thought put a sour twist to his mouth. Those rules came from other men’s memories; the only rules he wanted to remember were “Never kiss a girl whose brothers have knife scars” and “Never gamble without knowing a back way out.” He almost wished those memories of other men were still separate lumps in his brain instead of oozing into his thoughts when he least expected.
“Trouble with a bilious stomach?” Natael asked lazily. “One of the Wise Ones might have a root to cure it. Or you could try Moiraine.”
Mat could not like the man; he always seemed to be thinking of a joke he did not mean to share. And he always looked as if he had three servants taking care of his clothes. All that snowy lace at collar and cuffs, always seeming freshly laundered. The fellow never appeared to sweat, either. Why Rand wanted him around was a mystery. He almost never played anything merry on that harp. “Will he be back soon?”
Natael shrugged. “When he decides to. Perhaps soon, perhaps late. No man clocks the Lord Dragon. And few women.” There it was again, that secretive smile. A touch bleak, this time.
“I’ll wait.” He meant to go through with this. Too many times he had found himself putting off going.
Natael sipped at his wine, studying him across the goblet’s rim.
It was bad enough that Moiraine and the Wise Ones watched him in that silent, searching way — sometimes Egwene did too; she had certainly changed, half Wise One and half Aes Sedai — but from Rand’s gleeman, it was enough to set his teeth on edge. The best thing about leaving would be not having anyone look at him as if they would know in a minute what he was thinking, and already knew whether his smallclothes were clean.
Two maps lay spread out near the firepit. One, copied in detail from a tattered map found in a halfburned town, covered northern Cairhien from west of the Alguenya halfway to the Spine of the World, while the other, newly drawn and sketchy, showed the land around the city. Slips of parchment held down with pebbles dotted both. If he was going to stay, and ignore Natael’s searching look at the same time, there was nothing for it but to study the maps.
With the toe of his boot he shifted a few pebbles on the map of the city so he could read what was written on the parchments. In spite of himself, he winced. If the Aiel scouts could count, Couladin had nearly one hundred and sixty thousand spears — Shaido and those who had supposedly gone to join their societies among the Shaido. A hard nut to crack, and prickly. This side of the Spine of the World had not seen an army like that since Artur Hawkwing’s time.
The second map showed the other clans that had crossed the Dragonwall. All had now, in one force or another, strung out according to when they had left the Jangai and spread apart, but too close to here for comfort. The Shiande, the Codarra, the Daryne, and the Miagoma. Between them, they apparently had at least as many spears as Couladin; they had not left many behind, if that was true. The seven clans with Rand almost doubled that, easily enough to face Couladin or the four clans. Either or. Not both, not at once. But both at once might be what Rand had to fight.
What the Aiel called the bleakness had to be affecting those clans too — every day still men tossed down their weapons and vanished — but only a fool would think it lessened their numbers any more than it did Rand’s. And there was always the possibility that some of those were going to Couladin. The Aiel did not speak of
it very much or very freely, and masked the idea behind talk of joining societies, but even now, men and Maidens decided they could not accept Rand or what he had told them of themselves. Every morning some were missing, and not all left their spears behind.
“A pretty situation, wouldn’t you say?”
Mat’s head jerked up at Lan’s voice, but the Warder had entered the tent alone. “Just something to look at while I waited. Is Rand coming back?”
“He will be with us soon.” Thumbs tucked behind his sword belt, Lan stood beside .Mat, looking down at the map. His face gave away as much as a statue’s would. “Tomorrow should bring the largest battle since Artur Hawkwing.”
“You don’t say?” Where was Rand? Still up on that tower, probably. Maybe he should go there. No, he could end up haring all over the camp, always one step behind. Rand would come here eventually. He wanted to talk about something besides Couladin. This fight is none of mine. I’m not running away from anything that concerns me in the least. “What about them?” He gestured to the slips representing the Miagoma and the others. “Any word on whether they mean to join Rand, or do they just intend to sit there watching?”
“Who can say? Rhuarc doesn’t seem to know any more than I do, and if the Wise Ones do, they are not telling. The only thing certain is that Couladin is not going anywhere.”
Couladin again. Mat shifted uncomfortably and took a halfstep toward the entrance. No, he would wait. Fastening his gaze on the maps, he pretended to study them further. Perhaps Lan would leave him in silence. He just wanted to say his piece to Rand and go.
The Warder appeared to want to talk, though. “What do you think, Master Gleeman? Should we rush down on Couladin with everything and crush him tomorrow?”
“That sounds as good to me as any other plan,” Natael replied dourly. Emptying the goblet down his throat, he dropped it on the carpets and picked up the harp to begin softly strumming something dark and funereal. “I lead no armies, Warder. I command nothing save myself, and not always that.”
Mat grunted, and Lan glanced at him before returning to his study of the maps. “You do not think it a good plan? Why not?”
He said it so casually that Mat answered without thinking. “Plenty of reasons. If you surround Couladin, trap him between you and the city, you might crush him against it.” How long was Rand going to be? “But you might push him right over the walls, too. From what I hear, he’s nearly gotten over twice already, even without miners or siege engines, and the city is hanging on by its teeth.” Say his piece and go, that was it. “Press him enough, and you’ll find yourself fighting inside Cairhien. Nasty thing, fighting in a city. And the idea is to save the place, not finish ruining it.” Those slips laid out on the maps, the maps themselves, made it all so clear.
Frowning, he squatted with his elbows on his knees. Lan got down with him,
but he hardly noticed. A dicey problem. And fascinating. “Best if you try to shove him away. Hit him from the south, mainly.” He pointed to the River Gaelin; it joined the Alguenya some miles north of the city. “There are bridges up here. Leave the Shaido a clear path to them. Always leave a way out, unless you really want to find out how hard a man can fight when he’s nothing to lose.” His finger slid east. Wooded hills for the most part, it seemed. Probably not much different from right around here. “A blocking force here on this side of the river will make sure they go for the bridges, if it’s big enough and positioned right. Once they are moving, Couladin won’t want to try fighting someone ahead of him while you’re coming behind.” Yes. Almost exactly the same as at Jenje. “Not unless he’s a complete fool, anyway. They might make it to the river in good order, but those bridges will choke them. I don’t see Aiel swimming, or hunting out fords for that matter. Keep the pressure on, shove them across. With luck you’ll be able to harry them all the way to the mountains.” It was like Cuaindaigh Fords, too, late in the Trolloc Wars, and on much the same scale. Not much different from the Tora Shan, either. Or Sulmein Gap, before Hawkwing found his stride. The names flickered through his head, the images of bloody fields forgotten even by historians. Absorbed in the map as he was, they did not register as anything but his own remembrances. “Too bad you don’t have more cavalry. Light cavalry is best for the harrying. Bite at the flanks, keep them running, and never let them settle to fight. But Aiel should do almost as well.”
“And the other reason?” Lan asked quietly.
Mat was caught up in it, now. He more than merely liked gambling, and battle was a gamble to make dicing in taverns a thing for children and toothless invalids. Lives were the stake here, your own and other men’s, men who were not even there. Make the wrong wager, a foolish bet, and cities died, or whole nations. Natael’s somber music was fit accompaniment. At the same time, this was a game that set the blood racing.
Without lifting his eyes from the map, he snorted. “You know as well as I. If even one of those four clans decides to side with Couladin, they’ll take you from behind while your hands are still full of Shaido. Couladin will be the anvil and they the hammer, with you the nut between. Only take half of what you have against Couladin. That makes it an even fight, but you have to settle for it.” There was no such thing as fairness in war. You took your enemy from behind, when he least expected it, when and where he was weakest. “You still have an edge. He has to worry about a sortie from the city. The other half, you split in three parts. One to funnel Couladin to the river, the other two a few miles apart, between the city and the four clans.”
“Very neat,” Lan said, nodding. That slabcarved face never changed, but approval touched his voice, if lightly. “It would gain a clan nothing to attack either force, especially not when the other could take it in the rear. And none will try to interfere in what happens around the city for the same reason. Of course, all four
could join. Not likely, if they haven’t already, but if they do, everything changes.”
Mat laughed aloud. “Everything always changes. The best plan lasts until the first arrow leaves the bow. This would be easy enough for a child to handle, except for Indirian and the rest not knowing their own minds. If they all decide to go over to Couladin, you toss the dice and hope, because the Dark One’s in the game for sure. At least you’ll have enough strength clear of the city nearly to match them. Enough to hold them for the time you need. Abandon the idea of pursuing Couladin and turn everything on them as soon as he’s well and truly begun crossing the Gaelin. But it’s my bet they’ll wait and watch, and come to you once Couladin is done for. Victory settles a lot of arguments in most men’s heads.”
The music had stopped. Mat glanced at Natael, and found the man holding his harp rigidly, staring at him over it harder than ever. Staring as if he had never seen him before, did not know what he was. The gleeman’s eyes were dark polished glass, his knuckles white on the harp’s gilding.
With that it all crashed home, what he had been saying, the memories he had been embracing. Burn you for a fool, for not guarding your tongue! Why had Lan had to take the conversation that way? Why could he not have talked about horses, or the weather, or just kept his mouth shut? The Warder had never seemed all that eager to talk before. Usually the man made a tree seem talkative. Of course, he could have kept his own mind focused and his own mouth shut, too. At least he had not been babbling in the Old Tongue. Blood and ashes, but I hope I wasn’t!
Springing to his feet, Mat turned to go, and found Rand standing just inside the tent, absently twisting that odd bit of tasseled spear as if he did not realize he was holding it. How long had he been there? It did not matter. Mat spilled it all out in a rush. “I’m leaving, Rand. Come first light in the morning, I am in the saddle and gone. I’d go this minute if I could get far enough in half a day to suit me for stopping. I mean to put as many miles between me and the Aiel — any Aiel — as Pips can cover before I make camp.” No point in bedding down close enough to be snapped up and hung out to dry by somebody’s scouts; Couladin must have them out too, and even the others might not recognize him before he had a spear in his liver.
“I will be sorry to see you go,” Rand said quietly.
“Don’t try to talk me out of —” Mat blinked. “That’s it? You’ll be sorry to see me go?”
“I’ve never tried to make you stay, Mat. Perrin went when he had to, and so can you.”
Mat opened his mouth, then closed it again. Rand had never tried to make him stay, true. He had just done it without trying. But there was not the slightest bit of ta’veren tugging, now, no vague feelings that he was doing the wrong thing. He was firm and clear in his purpose.
“Where will you go?”
“South.” Not that there was much choice of direction. The others led to the
Gaelin, with nothing north of the river that he was interested in, or else to Aiel, one lot that would certainly kill him and one that might or might not, depending on how close by Rand was and what they had had for supper the night before. Not good odds, by his reckoning. “To begin, anyway. Then somewhere there’s a tavern, and some women who don’t carry spears.” Melindhra. She might present a problem. He had the feeling she might be the sort of woman who did not let go until she wanted. Well, one way or another, he would deal with her. Maybe he could just ride out before she knew it. “This isn’t for me, Rand. I don’t know anything about battles, and I don’t want to know.” He avoided looking at Lan and Natael. If either man cracked his teeth, he would punch him right in the mouth. Even the Warder. “You understand, don’t you?”
Rand’s nod could have been understanding. Maybe it was. “I’d forget saying goodbye to Egwene, were I you. I am no longer certain how much of what I tell her I might as well be telling Moiraine, or the Wise Ones, or both.”
“I reached that conclusion a long time ago. She’s left Emond’s Field further behind than either of us. And regrets it less.”
“Maybe,” Rand said sadly. “The Light shine on you, Mat,” he added, sticking out his hand, “and send you smooth roads, fair weather and pleasant company until we meet again.”
That would not be soon, if Mat had his way. He felt a little sad about that, and a little foolish for feeling sad, yet a man had to look after himself. When all was said and done, that was the long and short of it.
Rand’s grip was as hard as it had ever been — all that swordwork had only added new calluses atop older bowman’s — but the ridged heron brand in his palm was distinct against Mat’s hand. Just a little reminder, in case he should forget the markings under his friend’s coatsleeves, or those even stranger things inside his head that let him channel. If he could forget that Rand could channel — and he had not thought of it once in days; days! — then it was far past time to be gone.
A few more awkward words standing there — Lan seemed to ignore them, arms folded, silently studying the maps, while Natael had begun idly plucking his harp; Mat had an ear for music, and to him the unfamiliar tune had an ironic sound; he wondered why the fellow had chosen it — a few more moments and Rand halfstepping around actually putting an end to it, and then Mat was outside. There was a crowd out there, a good hundred Maidens spread about the hilltop and walking on tiptoe they were so ready to spear somebody, all seven clan chiefs waiting patient and still as stone, three Tairen lords trying to pretend that they were not sweating and the Aiel did not exist.
He had heard about the lords’ arrival, and had even gone to take a look at their camp — or camps — but there had been no one there he knew, and no one wanting to take a turn at dice or cards. These three eyed him up and down, frowning disdainfully, and apparently decided he was no better than the Aiel, which was to say not worth seeing.
Clapping his hat on his head and pulling the brim low over his eyes, Mat studied the Tairens coldly in return for a moment. He had the pleasure of seeing the younger pair, at least, become uncomfortably aware of him again before he started down the hill. The graybeard still looked all barely concealed impatience to enter Rand’s tent, but it did not matter anyway. He would never see any of them again.
He had no idea why he had not simply ignored them. Except that his step was lighter and he felt full of vinegar. No wonder, really, leaving tomorrow at last. The dice seemed to be spinning in his head, and there was no knowing what pips would show when they landed. Odd, that. It must be Melindhra worrying him. Yes. He would definitely leave early, and as quietly as a mouse tiptoeing on feathers.
Whistling, he set off for his tent. What was the tune? Oh, yes. “Dance with Jak o’ the Shadows.” He had no intention of dancing with death, but it had a merry sound, so he whistled it anyway as he tried to plan the best route away from Cairhien.
Rand stood staring after Mat long after the tent flaps had fallen to hide him. “I only heard the last bit,” he said finally. “Was it all like that?”
“Very nearly,” Lan replied. “With only a few minutes to study the maps, he laid out close to the battle plan that Rhuarc and the others made. He saw the difficulties and the dangers, and how to meet them. He knows about miners and siege engines, and using light cavalry to harry a defeated foe.”
Rand looked at him. The Warder showed no surprise, not the twitch of an eyelash. Of course, he was the one who had said Mat seemed surprisingly knowledgeable about military matters. And Lan was not going to ask the obvious question, either, which was good. Rand had no right to give the little answer he had.
He could have asked a few questions himself. Such as, What did miners have to do with battles? Or maybe it was only sieges. Whatever the answer, there was not a mine closer than the Dragon’s Dagger, and no certainty anyone was still digging ore. Well, this battle would be fought without. The important thing was that he knew Mat had gained more on the other side of that doorway ter’angreal than a tendency to spout the Old Tongue when not thinking. And knowing that, Rand would surely make use of it.
You don’t have to get any harder, he thought bitterly. He had seen Mat climbing toward this tent, and never hesitated in sending Lan in to discover what might come to the surface in idle conversation, alone. That had been deliberate. The rest might or might not be, but it would happen. He hoped Mat had a fine time while he was free. He hoped that Perrin was enjoying himself in the Two Rivers, showing off Faile to his mother and sisters, maybe marrying her. He hoped it because he knew he would draw them back, ta’veren pulling at ta’veren, and he the strongest. Moiraine had named it no coincidence, three such growing up in the same village, all nearly the same age; the Wheel wove happenstance and coincidence into the Pattern, but it did not lay down the likes of the three of them for no reason. Eventually he would pull his friends back to him, however far they went, and when
they came, he would use them, however he could. However he had to. Because he did have to. Because whatever the Prophecy of the Dragon said, he was sure the only chance he had of winning Tarmon Gai’don lay in having all three of them, three ta’veren who had been tied together since infancy, tied together once more. No, he did not need to become hard. You’re rank enough already to make a Seanchan spew his supper!
“Play ‘March of Death,’” he commanded in a harsher voice than he wanted, and Natael looked at him blankly for a moment. The man had been listening to everything. He would have questions, but he would find no answers. If Rand could not tell Lan Mat’s secrets, he would not spread them before one of the Forsaken, however tame he appeared. This time he deliberately made his tone rough, and pointed the length of spear at the man. “Play it, unless you know a sadder. Play something to make your soul weep. If you have one still.”
Natael gave him an ingratiating smile and a seated bow, but he went white around the eyes. It was indeed “The March of Death” that he began, yet it had a sharper edge on his harp than ever before, a dirgelike keen that surely would make any soul weep. He stared fixedly at Rand as if hoping to see some effect.
Turning away, Rand stretched out on the carpets with his head to the maps and a redandgold cushion under his elbow. “Lan, would you ask the others to come in now?”
The Warder made a formal bow before stepping outside. It was the first time that he had ever done that, but Rand noticed only absently.
The battle would begin tomorrow. It was a polite fiction that he helped Rhuarc and the others plan. He was smart enough to know what he did not know, and despite all of his talks with Lan and Rhuarc, he knew he was not ready. I’ve planned a hundred battles this size or more and given orders that led to ten times as many. Not his thought. Lews Therin knew war — had known war — but not Rand al’Thor, and that was him. He listened, asked questions — and nodded as if he understood when the chiefs said a thing should be done a certain way. Sometimes he did understand and wished he did not, because he knew where that understanding came from. His only real contribution had been to say that Couladin had to be defeated without destroying the city. In any, case, this meeting would only add a few touches at most to what had already been decided.
Mat would have been useful, with his newfound knowledge.
No. He would not think of his friends, of what he would do to them before it was all done. Even leaving the battle aside, there was plenty to occupy him, things he could do something about. The absence of Cairhienin flags above Cairhien marked a major problem, and the continued skirmishes with Andorans another. What Sammael was up to warranted thought, and…
The chiefs filed in in no particular order. This time Dhearic came first, Rhuarc and Erim together at the rear with Lan. Bruan and Jheran took the places next to Rand. They did not concern themselves with precedence among themselves, and
Aan’allein they seemed to take as all but one of them.
Weiramon entered last, his lordlings at his heels and a tightmouthed scowl on his face. Precedence certainly mattered to him. Muttering into his oiled beard, he stalked his way around the firepit, taking up a place behind Rand. Until the chiefs’ flat stares finally broke through his shell, at least. Among Aiel, a close kinsman or society brother might position himself so, if there was the possibility of a knife in the back. He still frowned at Jheran and Dhearic as though expecting one of them to make room.
Finally Bael gestured to the place beside him, across the maps from Rand, and after a pause, Weiramon strode back to sit crosslegged and rigid, staring straight ahead and looking like a man who had swallowed an unripe plum whole. The younger Tairens stood almost as stiffly at his back, one with the grace to look embarrassed.
Rand took note of him but said not a word, only thumbed his pipe full of tabac and seized saidin long enough to light it. He had to do something about Weiramon; the man exacerbated old problems and made new ones. Not a flicker crossed Rhuarc’s features, but the other chiefs’ expressions ranged from Lan’s sour disgust to Erim’s clear, coldeyed readiness to dance spears there and then. Perhaps there was a way for Rand to rid himself of Weiramon and make a beginning on another of his worries at the same time.
With Rand’s example, Lan and the chiefs began filling pipes.
“I see only small changes necessary,” Bael said, puffing his pipe alight, and sparking a glower from Han, as usual.
“Do these small changes concern the Goshien, or perhaps some other clan?” Putting Weiramon from his mind, Rand bent himself to listening as they worked out what had to be altered from their new view of the terrain. Now and again one of the Aiel would glance at Natael, a brief tightness to eyes or mouth suggesting that the mournful music plucked at something in him. Even the Tairens grimaced sadly. The sounds washed over Rand, though, touching nothing. Tears were a luxury he could no longer afford, not even inside.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 43
(Full Aes Sedai Symbol) This Place, This Day
The next morning Rand was up and dressed well before first light. In truth, he had not slept, and it had not been Aviendha who kept him awake, not even after she began undressing before he could put out the lamps and channeled one alight again as soon as he did, chiding him that she was unable to see in the dark even if he could. He made no reply, and hours later, had hardly noticed when she rose, a good hour before he did, dressed and left. He did not even think to wonder where she was going.
The thoughts that had had him staring up into the blackness still ran hrough his head. Men would die today. A great many men, even if everything went perfectly. Nothing he did now would change it; today would run out according to the Pattern. But over and over he mulled the decisions he had made since he first entered the Waste. Could he have done something different, something that would have avoided this day, this place? Next time, perhaps. The tasseled length of spear lay atop his sword belt and scabbarded blade beside his blankets. There would be a next time, and one beyond that, and beyond again.
While darkness still held, the chiefs came in a bunch for a few final words, to report that their men were in position and ready. Not that anything else was expected. Stonefaced as they were, some emotion showed. An odd mix, though, a skim of ebullience over somberness.
Erim actually wore a slight smile. “A good day, to see the end of the Shaido,” he said finally. He seemed to be walking on his toes.
“The Light willing,” Bael said, his head brushing the roof of the tent, “we will wash the spears in Couladin’s blood before sunfall.”
“Bad luck to talk of what will be,” Han muttered. The skim was very thin on him, of course. “Fate will decide.”
Rand nodded. “The Light send it does not decide on too many of our number dead.” He wished his concern were only that few men should die because men should not have their lives cut short, but there were many more days to come. He would need every spear to bring order to this side of the Dragonwall. That was a bone between him and Couladin every bit as much as the rest.
“Life is a dream,” Rhuarc told him, and Han and the others nodded agreement. Life was only a dream, and all dreams had to end. Aiel did not run toward death, yet they did not run from it either.
As they were departing, Bael paused. “Are you certain of what you want the Maidens to do? Sulin has been speaking to the Wise Ones.”
So that was what Melaine had been at Bael about. The way Rhuarc stopped to listen, he had been hearing from Amys on the subject, too.
“Everyone else is doing what they are supposed to without complaining, Bael.”
That was unfair, but this was no game. “If the Maidens want special consideration, Sulin can come to me, not go running to the Wise Ones.”
Had they been anything but Aiel, Rhuarc and Bael would have been shaking their heads as they left. Rand supposed each would get an earful from his wife, but they would have to live with it. If Far Dareis Mai carried his honor, this time they would carry it where he wanted.
To Rand’s surprise Lan appeared just as he was ready to go out himself. The Warder’s cloak hung down his back, disturbing the vision as it rippled with his movements.
“Is Moiraine with you?” Rand had expected Lan to be glued to her side.
“She is fretting in her tent. She cannot possibly Heal even all of the worst hurt today.” That was her choice of how to help; she could not use the Power as a weapon today, but she could Heal. “Waste always angers her.”
“It angers us all,” Rand snapped. His taking Egwene away probably upset her, too. As far as he could tell, Egwene was not very good at Healing on her own, but she could have aided Moiraine. Well, he needed her to keep her promise. “Tell Moiraine if she needs help, ask some of the Wise Ones who can channel.” But few Wise Ones had any knowledge of Healing. “She can link with them and use their strength.” He hesitated. Had Moiraine ever spoken of linking to him? “You didn’t come here to tell me Moiraine is brooding,” he said irritably. It was difficult sometimes, keeping straight what came from her, what from Asmodean, and what bubbled up from Lews Therin.
“I came to ask why you’ve taken to wearing a sword again.” “Moiraine asked already. Did she send —?”
Lan’s face did not change, but he cut in roughly. “I want to know. You can make a sword from the Power, or kill without, but suddenly you are wearing steel on your hip again. Why?”
Unconsciously, Rand ran one hand up the long hilt at his side. “It’s hardly fair to use the Power that way. Especially against someone who can’t channel. I might as well fight a child.”
The Warder stood silent for a time, studying him. “You mean to kill Couladin yourself,” he said at last in flat tones. “That sword against his spears.”
“I don’t mean to seek him out, but who can say what will happen?” Rand shrugged uncomfortably. Not to hunt for him. But if ever his twisting of chance was to favor him, let it be to bring him facetoface with Couladin. “Besides, I’d not put it past him to seek me. The threats I’ve heard from him have been personal, Lan.” Raising one fist, he thrust his arm out of a crimson coatsleeve enough to make the goldenmaned Dragon’s fore end plainly visible. “Couladin won’t rest while I live, not so long as we both wear these.”
And truth to tell, he would not rest himself until only one living man bore the Dragons. By rights he should lump Asmodean in with Couladin. Asmodean had marked the Shaido. But Couladin’s unrestrained ambition had made it possible; his
ambition and refusal to abide by Aiel law and custom had led inevitably to this place, this day. Beyond the bleakness and war between Aiel, there was Taien to be laid at Couladin’s feet, and Selean, and dozens of ruined towns and villages since, countless hundreds of burned farms. Unburied men and women and children had fed the vultures. If he was the Dragon Reborn, if he had any right to demand that any nation follow him, much less Cairhien, then he owed them justice.
“Then have him beheaded when he’s taken,” Lan said harshly. “Set a hundred men, or a thousand, with no purpose but to find and take him. But do not be fool enough to fight him! You are good with a blade now — very good — but Aielmen are all but born with spear and buckler in hand. A spear through your heart, and all has been for naught.”
“So I should avoid the fighting? Would you, if Moiraine had no claims on you?
Will Rhuarc, or Bael, or any of them?”
“I am not the Dragon Reborn. The, fate of the world does not rest on me.” But the momentary heat had gone from his voice. Without Moiraine, he would have been wherever the fighting was hottest. If anything, he looked to be regretting those claims at the moment.
“I’ll not take needless risks, Lan, but I can’t run from them all.” The Seanchan spear would remain in the tent today; it would only get in his way if he did find Couladin. “Come. The Aiel will finish it without us if we stand here much longer.”
When he ducked outside, only a few stars remained, and a thin brightness outlined the eastern horizon sharply. That was not why he stopped, though, and Lan with him. Maidens made a ring around the tent, shoulder to shoulder, facing inward. A thick ring that spread down the dark shrouded slopes, cadin’sorclad women jammed so a mouse could not have slipped through. Jeade’en was nowhere in sight, though a gai’shain had been ordered to have him saddled and waiting.
Not Maidens alone. Two women in the front rank wore bulky skirts and pale blouses, their hair bound back with folded scarves. It was too black yet to discern faces with any certainty, but there was something in the shape of those two, in their foldedarm stance, that named Egwene and Aviendha.
Sulin stepped forward before he could open his mouth to ask what they were up to. “We have come to escort the Car’a’carn to the tower with Egwene Sedai and Aviendha.”
“Who put you up to this?” Rand demanded. One glance at Lan showed it had not been him. Even in the darkness the Warder looked startled. For a moment anyway, his head jerking up; nothing surprised Lan for long. “Egwene is supposed to be on her way to the tower now, and the Maidens are supposed to be there to guard her. What she will do today is very important. She must be protected while she does it.”
“We will protect her.” Sulin’s voice was as flat as a planed board. “And the Car’a’carn, who gave his honor to Far Dareis Mai to carry.” A murmur of approval rippled through the Maidens.
“It only makes sense, Rand,” Egwene said from where she stood. “If one using the Power as a weapon will make the battle shorter, three will shorten it even more. And you are stronger than Aviendha and me together.” She did not sound as if she liked saying that last. Aviendha said nothing, but the way she stood was eloquent.
“This is ridiculous,” Rand scowled. “Let me through, and go to your assigned place.”
Sulin did not budge. “Far Dareis Mai carries the honor of the Car’a’carn,” she said calmly, and others took it up. No louder, but from so many women’s voices it made a high rumble. “Far Dareis Mai carries the honor of the Car’a’carn. Far Dareis Mai carries the honor of the Car’a’carn.”
“I said let me through,” he demanded the instant the sound died.
As if he had told them to begin again, they did. “Far Dareis Mai carries the honor of the Car’a’carn. Far Dareis Mai carries the honor of the Car’a’carn.” Sulin just stood there looking at him.
After a moment Lan leaned close to murmur dryly, “A woman is no less a woman because she carries a spear. Did you ever meet one who could be diverted from anything she really wanted? Give over, or we will stand here all day while you argue and they chant at you.” The Warder hesitated, then added, “Besides which, it does make sense.”
Egwene opened her mouth as the litany fell off once more, but Aviendha put a hand on her arm and whispered a few words, and Egwene said nothing. He knew what she had intended to say, though. She had been about to tell him he was a stubborn foolish woolhead or some such.
The trouble was that he was beginning to feel like one. It did make sense for him to go to the tower. He had nothing to do elsewhere — the battle was in the hands of the chiefs and fate, now — and he would be of more use channeling than riding around hoping to meet with Couladin. If being an infantryman could pull Couladin to him, it could draw him to the tower as easily as anywhere else. Not that he would have much chance of seeing the man, not after ordering every last Maiden to defend the tower.
But how to back down and retain a scrap of dignity after blustering left, right and center? “I’ve decided I can do the most good from the tower,” he said, his face going hot.
“As the Car’a’carn commands,” Sulin replied without a hint of mockery, just as if it had been his idea from the first. Lan nodded, then slipped away, the Maidens making narrow room for him.
The gap closed up right behind Lan, though, and when they began to move, Rand had no choice except to go with them. He could have channeled, of course, flung Fire about or knocked them down with Air, but that was hardly the way to behave with people on his side, let alone women. Besides, he was not sure he could have made them leave him short of killing, and maybe not then. And anyway, he had decided he was of most use at the tower, after all.
Egwene and Aviendha were as silent as Sulin as they walked, for which he was grateful. Of course, at least part of their silence had to do with picking their way uphill and down in the dark without breaking their necks. Aviendha did raise a mutter now and then that he barely caught, something angry about skirts. But neither made fun of him for backing down so visibly. Though that might well come later. Women seemed to enjoy jabbing the needle in just when you thought the danger was past.
The sky began to lighten into gray, and as the log tower came into sight above the trees, he broke the quiet himself. “I didn’t expect you to be part of this, Aviendha. I thought you said Wise Ones take no part in battles.” He was sure she had. A Wise One could walk through the middle of a battle untouched, or into any hold or stand of a clan that had blood feud with hers, but she took no part in fighting, certainly not with channeling. Until he came to the Waste, even most Aiel had not really known that some Wise Ones could channel, though there were rumors of strange abilities, and sometimes something the Aiel thought might be close to channeling.
“I am not a Wise One yet,” she replied pleasantly, shifting her shawl. “If an Aes Sedai like Egwene can do this, so can I. I arranged it this morning, while you still slept, but I have thought of it since you first asked Egwene.”
There was enough light now for him to see Egwene flush. When she saw him glancing at her, she tripped over nothing, and he had to catch her arm to keep her from falling. Avoiding his eyes, she jerked free. Maybe he would not have to worry about any needles from her. They started uphill through the sparse woods toward the tower.
“They didn’t try to stop you? Amys, I mean, or Bair, or Melaine?” He knew they had not. If they had, she would not be there.
Aviendha shook her head, then frowned thoughtfully. “They talked for a long time with Sorilea, then told me to do as I thought I must. Usually they tell me to do as they think I must.” Glancing at him sideways, she added, “I heard Melaine say that you bring change to everything.”
“I do that,” he said, setting his foot on the bottom rung of the first ladder. “The Light help me, that I do.”
The view from the platform was magnificent even to the naked eye, the land spreading out in wooded hills. The trees were thick enough to hide the Aiel moving toward Cairhien — most would already be in position — but dawn cast the city itself in golden light. A quick scan through one of the looking glasses showed the barren hills along the river placid and seemingly empty of life. That would change soon enough. The Shaido were there, if concealed for now. They would not remain concealed when he began to direct… What? Not balefire. Whatever he did, it had to unnerve the Shaido as much as possible before his Aiel attacked.
Egwene and Aviendha had been taking turns looking through the other long tube, with pauses for quiet discussion, but now they were simply talking softly.
Exchanging nods finally, they moved closer to the railing and stood with their hands on the roughhewn timber, staring toward Cairhien. Goose bumps suddenly dotted his skin. One of them was channeling, maybe both.
It was the wind that he noticed first, blowing toward the city. Not a breeze; the first real wind he had felt in this country. And clouds were beginning to form above Cairhien, heaviest to the south, growing thicker and blacker as he watched, roiling. Only there, over Cairhien and the Shaido. Everywhere else as far as he could see, the sky was a clear blue, with only a few high thin white wisps. Yet thunder rolled, long and solid. Suddenly lightning stabbed down, a jagged silver streak that rent a hilltop below the city. Before the crack of the first bolt reached the tower, two more crackled earthward. Wild forks danced across the sky, but those single lances of brilliant white struck with the regularity of a heartbeat. Abruptly, ground exploded where no lightning had fallen, fountaining fifty feet, then again somewhere else, and again.
Rand had no idea which woman was doing what, but they certainly looked set to harrow the Shaido out. Time to do his bit, or stand watching. Reaching out, he seized saidin. Icy fire scoured the outside of the Void that surrounded what was Rand al’Thor. Coldly, he ignored the oily filth seeping into him from the taint, juggled wild torrents of the Power that threatened to engulf him.
At this distance, there were limits to what he could do. In fact, it was about as far as he could do anything, really, without angreal or sa’angreal. Very likely that was why the women were channeling one lightning bolt at a time, one explosion; if he was at his boundary, they must be stretching theirs.
A memory slid across the emptiness. Not his; Lews Therin’s. For once he did not care. In an instant he channeled, and a ball of fire enveloped the top of a hill nearly five miles away, a churning mass of pale yellow flame. When it faded, he could see without the looking glass that the hill was lower now, and black at the crest, seemingly melted. Between the three of them, there might be no need for the clans to fight Couladin at all.
Ilyena, my love, forgive me!
The Void trembled; for an instant Rand teetered on the brink of destruction. Waves of the One Power crashed through him in a froth of fear; the taint seemed to solidify around his heart, a reeking stone.
Clutching the rail until his knuckles ached, he forced himself back to calmness, forced the emptiness to hold. Thereafter he refused to listen to the thoughts in his head. Instead he concentrated everything on channeling, on methodically searing one hill after another.
Standing well back into what treeline there was on the crest, Mat held Pips’ nose under his arm so the gelding would not whicker as he watched a thousand or so Aiel slanting toward him across the hills from the south. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, stretching long rippling shadows to one side of the trotting mass. The night’s warmth was already beginning to give way to the heat of day. The air would
swelter once the sun reached any height. He was already beginning to sweat.
The Aiel had not seen him yet, but he had few doubts that they would if he waited there much longer. It hardly mattered that they very nearly had to be Rand’s men — if Couladin had men to the south, the day was going to get very interesting for those stupid enough to be in the middle of the fighting — hardly mattered because he was not going to run the risk of letting them see him. He had already come too close to an arrow this morning for that kind of carelessness. Absently he fingered the neat slice across the shoulder of his coat. Good shooting, at a moving target only halfseen through trees. He could have admired it more had he not been the target.
Without taking his eyes from the approaching Aiel, he carefully backed Pips deeper into the sparse thicket; if they saw him and picked up their pace, he wanted to know. People said Aiel could run down a man on horseback, and he meant to have a good lead if they tried.
Not until the trees hid them from him did he quicken his own step, leading Pips onto the reverse slope before mounting and turning west. A man could not be too careful if he wanted to stay alive on this day and this ground. He muttered to himself as he rode, hat pulled low to shade his face and blackhafted spear across his pommel. West. Again.
The day had begun so well, a good two hours before first light, when Melindhra had gone off to some meeting of the Maidens. Thinking him asleep, she had not glanced at him as she stalked out muttering half under her breath about Rand al’Thor and honor and “Far Dareis Mai, above all.” She sounded as if she were arguing with herself, but frankly, he did not care whether she wanted to pickle Rand or stew him. Before she was a minute out of the tent, he was stuffing his saddlebags. No one had so much as looked at him twice while he saddled Pips and ghosted away to the south. A good beginning. Only he had not counted on columns of Taardad and Tomanelle and every other bloody clan sweeping around to the south. No consolation that it was very close to what he had babbled to Lan. He wanted to go south, and those Aiel had forced him toward the Alguenya. Toward where the fighting would be.
A mile or two on, he cautiously turned Pips upslope, pausing deep in the scattered trees on the crest. It was a higher hill than most, and he had a good view. This time there were no Aiel in sight, but the column winding along the bottom of the twisting hill valley was almost as bad. Mounted Tairens had the lead behind a knot of colorful lords’ banners, with a gap back to a thick, bristling snake of pikemen in the Tairens’ dust, and then another to the Cairhienin horse, with their multitude of banners and pennants and con. The Cairhienin maintained no order at all, milling about as lords shifted back and forth for conversation, but at least they had flankers out to either side. In any case, as soon as they were past, he had a clear route south. And I’ll not stop until I’m halfway to the bloody Erinin!
A flicker of movement caught his eye, well ahead of the column below. He
would not have seen it except for being so high. None of the riders could have, certainly. Digging his small looking glass from his saddlebags — Kin Tovere liked the dice — he peered toward what he had seen, and whistled softly through his teeth. Aiel, at least as many as the men in the valley, and if they were not Couladin’s, they meant to give a nameday surprise, for they were lying low among the dying bushes and dead leaves.
For a moment he drummed fingers on his thigh. Shortly there were going to be some corpses down there. And not many of them Aiel. None of my affair. I am out of this, out of here, and heading south. He would wait a bit, then head off while they were all too busy to notice.
This fellow Weiramon — he had heard the graybeard’s name yesterday — was a stone fool. No foreguard out, and no scouts, or he’d know what was bloody in store for him. For that matter, the way the hills lay, the way the valley twisted, the Aiel could not see the column, either, only its thin dust rising skyward. They certainly had had scouts to get themselves in place; they could not just be waiting there on the off chance.
Idly whistling “Dance with Jak o’ the Shadows,” he put the looking glass back to his eye and studied the hilltops. Yes. The Aiel commander had left a few men where they could signal a warning just before the column entered the killing ground. But even they could not possibly see anything yet. In a few minutes the first Tairens would come in sight, but until then…
It came as a shock when he heeled Pips to a gallop downslope. What under the Light am I doing? Well, he could not just stand by and let them all go their deaths like geese to the knife. He would warn them. That was all. Tell what lay in wait ahead, then he was gone.
The Cairhienin outriders saw him coming before he reached the bottom of the slope, of course, heard Pips’ deadflat charge. Two or three lowered their lances. Mat did not precisely enjoy having a foot and a half of steel pointed at him, and still less three times over, but obviously one man was no threat, even riding like a madman. They let him pass, and he swung in near the lead Cairhienin lords long enough to shout, “Halt here! Now! By order of the Lord Dragon! Else he’ll channel your head into your belly and feed you your own feet for breakfast!”
His heels dug in, and Pips sprang ahead. He only glanced back to be sure they were doing what he said — they were, if showing some confusion over it; the hills hid them from the Aiel still, and once their dust settled, the Aiel would have no way of knowing they were there — and then he was lying low on the gelding’s neck, whipping Pips with his hat and galloping up alongside the infantry.
If I wait to let Weiramon pass the orders, it’ll be too late. That’s all. He would give his warning and go.
The foot marched in blocks of two hundred or so pikemen, with one mounted officer in the front of each and maybe fifty archers, or crossbowmen at the rear. Most looked at him curiously as he dashed by, Pips’ heels kicking up spurts of dust,
but none broke stride. Some of the officers’ mounts frisked as if the riders wanted to come see what had him in such a hurry, but none of them left their places either. Good discipline. They would need it.
Defenders of the Stone brought up the tail end of the Tairens; in their breastplates and puffy blackandgold striped coatsleeves, plumes of various colors on the rimmed helmets marking officers and underofficers. The rest were armored the same, but bore the colors of various lords on their sleeves. The silkcoated lords themselves rode at the very front in ornate breastplates and large white plumes, their banners rippling behind them in a rising breeze toward the city.
Reining around in front of them so quickly that Pips danced, Mat shouted, “Halt, in the name of the Lord Dragon!”
It seemed the fastest way to stop them, but for a moment he thought they meant to ride right over him. Almost at the last moment, a young lord he remembered from outside Rand’s tent flung up a hand, and then they were all drawing rein in a flurry of shouted orders that ran back along the column. Weiramon was not there; not a lord was as much as ten years older than Mat.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the fellow who had signaled. Dark eyes glared arrogantly down a sharp nose, chin lifted so his pointed beard looked ready to stab. Sweat trickling down his face spoiled it only a little. “The Lord Dragon himself gave me this command. Who are you to —?”
He cut off as another man Mat knew caught his sleeve, whispering urgently. Potatofaced Estean looked haggard beneath his helmet as we’ll as hot — the Aiel had wrung him out concerning conditions in the city, so Mat had heard — but he had gambled at cards with Mat in Tear. He knew exactly who Mat was. Estean’s breastplate alone had chips in the ornate gilding; none of the others had done more than ride around looking pretty. Yet.
Sharpnose’s chin came down as he listened, and when Estean left off, he spoke in a more moderate tone. “No offense intended… ah… Lord Mat. I am Melanril, of House Asegora. How may I serve the Lord Dragon?” Moderation slipped into actual hesitation at that last, and Estean broke in anxiously.
“Why should we ‘halt’? I know the Lord Dragon told us to hold back, Mat, but burn my soul, there’s no honor in sitting and letting the Aiel do all the fighting. Why should we be saddled with chasing them after they’re broken? Besides, my father is in the city, and…” He trailed off under Mat’s stare.
Mat shook his head, fanning himself with his hat. The fools were not even where they should be. There was no chance of turning them back, either. If Melanril would go — and looking at him, Mat was not sure he would, even on supposed orders from the Lord Dragon — there was still no chance. He sat his saddle in plain sight of the Aiel lookouts. If the column started turning around, they would know themselves discovered, and very likely they would attack while the Tairens and the Cairhienin pike were tangled up. It would be a slaughter as surely as if they had gone ahead in ignorance.
“Where is Weiramon?”
“The Lord Dragon sent him back to Tear,” Melanril replied slowly. “To deal with the Illianer pirates, and the bandits on the Plains of Maredo. He was reluctant to go, of course, even for so great a responsibility, but… Pardon, Lord Mat, but if the Lord Dragon sent you, how is it that you don’t know —”
Mat cut him off. “I am no lord. And if you want to question what Rand lets people know, ask him.” That set the fellow back; he was not about to question the Lord bloody Dragon about anything. Weiramon was a fool, but at least he was old enough to have been in a battle. Except for Estean, looking like a sack of turnips tied on his horse, all this lot had seen was a tavern fight or two. And maybe a few duels… Fat lot of good that would do them. “Now, you all listen to me. When you pass through that gap ahead between the next two hills, Aiel are going to come down on you like an avalanche.”
He might as well have told them there was going to be a ball, with the women all sighing to meet a Tairen lordling. Eager grins broke out, and they, started dancing their horses about, slapping each other on the shoulder and boasting how many they would kill. Estean was odd man out, just sighing and easing his sword in its scabbard.
“Don’t stare up there!” Mat snapped. The fools. In a minute they would be calling the charge! “Keep your eyes on me. On me!”
It was who he was friends with that settled them down. Melanril and the others in their fine, unmarked armor frowned impatiently, not understanding why he did not want to let them begin the business of killing Aiel savages. If he had not been Rand’s friend they probably would have trampled him and Pips both.
He could let them go charging off. They would do it piecemeal, leaving the pikes and the Cairhienin horse behind, though the Cairhienin might join in once they realized what was happening. And they would all die. The smart thing would be to let them get on with it while he headed in the opposite direction. The only trouble was that once these idiots let the Aiel know they were discovered, those Aiel might decide to do something fancy, like swinging around to take the strungout fools in the flank. If that happened, there was no certainty that he would get clear.
“What the Lord Dragon wants you to do,” he told them, “is to ride ahead slowly, just as if there wasn’t an Aiel inside a hundred miles. As soon as the pikes are through the gap, they’ll form a hollow square, and you get yourselves inside it double quick.”
“Inside!” Melanril protested. Angry mutters rose from the other young lords — except Estean, who looked thoughtful. “There is no honor in hiding behind stinking
—”
“You bloody do it,” Mat roared, reining Pips close to Melanril’s horse, “or if the bloody Aiel don’t kill you, Rand will, and whatever he leaves, I’ll chop into sausage myself!” This was taking too long; the Aiel had to be wondering what they were talking about by now. “With any luck, you will be set before the Aiel can hit you. If
you have horsebows, use them. Otherwise, hold tight. You’ll get your bloody charge, and you’ll know when, but if you move too early…!” He could almost feel time running down.
Setting the butt of his spear in his stirrup like a lance, he heeled Pips back down the column. When he glanced over his shoulder, Melanril and the others were talking and peering after him. At least they were not haring up the valley.
The commander of the pikemen proved to be a pale, slender Cairhienin, half a head shorter than Mat and mounted on a gray gelding that looked past ready for the pasture. Daerid had hard eyes, though, an oftbroken nose, and three white scars crisscrossing his face, one of them not very old. He took off his bellshaped helmet while he talked with Mat; the front of his head was shaved. No lord, he. Maybe he had been part of the army, before the civil war started. Yes, his men knew how to form a hedgehog. He had not faced Aiel, but he had faced brigands, and Andoran cavalry. There was an implication that he had fought other Cairhienin as well, for one of the Houses contesting for the throne. Daerid sounded neither eager nor reluctant; he sounded like a man with a job of work to do.
The column stepped off as Mat turned Pips’ head the other way. They marched with a measured pace, and a quick look behind showed the Tairens’ horses moving no faster.
He let Pips go a little quicker than a walk, but not much. It seemed he could feel Aiel eyes on his back, feel them wondering what he had said, and where he was going now and why. Just a messenger who’s delivered his message and is going away. Nothing to worry about. He certainly hoped that was what the Aiel thought, but his shoulders did not untense until he was sure they could no longer see him.
The Cairhienin were still waiting where he had left them. They still had their flankers out, too. Banners and con made a thicket where the lords had gathered, one in ten or better of the Cairhienin’s number. Most of them wore plain breastplates, and where there was gilt or silverwork, it was battered as though a drunken blacksmith had been at it. Some of their mounts made Daerid’s look like Lan’s warhorse. Could they even do what was needed? But the faces that turned to him were hard, the gazes harder.
He was in the clear, now, hidden from the Aiel. He could ride on. After telling this lot what was expected of them, anyway. He had sent the others on into the Aiel trap; he could not simply abandon them.
Talmanes of House Delovinde, his con three yellow stars on blue and his banner a black fox, was even shorter than Daerid and had three years on Mat at most, but he led these Cairhienin although there were older men and even gray hair present. His eyes held as little expression as Daerid’s, and he looked like a coiled whip. His armor and sword were utterly plain. Once he had told Mat his name the man listened quietly while Mat laid out his plan, leaning a little out of the saddle to cut lines in the ground with the swordbladed spear.
The other Cairhienin lords gathered round on their horses, watching, but none
so sharply as Talmanes. Talmanes studied the map he drew, and studied him from boots to hat, even his spear. When he was done, the fellow still did not speak, until Mat barked, “Well? I don’t care whether you take it or leave it, but your friends will be hipdeep in Aiel in not much longer.”
“The Tairens are no friends of mine. And Daerid is… useful. Certainly not a friend.” Dry chuckles ran through the onlooking lords at the suggestion. “But I will lead one half, if you lead the other.”
Talmanes pulled off one steelbacked gauntlet and put out his hand, but for a moment Mat only stared at it. Lead? Him? I’m a gambler, not a soldier. A lover. Memories of battles long gone spun through his head, but he forced them down. All he had to do was ride on. But then maybe Talmanes would leave Estean and Daerid and the rest to roast. On the spit Mat had hung them from. Even so, it was a surprise to him when he grasped the other’s hand and said, “You just be there when you’re supposed to be.”
For reply Talmanes began calling off names in a quick voice. Lords and lordlings reined toward Mat, each followed by a bannerman and perhaps a dozen retainers, until he had four hundred odd of the Cairhienin. Talmanes did not have much to say after, either; he just led the remainder west at a trot, trailing a faint cloud of dust.
“Keep together,” Mat told his half. “Charge when I say charge, run when I say run, and don’t make any noise you don’t have to.” There was the creak of saddles and the thud of hooves as they followed him, of course, but at least they did not talk, or ask questions.
A last glimpse of the other bristle of bright banners and con, and then a twist in the shallow valley hid them. How had he gotten into this? It had all started so simply. Just give warning and go. Each step after had seemed so small, so necessary. And now he had waded waist deep into the mud, and no choice but to keep on. He hoped Talmanes meant to show up. The man had not even asked who he was.
The hill valley twisted and forked as he angled north, but he had a good sense of direction. For instance, he knew exactly which way lay south and safety, and it was not the way he was heading. Dark clouds were forming up there toward the city, the first he had seen so thick in a long time. Rain would break the drought — good for the farmers, if any remained — and settle the dust — good for horsemen, so they did not announce themselves too early. Maybe if it rained, the Aiel would give up and go home. The wind was beginning to pick up, too, bringing a little cool, for a wonder.
The sound of fighting drifted over the crests, men shouting, men screaming. It had begun.
Mat turned Pips, raised his spear and swung it right and left. He was almost surprised when the Cairhienin formed into one long line to either side of him, facing upslope. The gesture had been instinctive, from another time and place, but
then, these men had seen fighting. He started Pips up through the scattered trees at a slow walk, and they kept pace to the quiet jangle of bridles.
His first thought on reaching the height was relief at seeing Talmanes and his men coming into sight on the crest across from him. His second was to curse.
Daerid had formed the hedgehog, spiny thickets of pikes four deep interspersed with bowmen to make a large hollow square. Long pikes made it difficult for the Shaido to get close, however they rushed in, and the archers and crossbowmen were exchanging shots hot and fast with the Aiel. Men were falling on both sides, but the pikes simply closed in when one of their number went down, making the square tighter. Of course, the Shaido did not appear to slacken their assault either.
The Defenders were dismounted in the center, and maybe half the Tairen lords with their retainers. Half. That was what made him want to curse. The rest dashed about among the Aiel, slashing and stabbing with sword and lance in knots of five or ten, or alone. Dozens of riderless horses told how well they were doing. Melanril was off with only his bannerman, laying about with his blade. Two Aiel darted in to neatly hamstring the lordling’s horse; it fell, head flailing — Mat was sure it screamed, but the din swallowed it — and then Melanril vanished behind cadin’sorclad figures, spears stabbing. The bannerman lasted a moment longer.
Good riddance, Mat thought grimly. Standing in his stirrups, he raised the swordbladed spear high, then swept it forward, shouting, “Los! Los caba’drin!”
He would have had the words back if he could, and not because they were Old Tongue; it was a boiling cauldron down in the valley. But whether or not any of the Cairhienin understood a command of “horsemen forward” in the Old Tongue, they understood the gesture, especially when he dropped back into his saddle and dug in his heels. Not that he really wanted to, but be could not see any choice now. He had put those men down there — some might have gotten away if he had told them to turn and run — and he just did not have a choice.
Banners and con waving, the Cairhienin charged downhill with him, shouting battle cries. In imitation of him, no doubt, though what he was shouting was “Blood and bloody ashes!” Across the valley, Talmanes raced down just as hard.
Sure that they had all the wetlanders penned, the Shaido never saw the others until crashed into from behind on both sides. It was then that the lightning began to fall. And after that things really got hairy.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 44
(Dragon)
The Lesser Sadness
Rand’s shirt clung to him with the sweat of effort, but he kept his coat on for protection from the wind gusting toward Cairhien. The sun had at least another hour to reach its noonday peak, yet already he felt as if he had run all morning and been beaten with a club at the finish. Wrapped in the Void, he was only distantly aware of the weariness, dimly perceiving the ache in arms and shoulders, in the small of his back, a throb around the tender scar in his side. That he was aware of them at all told the story. With the Power in him, he could make out individual leaves on the trees at a hundred paces, but whatever happened to him physically should have been as if it were happening to someone else.
He had long since taken to drawing on saidin through the angreal in his pocket, the stone carving of the fat little man. Even so, working the Power was a strain now, weaving it at this distance of miles, but only the rancid threads streaking what he drew kept him from pulling more, from trying to pull it all to him. The Power was that sweet, taint or no. After hours of channeling without, rest, he was that tired. At the same time, he had to fight saidin itself harder, to put more of his strength into keeping it from burning him to ash where he stood, from burning his mind to ash. It was ever more difficult to hold off saidin’s destruction, more difficult to resist the desire to draw more, more difficult to handle what he did draw. A nasty downward spiral, and hours to go before the battle was decided.
Wiping sweat from his eyes, he gripped the platform’s rough railing. He was near the brink, yet he was stronger than Egwene or Aviendha, The Aiel woman was standing, peering off toward Cairhien and the storm clouds, occasionally bending to stare through the long looking glass; Egwene sat crosslegged, leaning back against an upright still covered in gray bark, her eyes closed. They both looked as worked out as he felt.
Before he could do anything — not that he knew what; he had no skill at Healing — Egwene’s eyes opened, and she stood, exchanging a few quiet words with Aviendha that the wind snatched away, from even his saidinenhanced hearing. Then Aviendha sat down in Egwene’s place and let her head fall back against the upright. The black clouds around the city continued to stab lightning, but they were wild forks far more often than single lances now.
So they were taking turns, giving each other a rest. It would have been nice to have someone do that with him, but he did not regret telling Asmodean to stay in his tent. He would not have trusted him to channel. Especially not now. Who could say what he would have done when he saw Rand weakened as he was?
Staggering slightly, Rand pulled his looking glass around to study the hills outside the city. Life was certainly visible there now. And death. Wherever he looked there was fighting, Aiel against Aiel, a thousand here, five thousand there,
swarming over the treeless hills and too closely meshed for him to do anything. He could not find the column of horse and pike.
Three times he had seen them, once fighting twice their number of Aiel. He was certain they were still out there. Small hope that Melanril had decided to obey his orders at this late juncture. Choosing the man just because he had the grace to be embarrassed by Weiramon’s behavior had been a mistake, but there had been little time to make a choice, and he had had to get rid of Weiramon. Nothing to be done about it now. Maybe one of the Cairhienin could be put in command. If even his direct order would make the Tairens follow a Cairhienin.
A milling mass right at the city’s high gray wall caught his eye. Tall ironbound gates stood open, Aiel battling horsemen and spearmen almost in the open while folk tried to close the gates, tried and failed because of the press of bodies. Horses with empty saddles and armored men unmoving on the ground half a mile from the gate marked where the sortie had been driven back. Arrows rained down from the walls, and headsized chunks of rubble — even occasional spears slashing down with enough force to spit two men, or three, though he still could not see from where exactly — but the Aiel were going over their dead, ever closer to forcing their way in. A quick scan showed him two more columns of Aiel trotting toward the gates, perhaps three thousand all told. He did not doubt that they were Couladin’s as well.
He was aware of grinding his teeth. If the Shaido got inside Cairhien, he would never drive them north. He would have to dig them out street by street; the cost in lives would dwarf the number of those already dead, and the city itself would end a ruin like Eianrod, if not Taien. Cairhienin and Shaido were mingled like ants in a bowl, but he had to do something.
Taking a deep breath, he channeled. The two women had set the conditions, bringing the storm clouds; he did not need to be able to see their weavings to take advantage of them. Stark silverblue lightning struck into the Aiel, once, twice, again, as fast as a man could clap.
Rand jerked his head up, blinking away the burning lines that still seemed to cross his sight, and when he looked through the long tube again, Shaido lay like cut barley all around where the bolts had fallen. Men and horses thrashed on the ground closer to the gates, too, and some did not move at all, but the uninjured were dragging the injured and the gates were beginning to close.
How many won’t make it back inside? How many of my own did I kill? The cold truth was that it did not matter. It had had to be done, and it was done.
And well it was. Distantly he felt his knees wobbling. He would have to pace himself if he was to last the rest of the day. No more laying about him everywhere; he had to spot where he was particularly needed, where he could make a —
The storm clouds were massed only over the city and the hills to the south, but that did not stop lightning from slashing out of the clear, cloudless sky above the tower, flashing down into the gathered Maidens below with a deafening crack.
Hair lifting with the tingle in the air, Rand stared. He could feel that bolt in another way, feel the weaving of saidin that had made it. So Asmodean was tempted even back in the tents.
There was no time for thought, though. Like rapid beats on a giant drum, bolt followed bolt, marching through the Maidens until the last struck the base of the tower in an explosion of splinters the size of arms and legs.
As the tower slowly began to slant over, Rand threw himself at Egwene and Aviendha. Somehow he managed to scoop them both into one arm, then wrap the other around an upright on what was now the upslope side of the platform. They stared at him wideeyed, mouths coming open, but there was no more time for speaking than for thinking. The shattered log tower toppled, crashing through the branches of the trees. For an instant he believed they might cushion the fall.
With a snap, the upright he clung to broke off. The ground came up and knocked all the breath out of him a heartbeat before the women came down on top of him. Darkness rolled in.
He regained consciousness slowly. Hearing returned first.
“… have dug us up like a boulder and sent us rolling downhill in the night.” It was Aviendha’s voice, low, as if she spoke for her own ears. There was something moving on his face. “You have taken away what we are, what we were. You must give us something in return, something to be. We need you.” The moving thing slowed, touched more softly. “I need you. Not for myself, you will understand. For Elayne. What is between her and me now is between her and me, but I will hand you to her. I will. If you die, I will carry your corpse to her! If you die—!”
His eyes popped open, and for a moment they stared at each other almost nose to nose. Her hair was all in disarray, her head scarf gone, and a purple lump marred her cheek. She straightened jerkily, folding a damp cloth stained with blood, and began dabbing at his forehead with considerably more force than before.
“I’ve no intention of dying,” he told her, though in truth he was not sure of that at all. The Void and saidin were gone, of course. Just thinking of losing them as he had made him shiver; it was pure luck that saidin had not scoured his mind blank in that last instant. Just thinking of seizing the Source again made him groan. Without the Void for buffer, he felt every ache, every bruise and scrape, to the fullest. He was so tired he could have dropped off to sleep at once if he had not hurt so much. As well he did hurt, then, because he surely could not sleep. Not for a long time, yet.
Sliding a hand beneath his coat, he touched his side, then surreptitiously wiped the blood off his fingers onto his shirt before bringing the hand out again. No wonder that a fall like that had broken open the halfhealed, neverhealed wound. He did not seem to be bleeding too badly, but if the Maidens saw it, or Egwene, or even Aviendha, he might have a fight to keep from being hauled off to Moiraine for Healing. He had too much to do yet for that — being Healed on top of everything else would act on him like a cudgel to the temple — and besides, there must be far
worse hurt than what he suffered for her to deal with.
Grimacing, suppressing another groan, he got to his feet with only a little help from Aviendha. And promptly forgot about his injuries.
Sulin sat on the ground nearby, with Egwene bandaging a bloody split in her scalp and muttering fiercely at herself because she did not know how to Heal, but the whitehaired Maiden was not the only casualty, and not the worst by far. Everywhere cadin’sorclad women were covering the dead with blankets, and tending those who had merely been burned, if “merely” could be used for lightning burns. Except for Egwene’s grumbling, the hilltop lay in near silence, even the injured women quiet save for hoarse breathing.
The log tower, all but unrecognizable now, had not spared the Maidens in its fall, breaking arms and legs, tearing open gashes. He watched as a blanket was laid over the face of a Maiden with redgold hair almost the shade of Elayne’s, head twisted at an unnatural angle and glazed eyes staring. Jolien. One of those who first crossed the Dragonwall to search for He Who Comes With The Dawn. She had gone to the Stone of Tear for him. And now she was dead. For him. Oh, you’ve done well at keeping the Maidens from harm, he thought bitterly. Very well indeed.
He could still feel the lightning, or rather the residue of its making. Almost like the afterimage burned into his eyes earlier, he could trace the weave, though it was fading. To his surprise, it led west, not back toward the tents. Not Asmodean, then.
“Sammael.” He was sure of it. Sammael had sent that attack in the Jangai, Sammael was behind the pirates and the raids in Tear, and Sammael had done this. His lips peeled back in a snarl, and his voice was a harsh whisper. “Sammael!” He did not realize he had taken a step until Aviendha seized his arm.
A moment later, Egwene had the other, the pair of them clinging to him as if they meant to root him to the spot. “Do not be a complete woolhead,” Egwene said, giving a start at his glare but not letting go. She had redone the brown scarf around her head, but combing with her fingers had not put her hair back in order, and dust still covered her blouse and skirt. “Whoever did this, why do you think he waited so long, until you must be tired? Because if he missed killing you, and you went after him, you would be easy meat. You can barely stand on your own!”
Aviendha was no readier to let go, meeting his stare with a flat one of her own. “You are needed here, Rand al’Thor. Here, Car’a’carn. Does your honor lie with killing this man, or here with those you have brought to this land?”
A young Aielman came running up through the Maidens, shoufa around his shoulders, spears and buckler swinging easily. If he thought it odd to find two women holding Rand between them, he gave no hint of it. He eyed the shattered remnants of the tower and the dead and wounded with a slight curiosity, as though wondering how it might have happened and where the enemy dead might be. Grounding his spearpoints in front of Rand, he said, “I am Seirin, of the Shorara sept of the Tomanelle.”
“I see you, Seirin,” Rand replied just as formally. Not easy with a pair of
women holding him as if they thought he might run.
“Han of the Tomanelle sends word to the Car’a’carn. The clans to the east are moving toward each other. All four. Han means to join with Dhearic, and he has sent to Erim to join them.”
Rand drew a measured breath, and hoped the women thought his grimace was for the news; his side burned, and he could feel blood spreading slowly down his shirt. So there would be nothing to force Couladin north when the Shaido broke. If they broke; they had given no evidence of it yet that he had seen. Why were the Miagoma and the others joining together? If they meant to come against him, they were only giving warning. But if they meant to come against him, Han and Dhearic and Erim would be outnumbered, and if the Shaido held long enough and the four clans broke through… Across the wooded hills he could see that it had begun to rain over the city now that Egwene and Aviendha were not holding the clouds. That would hamper both sides. Unless the women were in better shape than they looked, they might be unable to regain control from this distance.
“Tell Han to do what he must to keep them off our backs.”
Young as he was — he was about Rand’s age, come to that — Seirin raised an eyebrow in surprise. Of course. Han would not do differently, and Seirin knew it. He waited only long enough to make certain that Rand had no further message: then he was off and running downhill, just as fast as he had come. No doubt he hoped to get back without missing any more of the fighting than he had to. For that matter, it might already have begun, there to the east.
“I need someone to fetch Jeade’en,” Rand said as soon as Seirin had dashed off. If he tried to walk that far, he really would need the women to hold him up. The two of them looked nothing alike, yet they managed practically identical suspicion. Those frowns must have been one of the things every girl was taught by her mother. “I am not going after Sammael.” Not yet. “I have to get closer to the city, though.” He nodded to the fallen tower; that was the only gesture available with them hanging on. Master Tovere might be able to salvage the lenses from the looking glasses, but there were not three logs of the tower unbroken. No more observing everything from on high today.
Egwene was plainly uncertain, but Aviendha barely paused before asking a young Maiden to go to the gai’shain. To fetch Mist, too, which he had not counted on. Egwene began brushing herself off, muttering under her breath at the dust, and Aviendha had found an ivory comb and another scarf somewhere. Despite the fall, somehow they already looked considerably less disheveled than he. Weariness still marked their faces, but as long as they could channel at all, they would be useful.
That gave him pause. Did he ever think of anyone now except as to how useful they were? He should be able to keep them as safe as they had been atop the tower. Not that the tower had been very safe, as it turned out, but this time he would manage things better.
Sulin stood as he approached, a pale cap of algode bandage covering the top of
her head, her hair a white fringe below.
“I am moving nearer the city,” he told her, “where I can see what is happening, and maybe do something about it. Everyone who is injured is to remain here, alone with enough others to protect them if need be. Make it a strong guard, Sulin; I only need a handful with me, and it’s poor repayment for the honor the Maidens have shown me if I let their wounded be slaughtered.” That should hold the greater part of them away from the fighting. He himself would have to stay clear to keep the rest out, but the way he felt, that would be no burden. “I want you to stay here, and —”
“I am not one of the injured,” she said stiffly, and he hesitated, then nodded slowly.
“Very well.” He had no doubt that her injury was serious, but neither did he doubt that she was tough. And if she stayed, he might be stuck with someone like Enaila leading his guard. Being treated like a brother was nowhere near as annoying as being treated like a son, and he was in no mood to put up with the latter. “But I trust you to see that no one follows who is injured, Sulin. I will have to keep moving. I can’t afford anyone who will slow me down or must be left behind.”
She nodded so quickly that he was convinced she would make any Maiden with as much as a scratch remain behind. Except herself, of course. This was one time he felt no guilt over using someone. The Maidens had chosen to carry the spear, but they had chosen to follow him, too. Maybe “follow” was not precisely the word, considering some of the things they did, but that did not change anything, to his mind. He would not, he could not, order a woman to her death, and that was that. In truth, he had expected some sort of protest before this. He was only grateful that it had not come. I must be more subtle than I think.
Two palerobed gai’shain arrived leading Jeade’en and Mist, and behind them followed a crowd of others, arms full of bandages and ointments and over their shoulders bulging water bags in layers, under the direction of Sorilea and a dozen other Wise Ones whom he had met. At most he thought he might know the names of half.
Sorilea was very definitely in charge, and she quickly had gai’shain and other Wise Ones alike circulating among the Maidens tending wounds. She eyed Rand and Egwene and Aviendha, frowning thoughtfully and pursing her thin lips, obviously thinking that all three looked tossed about enough to need their injuries bathed. That look was enough to send Egwene scrambling into the gray’s saddle with a smile and a nod for the aged Wise One, though if Aiel had been more familiar with riding, Sorilea would have realized that Egwene’s awkward stiffness was not usual. And it was a measure of Aviendha’s condition that she let Egwene pull her up behind the saddle without the slightest protest. She smiled at Sorilea, too.
Gritting his teeth, Rand pulled himself into his own saddle in one smooth motion. Aching muscles’ protests were buried under an avalanche of pain in his side, as though he had been stabbed anew, and it took a full minute before he could
breathe again, but he let none of it show.
Egwene reined Mist close to Jeade’en, near enough to whisper. “If you cannot mount a horse any better than that, Rand al’Thor, maybe you should forget about riding at all for a while.” Aviendha wore one of those blank Aiel expressions, but her eyes were intent on his face.
“I noticed you mounting, too,” he said quietly. “Maybe you ought to stay here and help Sorilea until you feel better.” That shut her up, even if it did tighten her mouth sourly. Aviendha gave Sorilea another smile; the old Wise One was still watching.
Rand booted the dapple to a trot downhill. Every step sent a jolt up his side that had him breathing through his teeth, but he had ground to cover, and he could not do it at a walk. Besides, Sorilea’s stare had been starting to get on his nerves.
Mist joined Jeade’en before he was fifty paces down the overgrown slope, and another fifty brought Sulin and a stream of Maidens, some running to position themselves ahead. More than he had hoped for, but it should not matter. What he had to do would not involve getting very close to the fighting. They could stay back in safety with him.
Seizing saidin was an effort in and of itself, even through the angreal, and the sheer weight of it seemed to press down on him greater than ever, the taint stronger. At least the Void shielded him from his own pain. Somewhat, anyway. And if Sammael tried to play games with him again…
He quickened Jeade’en’s pace. Whatever Sammael did, he still had his own job to do.
Rain dripped from the brim of Mat’s hat, and periodically he had to lower his looking glass and wipe off the end of the tube. The downpour had slackened in the last hour, but the sparse branches overhead gave no shelter at all. His coat was long since soaked, and Pips’ ears were down; the horse stood as if not intending to move however Mat thumped his heels.
He did not know for sure what time of day it was. Somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, he thought, but the dark clouds had not thinned along with the rain, and they hid the sun where he was. On the other hand, it felt very much like three or four days since he had ridden down to warn the Tairens. He was still not sure why he had done that.
It was southward that he peered, and a way out that he looked for. A way out for three thousand men; easily that many survived yet, though they had no idea what he was up to. They believed he was hunting another fight for them, but three so far were three too many by his book. He thought he could have escaped on his own, now, so long as he kept his eyes open and his wits about him. Three thousand men, however, drew eyes whenever they moved, and they did not move quickly, what with more than half their number afoot. That was why he was on this Lightforsaken hilltop, and why the Tairens and Cairhienin were all jammed into the long, narrow hollow between this hill and the next. If he simply made a break for it…
Jamming the looking glass back to his eye, he glared south at sparsely wooded hills. Here and there were thickets, some fairly large, but most of the land was scrub or grass even here. He had worked back to the east, using every fold in the ground that would hide a mouse, bringing the column with him out of the treeless terrain and into some proper cover. Out of those bloody lightning strikes and fireballs; he was not sure whether it was worse when they came, or when the earth simply erupted in a roar for no apparent reason. All that effort to find that the battle was shifting with him. He could not seem to get out of the center of the thing.
Where’s my bloody luck now that I really need it? He was a peabrained fool for staying. Just because he had managed to keep the others alive this long did not mean he could keep it up. Soon or late, the dice would come up the Dark One’s Eyes. They’re the flaming soldiers. I should leave them to it and ride.
But he kept searching, scanning the wooded peaks and ridges. They gave cover for Couladin’s Aiel as well as for him, but here and there he could make them out. Not all were involved in pitched battles, but every last group was larger than his, every one was between him and safety to the south, and he had no way to tell who was who until it might be too late. The Aiel themselves seemed to know at a glance, but that did him no good.
Some mile or more off, a few hundred cadin’sorclad shapes running eight abreast and heading east topped a rise where halfadozen leatherleaf made a poor excuse for a copse. Before the lead runners could start down the other side, a lightning bolt flashed down into their midst, splashing men and earth like a stone thrown into a pond. Pips did not even quiver as the clap reached Mat; the gelding had grown accustomed to closer strikes than that.
Some of the fallen men picked themselves up, limping, and immediately joined those who had kept their feet in a hasty check of the unmoving. No more than a dozen were hauled across shoulders before they all dashed down from the height, back the way they had come. None paused to look at the crater. Mat had watched them learn that lesson; waiting only invited a second silvery lance from the clouds. In moments they were out of sight. Except for the dead.
He swung the looking glass east. There was a look of sunlight a few miles that way. The log tower should have been visible, poking above the trees, but he had not been able to find it in some time. Maybe he was looking in the wrong places. It did not matter. The lightning had to be Rand’s work, and all the rest of it as well. If I can get far enough that way…
He would be right back where he started. Even if it was not the pull of ta’veren drawing him back, he would have a hard time leaving again once Moiraine found out. And there was Melindhra to consider. He had never heard of a woman who would not take it askance when a man tried to walk out of her life without letting her know.
As he panned the looking glass slowly, hunting the tower, a slope covered in spaced leatherleaf and paperbark abruptly went up in flames, every tree become a
torch at the same instant.
Slowly he lowered the brassbound tube; he hardly required it to see the fire, and the thick gray smoke already making a thick plume into the sky. He did not need signs to recognize channeling when he saw it, not like that. Had Rand finally tipped over the edge of madness? Or maybe Aviendha had finally had enough of being forced to stay around him. Never upset a woman who could channel; that was a rule Mat seldom managed to follow, but he did try.
Save the smart mouth for somebody besides yourself, he thought sourly. He was just trying not to think about the third alternative. If Rand had not finally gone mad, and Aviendha or Egwene or one of the Wise Ones had not decided to be rid of him, then someone else was taking a hand in the day’s business. He could add two twos without getting five. Sammael. So much for trying that way out; it was no way out of anything. Blood and bloody ashes! What has happened to my —?
A fallen branch cracked under someone’s foot behind him, and he reacted without thinking, knees more than reins pulling Pips in a tight circle, swordbladed spear whipping across from the pommel of his saddle.
Estean almost dropped his helmet, his eyes going wide, as the short blade stopped a breath short of splitting his head for him. The rain had slicked his hair down into his face. Also afoot, Nalesean grinned, partly startled and partly amused at the other young Tairen’s discomfort. Squarefaced and blocky, Nalesean was the second since Melanril to lead the Tairen cavalry. Talmanes and Daerid were there as well, a pace behind as usual, and blankfaced beneath their bellshaped helmets, also as usual. The four had left their horses farther back in the trees.
“There are Aiel coming straight for us, Mat,” Nalesean said as Mat raised the ravenmarked spear upright. “The Light burn my soul if there’s a one less than five thousand.” He grinned at that, too. “I don’t think they know we’re here waiting for them.”
Estean nodded once. “They are keeping to the valleys and hollows. Hiding from…” He glanced at the clouds and shivered. He was not the only one to be uneasy about what might come out of the sky; the otherthree looked up, too. “Anyway, it’s plain they mean to go through where Daerid’s men are.” There was actually a touch of respect in his voice when he mentioned the pikes. Grudging, true, and not very strong, but it was difficult to look down on someone after they had saved your neck a few times. “They will be on top of us before they see us.”
“Wonderful.” Mat breathed. “That is just bloody wonderful.”
He meant it for sarcasm, yet Nalesean and Estean missed the flavor, of course. They looked eager. But Daerid wore as much expression on his scarred face as a rock, and Talmanes lifted an eyebrow at Mat just a fraction, shook his head a hair. That pair knew fighting.
The first encounter with the Shaido had been an even wager at best, one Mat would never have taken if not forced. That all the lightning had shaken the Aiel enough to turn it into a rout changed nothing. Twice more today they had seen
action, when Mat discovered himself in a choice of whether to catch or be caught, and neither had come out nearly as well as the Tairens believed. One had been a draw, but only because he had been able to lose the Shaido after they pulled back to regroup. At least they had not come again while he was getting everyone away through the twisting hill valleys. He suspected they had found something else to occupy them; maybe more of that lightning, or fireballs, or the Light knew what. He knew very well what had allowed them to escape their last fight with skins mostly whole. Another bunch of Aiel plowing into the rear of those fighting him, just in time to keep the pikes from being overrun. The Shaido had decided to withdraw to the north, and the others — he still did not know who — had swung off to the west, leaving him in possession of the field. Nalesean and Estean considered it a clear victory. Daerid and Talmanes knew better.
“How long?” Mat asked.
It was Talmanes who answered. “Half an hour. Perhaps a little more, if grace favors us.” The Tairens looked doubtful; they still did not seem to realize how quickly Aiel could move.
Mat had no such illusions. He had already studied the surrounding terrain, but he looked at it again and sighed. There was a very good view from this hill, and the only halfway decent stand of trees within half a mile was right where he sat his saddle. The rest was scrub brush, little as much as waisthigh, dotted with leatherleaf and paperbark and the occasional oak. Those Aiel would surely send scouts up here for a look, and there was no chance at all that even the horsemen could get out of sight before they did. The pikes would be right out in the open. He knew what had to be done — it was catch or be caught again — but he did not have to like it.
He only took a glance, but before he could open his mouth, Daerid said, “My scouts tell me Couladin himself is with this lot. At least, their leader has his arms bare, and shows marks such as the Lord Dragon is said to carry.”
Mat grunted. Couladin, and heading east. If there was any way to step aside, the fellow would run headlong into Rand. That might even be what he was after. Mat realized that he was smoldering, and it had nothing to do with Couladin wanting to kill Rand. The Shaido chief, or whatever the man was, might remember Mat vaguely as somebody hanging about Rand, but Couladin was the reason he was stuck out here in the middle of a battle, trying to stay alive, wondering whether any minute it was going to turn into a personal fight between Rand and Sammael, the kind of fight that might kill everything within two or three miles. That’s if I don’t get a spear through the brisket first. And no more choice about it than had a goose hanging outside the kitchen door. None of it would be so without Couladin.
A pity no one had killed the man years ago. He certainly gave excuses enough. Aiel seldom let anger show, and when they did, it was cold and tight. Couladin, on the other hand, seemed to flare up two or three times a day, losing his head in a fiery rage as quick as snap a straw. A miracle he was still alive, and the Dark One’s own luck.
“Nalesean,” Mat said angrily, “swing your Tairens wide to the north and come in on these fellows from behind. We will be holding their attention, so you ride hard and come down like a barn collapsing.” So he has the Dark One’s luck, does he? Blood and ashes, but I hope mine is back in. “Talmanes, you do the same to the south. Move, both of you. We’ve little time, and it’s wasting.”
The two Tairens bowed hastily and dashed for their horses, clapping on their helmets. Talmanes bow was more formal. “Grace favor your sword, Mat. Or perhaps I should say your spear.” Then he was gone, too.
Looking up at Mat as the three vanished down the hill, Daerid slashed rain from his eyes with a finger. “So you will stay with the pikes this time. You must not let your anger at this Couladin overcome you. A battle is no place to try fighting a duel.”
Mat barely stopped from gaping. A duel? Him? With Couladin? Was that why Daerid thought he was staying with the foot? He had chosen it because it was safer to be behind the pikes. That was his reason. The whole reason. “Not to worry. I can hold myself in rein.” And he had thought Daerid the most sensible of the whole lot.
The Cairhienin merely nodded. “I thought that you could. You have seen pikes pushed before, and faced a charge or two, I vow. Talmanes gives praises when there are two moons, yet I heard him say aloud that he would follow wherever you led. Some day I would like to hear your story, Andorman. But you are young — under the Light, I mean no disrespect — and young men have hot blood.”
“This rain will keep it cool if nothing else does.” Blood and ashes! Were they all mad? Talmanes was praising him? He wondered what they would say if they found out he was only a gambler following bits of memory from men dead a thousand years and more. They would be drawing lots for first chance to spit him like a pig. The lords especially; no one liked being made to look a fool, but nobles seemed to like it least of all, perhaps because they so often managed it on their own. Well, one way or another, he meant to be miles away when that discovery came. Bloody Couladin. I’d like to shove this spear down his throat! Heeling Pips, he started for the opposite slope, where the foot waited below.
Daerid climbed into his own saddle and swung in beside him, nodding as Mat spun out his plan. The bowmen on the slopes, where they could cover the flanks, but lying down, hidden in the brush until the last minute. One man on the crest to signal the Aiel in sight. And the pikes to step off as soon as he did, marching straight out toward the approaching enemy. “As soon as we can see the Shaido, we’ll retreat just as fast as we can, almost back to the gap between these two hills, then turn to face them.”
“They will think we wanted to run, realized we could not, and turned at bay like a bear to the hounds. Seeing us less than half their number and fighting only because we must, they should think to roll over us. Can we but hold their attention until the horse comes down on them from behind…” The Cairhienin actually grinned. “It is using the Aiel’s own tactics against them.”
“We had better hold their bloody attention.” Mat’s tone was as dry as he was wet. “To make sure we do — to make sure they don’t start putting loops around our flanks — I want a cry raised as soon as you stop the retreat. ‘Protect the Lord Dragon.’” This time Daerid laughed aloud.
That should bring the Shaido in right enough, especially if Couladin was leading. If Couladin really was leading, if he thought Rand was with the pikes, if the pikes could hold until the horse arrived… A lot of ifs. Mat could hear those dice rolling in his head again. This was the biggest gamble he had ever taken in his life. He wondered how long it was until nightfall; a man should be able to make his way out in the night. He wished those dice would get out of his head, or else fall so he knew what they showed. Scowling into the rain, he booted Pips on down the hillside.
Jeade’en stopped on a crest where a dozen trees made a thin topknot, and Rand hunched slightly against the pain in his side. The crescent moon, riding high, cast a pale light, yet even to his saidinamplified vision anything more than a hundred paces distant was featureless shadow. Night swallowed the surrounding hills whole, and he was only intermittently aware of Sulin hovering nearby, and Maidens all around him. But then, he could not seem to keep his eyes more than half open; they felt grainy, and he thought the gnawing pain in his side might be all that held him awake. He did not think of it often. Thought was not only distant now, it was slow.
Was it twice Sammael had attempted his life today, or three times? More? It seemed that he should be able to remember how often someone had tried to kill him. No, not to kill. To bait. Are you still so jealous of me, Tel Janin? When did I ever slight you, or give you one finger less than your due?
Swaying, Rand scrubbed a hand through his hair. There had been something odd about that thought, but he could not recall what. Sammael… No. He could deal with him when… if… No matter. Later. Today Sammael was only a distraction from what was important. He might even be gone.
Vaguely it seemed that there had been no attack after… After what? He recalled countering Sammael’s last move with something particularly nasty, but he could not pull the memory to the surface. Not balefire. Mustn’t use that. Threatens the fabric of the Pattern. Not even for Ilyena? I would burn the world and use my soul for tinder to hear her laugh again.
He was drifting again, away from what was important.
However long ago the sun had gone down, it had sunk on fighting, lengthening shadows gradually overwhelming the goldenred light, the men killing and dying. Now, vagrant winds still brought distant shouts and screams. Because of Couladin, true, but at the heart of it, because of himself.
For a moment he could not remember his name.
“Rand al’Thor,” he said aloud, and shivered, though his coat was damp with sweat. For an instant, that name had sounded strange to him. “I am Rand al’Thor, and I need to… I need to see.”
He had not eaten since morning, but then, the taint on saidin drove hunger away. The Void quivered constantly, and he hung on to the True Source by his fingernails. It was like riding a bull driven mad by redwort, or swimming naked in a river of fire churned to rapids by jagged boulders of ice. Yet when he was not on the brink of being gored or battered or drowned, it seemed that saidin was the only strength left in him. Saidin was there, filing at the edges of him, trying to erode or corrode his mind, but ready to be used.
With a jerky nod, he channeled, and something burned high in the sky.
Something. A ball of bubbling blue flame that banished shadows in harsh light.
Hills mounded up all around, trees black in the stark illumination. Nothing moved. A faint sound came to him on a gust of wind. Cheering perhaps, or singing. Or maybe he was imagining things; it was so tiny, he could well have been, and it died with the wind.
Suddenly he became aware of the Maidens around him, hundreds of them. Some, including Sulin, were staring at him, but many had their eyes squeezed shut. It took him a moment to realize they were trying to preserve night vision. He frowned, searching. Egwene and Aviendha were no longer there. Another long moment passed before he remembered to loose the weave of his channeling and let blackness reclaim the night. A deep blackness to his eyes, now.
“Where are they?” He was vaguely irritated when he had to say who he meant, and just as vaguely aware that he had no reason for it.
“They went to Moiraine Sedai and the Wise Ones at dusk, Car’a’carn,” Sulin replied, moving closer to Jeade’en. Her short white hair shone in the moonlight. No, her head was bandaged. How could he have forgotten? “A good two hours gone. They know that flesh is not stone. Even the strongest legs can run only so far.”
Rand frowned. Legs? They had been riding Mist. The woman was making no sense. “I have to find them.”
“They are with Moiraine Sedai and the Wise Ones, Car’a’carn,” she said slowly.
He thought she was frowning too, but it was hard to be sure.
“Not them,” he muttered. “Have to find my people. They’re still out there, Sulin.” Why was the stallion not moving? “Can you hear them? Out there, in the night. Still fighting. I need to help them.” Of course; he had to dig his heels into the dapple’s ribs. But when he did, Jeade’en only shifted sideways, with Sulin holding on to his bridle. He did not remember that she had been holding the bridle.
“The Wise Ones must speak to you now, Rand al’Thor.” Her voice had changed, but he was too weary to say how.
“Can’t it wait?” He must have missed the runner with the message. “I must find them, Sulin.”
Enaila seemed to spring up on the other side of the stallion’s head. “You have found your people, Rand al’Thor.”
“The Wise Ones are waiting for you,” Sulin added. She and Enaila turned Jeade’en without waiting on his agreement. Maidens crowded in for some reason as
they started along a winding way down the side of the hill, faces reflecting moonlight as they stared up at him, so close their shoulders brushed the horse’s flanks.
“Whatever they want,” he grumbled, “they had best be quick.” There was no need for them to be leading the dapple, but it was too much effort to make a fuss over it. He twisted to look back, grunting at the pain in his side; the crest was already swallowed in the night. “I have a lot to do yet. I need to find…” Couladin. Sammael. The men who were fighting and dying for him. “I need to find them.” He was so tired, but he could not sleep yet.
Lamps on poles lit the Wise Ones’ encampment, and small fires where kettles of water were hauled away and replaced by whiterobed men and women as soon as they began boiling. Gai’shain scurried everywhere, and Wise Ones as well, tending the wounded whose numbers swelled the camp. Moiraine was moving slowly down the long lines of those who could not stand, only rarely pausing to lay hands on an Aiel who then thrashed in the throes of being Healed. She swayed whenever she straightened, and Lan hovered behind her as if wanting to hold her up, or expecting to have to. Sulin exchanged words with Adelin and Enaila, too low for Rand to make out, and the younger women ran to speak to the Aes Sedai.
Despite the numbers of wounded, not all of the Wise Ones were looking after them. Inside a pavilion off to one side, perhaps twenty sat in a circle listening to one standing in the center. When she sat, another took her place. Gai’shain knelt around the outside of the pavilion, but none of the Wise Ones appeared to have any interest in wine, or anything except what they were hearing. Rand thought the speaker was Amys.
To his surprise, Asmodean was also helping out with the wounded, the water bag hanging from each shoulder looking decidedly odd with his dark velvet coat and white lace. Straightening from giving a drink to a man stripped to the waist except for bandages, he saw Rand and hesitated.
After a moment he handed the water bags to one of the gai’shain and wove his way through the Maidens toward Rand. They ignored him — they all seemed to be watching Adelin and Enaila speaking to Moiraine or else eyeing Rand — and his face was tight by the time he had to pause for the solid circle of Far Dareis Mai around Jeade’en. They were slow in parting, and did so just enough to let him through to Rand’s stirrup.
“I was sure you must be safe. I was sure.” From his tone of voice, he had been no such thing. When Rand did not speak, Asmodean shrugged uncomfortably. “Moiraine insisted I carry water. A forceful woman, to not allow the Lord Dragon’s bard to…” Trailing off, he licked his lips quickly. “What happened?”
“Sammael,” Rand said, but not in answer. He was just speaking the thoughts that drifted through the Void. “I remember when he was first named Destroyer of Hope. After he betrayed the Gates of Hevan and carried the Shadow down into the Rorn M’doi and the heart of Satelle. Hope did seem to die that day. Culan Cuhan
wept. What is wrong?” Asmodean’s face had gone as white as Sulin’s hair; he only shook his head mutely. Rand peered at the pavilion. Whoever was speaking now, he did not know her. “Is that where they are waiting for me? Then I should join them.”
“They will not welcome you yet,” Lan said, appearing beside Asmodean, who jumped, “or any man.” Rand had not heard or seen the Warder approach either, but he only turned his head. Even that seemed an effort. It seemed to be someone else’s head. “They meet with Wise Ones from the Miagoma, the Codarra, the Shiande and the Daryne.”
“The clans are coming to me,” Rand said flatly. But they had waited long enough to make today bloodier. It never happened like that in the stories.
“So it seems. But the four chiefs will not meet you until the Wise Ones have made their arrangements,” Lan added dryly. “Come. Moiraine can tell you more than I of it.”
Rand shook his head. “Done is done. I can hear details later. If Han doesn’t need to keep them from our backs any longer, then I need him. Sulin, send a runner. Han
—”
“It is done, Rand,” the Warder said insistently. “All of it. Only a few Shaido remain south of the city. Thousands have been taken prisoner, and most of the rest are crossing the Gaelin. Word would have been sent to you an hour ago, had anyone known where you were. You’ve kept moving. Come and let Moiraine tell you.”
“Done? We’ve won?”
“You have won. Completely.”
Rand peered at the men being bandaged, the patient lines awaiting bandages and those leaving with them. The rows that lay almost unmoving. Moiraine was still making her way along those, pausing wearily here and there to Heal. Only a few of the wounded would be here, of course. They would have been coming as they could throughout the day, leaving as and when they could. If they could. None of the dead would be here. Only a battle lost is sadder than a battle won. He seemed to remember saying that before, long ago. Perhaps he had read it.
No. There were too many living in his responsibility for him to worry over the dead, But how many faces will I know, like Jolien’s? I will never forget Ilyena, not if all the world burns!
Frowning, he raised a hand to his head. Those thoughts had seemed to come on top of one another, from different places. He was so tired he could hardly think. But he needed to, needed thoughts that did not slide by almost beyond his reach. He released the Source and the Void, and convulsed as saidin almost drove him under in that moment of retreat. He barely had time to realize his mistake. With the Power gone, exhaustion and pain crashed down on him.
He was aware of faces turned up to him as he toppled from his saddle, mouths moving, hands reaching to grab him, cushion his fall.
“Moiraine!” Lan shouted, voice hollow in Rand’s ears. “He is bleeding badly!” Sulin had his head cradled in her arms. “Hold on, Rand al’Thor,” she said
urgently. “Hold on.”
Asmodean said nothing, but his face was bleak, and Rand felt a trickle of saidin flowing into him from the man. Darkness came.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 45
(Rising Sun) After the Storm
Sitting on a small boulder jutting from the foot of the slope, Mat winced as he pulled his broadbrimmed hat lower against the midmorning sun. Partly to shield his eyes from the sun. There was another thing he did not want to see, though cuts and bruises reminded him, especially the arrow slash along his temple that the hat pressed against. An ointment from Daerid’s saddlebags had stopped the bleeding, there and elsewhere, yet everything still hurt, and most of it stung. That part would grow worse. The heat of the day was just beginning to take hold, but sweat was beading up on his face and already dampening his smallclothes and shirt. Idly he wondered whether autumn would ever come to Cairhien. At least discomfort kept him from thinking how tired he was; even after a night with no sleep he would have lain awake in a feather bed, much less blankets on the ground. Not that he wanted to be anywhere near his tent in any case.
A fine bloody todo. Nearly killed, I’m sweating like a pig, I can ‘t find a comfortable place to stretch out, and I don’t dare get drunk. Blood and bloody ashes! He stopped fingering a slice across the chest of his coat — an inch difference, and that spear would have gone through his heart; Light, but the man had been good! — and put that part of it out of his mind. Not that it was easy, with what was going on all around him.
For once the Tairens and Cairhienin did not seem to mind seeing Aiel tents in every direction. There were even Aiel right in the camp, and almost as miraculously, Tairens mingling with Cairhienin among the smoky cookfires. Not that anyone was eating; the kettles had not been set on the fires, although he could smell meat burning somewhere. Instead, most were as drunk as they could manage on wine, brandy, or Aiel oosquai, laughing and celebrating. Not far from where he sat, a dozen Defenders of the Stone, stripped to sweaty shirtsleeves, were dancing to the claps of ten times as many watchers. In a line, with arms around each others’ shoulders, they stepped so quickly that it was a wonder none of them tripped or kicked the man next to them. For another circle of onlookers, near a tenfoot pole stuck in the ground — Mat hastily averted his eyes — as many Aielmen were doing some kicking of their own. Mat assumed it was a dance; another Aiel was playing the pipes for them. They leaped as high as they could, flung one foot even higher, then landed on that foot and immediately leaped upward again, faster and faster, sometimes spinning like horizontal tops at the height of their leaps, or turning somersaults or backflips. Seven or eight Tairens and Cairhienin sat nursing broken bones from trying it, all the while cheering and laughing like madmen, passing a stone crock of something back and forth. In other places other men were dancing, and maybe singing. It was hard to say, in the din. Without stirring, he could count ten flutes, not to mention twice as many tin whistles, and a skinny Cairhienin in a
ragged coat was blowing something that looked part flute and part horn with some odd bits tossed in. And there were countless drums, most of them pots being banged with spoons.
In short, the camp was bedlam and a ball rolled into one. He recognized it, mainly from those memories he could still assign to other men if he concentrated hard enough. A celebration of still being alive. One more time they had walked under the Dark One’s nose and survived to tell the tale. One more dance along the razor’s edge finished. Almost dead yesterday, maybe dead tomorrow, but alive, gloriously alive, today. He did not feel like celebrating. What good was being alive if it meant living in a cage?
He shook his head as Daerid, Estean and a heavyset redhaired Aielman he did not know staggered by, holding each other up. Barely audible through the clamor, Daerid and Estean were trying to teach the taller man between them the words to “Dance with Jak o’ the Shadows.”
“We’ll sing all night, and drink all day, and on the girls we’ll spend our pay, and when it’s gone, then we’ll away, to dance with Jak o’ the Shadows.
The sun dark fellow showed no interest in learning, of course — he would not unless they convinced him it was a proper battle hymn — but he listened, and he was not the only one. By the time the three passed out of sight in the milling crowd, they had acquired a tail of twenty more, waving dented pewter cups and tarred leather mugs, all bellowing the tune at the top of their lungs.
“There’re some delight in ale and wine, and some in girls with ankles fine,
but my delight, yes, always mine,
is to dance with Jak o’ the Shadows.”
Mat wished he had never taught any of them the song. The teaching had just kept his mind occupied while Daerid stopped him from bleeding to death; that ointment stung as bad as the gashes themselves had, and Daerid would never make a seamstress jealous with his delicate handling of needle and thread. Only, the song had spread from that first dozen like fire in dry grass. Tairens and Cairhienin, horse and foot, had all been singing it when they returned at dawn.
Returned. Right back to the hill valley where they had started, below the ruin of the log tower, and no chance for him to get away. He had offered to ride ahead, and Talmanes and Nalesean nearly came to blows over who was to provide his escort. Not everyone had become the best of friends. All he needed now was for Moiraine to come asking questions about where he had been and why, flattering at him about ta’veren and duty, about the Pattern and Tarmon Gai’don, until his head spun. Doubtless she was with Rand now, but she would get around to him eventually.
He glanced up at the hilltop and the tangle of shattered logs among broken trees. That Cairhienin fellow who had made the looking glasses for Rand was up there
with his apprentices, poking about. The Aiel had been full of what happened there. It was definitely past time for him to be gone. The foxhead medallion protected him from women channeling, but he had heard enough from Rand to know a man’s channeling was different. He had no interest in finding out whether the thing would shield him from Sammael and his ilk.
Grimacing at darts of pain, he used the blackhafted spear to lever himself to his feet. Around him the celebration went on. If he drifted down to the picket lines now… He was not looking forward to saddling Pips.
“The hero should not sit without drinking.”
Startled, he jerked around, grunting at the stab of his wounds, to stare at Melindhra. She had a large clay pitcher in one hand, not spears, and her face was not veiled, but her eyes seemed to be weighing him. “Now listen, Melindhra, I can explain everything.”
“What must be explained?” she asked, flinging her free arm around his shoulders. Even with the sudden jolt, he tried to stand straighter; be still was not used to having to look up at a woman. “I knew you would seek your own honor. The Car’a’carn casts a great shadow, but no man wishes to spend his life in the shade.”
Closing his mouth hurriedly, he managed a faint, “Of course.” She was not going to try to kill him. “That’s it exactly.” In his relief, he took the pitcher from her, but his gulp turned into a splutter. It was the rawest doubledistilled brandy he had ever tasted.
She retrieved the pitcher long enough to take a draw, then sighed gratefully and pushed it back at him. “He was a man of much honor, Mat Cauthon. Better that you had captured him, but even by killing him, you have gained much ji. It was well that you sought him out.”
Despite himself, Mat looked at what he had been avoiding, and shivered. A leather cord tied in short flamered hair held Couladin’s head atop the tenfoot pole near where the Aielmen were dancing. The thing seemed to be grinning. At him.
Sought Couladin out? He had done his best to keep the pikes between him and any of the Shaido. But that arrow had clipped the side of his head, and he was on the ground before he knew it, struggling to get to his feet with the fight raging all around him, laying about him with the ravenmarked spear, trying to make it back to Pips. Couladin had appeared as if springing out of air, veiled for killing, but there had been no mistaking those bare arms, entwined with Dragons glittering goldandred. The man had been cutting a swath into the pikemen with his spears, shouting for Rand to show himself, shouting that he was the true Car’a’carn. Maybe he really believed it by then. Mat still did not know whether Couladin had recognized him, but it had made no difference, not when the fellow decided to carve a hole through him to find Rand. He did not know who had cut off Couladin’s head afterward, either.
I was too busy trying to stay alive to watch, he thought sourly. And hoping he
would not bleed to death. Back in the Two Rivers he had been as fine a hand with a quarterstaff as anyone, and a quarterstaff was not so different from a spear, but Couladin must have been born with the things in his hands. Of course, that skill had not availed the man much in the end. Maybe I still have a little bit of luck. Please, Light, let it show itself now!
He was thinking of how to get rid Of Melindhra so he could saddle Pips when Talmanes presented himself with a formal bow, hand to heart in the Cairhienin fashion. “Grace favor you, Mat.”
“And you,” Mat said absently. She was not going to go because he asked. Asking would certainly put a fox in the henyard. Maybe if he told her he wanted to take a ride. They said Aiel could run down horses.
“A delegation came from the city during the night. There will be a triumphal procession for the Lord Dragon, in gratitude from Cairhien.”
“Will there?” She had to have duties of some sort. The Maidens were always flocking around Rand; maybe she would be called off for that. Glancing at her though, he did not think he had better count on it. Her wide smile was… proprietary. “The delegation was from the High Lord Meilan,” Nalesean said, joining them.
His bow was just as correct, both hands sweeping wide, but hasty. “It is he who offers the procession to the Lord Dragon.”
“Lord Dobraine, Lord Maringil and Lady Colavaere, among others, also came to the Lord Dragon.”
Mat pulled his mind back to the moment. Each of the pair was trying to pretend the other of them did not exist — both looking right at him, with never the flicker of an eye toward each other — but their faces were as tight as their voices from the strain, their hands white knuckled on sword hilts. It would be a cap to everything if they came to blows, and him likely still trying to hobble out of reach when one of them ran him through by accident. “What does it matter who sent a delegation, as long as Rand gets his procession?”
“It matters that you should ask him for our rightful place at the head,” Talmanes said quickly. “You slew Couladin, and earned us that place.” Nalesean closed his mouth and scowled; plainly he had been about to say the same thing.
“You two ask him,” Mat said. “It’s none of my affair.” Melindhra’s hand tightened on the back of his neck, but he did not care. Moiraine would surely not be far from Rand. He was not about to put his neck in a second noose while still trying to think his way out of the first.
Talmanes and Nalesean gaped at him as if he were demented. “You are our battle leader,” Nalesean protested. “Our general.”
“My bodyservant will polish your boots,” Talmanes put in with a small smile that he carefully did not direct at the squarefaced Tairen, “and brush and mend your clothes. So you will appear at your best.”
Nalesean gave his oiled beard a jerk; his eyes darted halfway to the other man before he could stop them. “If I may offer, I have a good coat I think will fit you
well. Gold satin and crimson.” It was the Cairhienin’s turn to glower.
“General!” Mat exclaimed, holding himself up with the spear haft. “I’m no flaming —! I mean, I wouldn’t want to usurp your place.” Let them figure out which one of them he meant.
“Burn my soul,” Nalesean said, “it was your battle skill that won for us, and kept us alive. Not to mention your luck. I’ve heard how you always turn the right card, but it is more than that. I’d follow you if you had never met the Lord Dragon.” “You are our leader,” Talmanes said right on top of him, in a voice more sober if
no less certain. “Until yesterday I have followed men of other lands because I must. You I will follow because I want to. Perhaps you are not a lord in Andor, but here, I say that you are, and I pledge myself your man.”
Cairhienin and Tairen stared at one another as though startled at voicing the same sentiment, then slowly, reluctantly, exchanged brief nods. If they did not like each other — and only a fool would bet against that — they could meet on this point. After a fashion.
“I will send my groom to prepare your horse for the procession,” Talmanes said, and barely frowned when Nalesean added, “Mine can share the work. Your mount must do us proud. And burn my soul, we need a banner. Your banner.” At that the Cairhienin nodded emphatically.
Mat was not sure whether to laugh hysterically or sit down and cry. Those bloody memories. If not for them, he would have ridden on. If not for Rand, he would not have the things. He could trace the steps that led to them, each necessary as it seemed at the time and seeming an end in itself, yet each leading inevitably to the next. At the beginning of it all lay Rand. And bloody ta’veren. He could not understand why doing something that seemed absolutely necessary and as close to harmless as he could make it always seemed to lead him deeper into the mire. Melindhra had begun stroking the back of his neck instead of squeezing it. All he needed now…
He glanced up the hill, and there she was. Moiraine, on her delicatestepping white mare, with Lan on his black stallion towering at her side. The Warder bent toward her as if to listen, and there seemed to be a brief argument, a violent protest on his part, but after a moment the Aes Sedai reined Aldieb around and rode out of sight toward, the opposite slope. Lan remained where he was on Mandarb, watching the camp below. Watching Mat.
He shivered. Couladin’s head really did appear to be grinning at him. He could almost hear the man speak. You may have killed me, but you’ve put your foot squarely in the trap. I’m dead, but you’ll never be free.
“Just bloody wonderful,” he muttered, and took a long, choking swallow of the rough brandy. Talmanes and Nalesean seemed to think be meant it as said, and Melindhra laughed agreement.
Some fifty or so Tairens and Cairhienin had gathered to watch the two lords speak to him, and they took his drinking as a signal to serenade him, beginning with
a verse of their own.
“Well toss the dice however they fall, and snuggle the girls be they short or tall,
then follow young Mat whenever he calls, to dance with Jak o’ the Shadows.”
With a wheezing laugh he could not stop, Mat sank back down onto the boulder and set about emptying the pitcher. There had to be some way out of this. There just had to be.
Rand’s eyes opened slowly, staring up at the roof of his tent. He was naked beneath a single blanket. The absence of pain seemed almost startling, yet he felt even weaker than he remembered. And he did remember. He had said things, thought things… His skin went cold. I cannot let him take control. I am me! Me! Fumbling beneath the blanket, he found the smooth round scar on his side, tender yet whole.
“Moiraine Sedai Healed you,” Aviendha said, and he gave a start.
He had not seen her, sitting crosslegged on the layered rugs near the firepit, sipping from a silver cup worked with leopards. Asmodean lay sprawled across tasseled cushions, chin on his arms. Neither appeared to have slept; dark circles underlined their eyes.
“She should not have had to,” Aviendha went on in a cool voice. Tired or not, she had every hair in place, and her neat clothes were a sharp contrast to Asmodean’s rumpled dark velvets. Now and then she twisted the ivory bracelet of rosesandthorns that he had given her as if not realizing what she was doing. She wore the silver snowflake necklace, too. She still had not told him who had given it to her, though she had seemed amused when she realized he really wanted to know. She certainly did not look amused now. “Moiraine Sedai herself was near collapse from Healing wounded. Aan’allein had to carry her to her tent. Because of you, Rand al’Thor. Because Healing you took the last of her strength.”
“The Aes Sedai is on her feet already,” Asmodean put in, stifling a yawn. He ignored Aviendha’s pointed stare. “She has been here twice since sunrise, though she said you would recover. I think she was not so certain last night. Nor was I.” Pulling his gilded harp around in front of him, he fussed with it, speaking in an idle tone. “I did what I could for you, of course — my life and fortune are tied to yours
— but my talents lie elsewhere than Healing, you understand.” He strummed a few notes to demonstrate. “I understand that a man can kill or gentle himself doing what you did. Strength in the Power is useless if the body is exhausted. Saidin can easily kill, if the body is exhausted. Or so I have heard.”
“Are you finished sharing your wisdom, Jasin Natael?” Aviendha’s tone was chillier, if anything, and she did not wait for a reply before turning a gaze like bluegreen ice back to Rand. The interruption, it seemed, was his fault. “A man may behave like a fool sometimes, and little is the worse for it, but a chief must be more than a man, and the chief of chiefs more still. You had no right to push yourself near
to death. Egwene and I tried to make you come with us when we grew too tired to continue, but you would not listen. You may be as much stronger than we as Egwene claims, yet you are still flesh. You are the Car’a’carn, not a new Seia Doon seeking honor. You have toh, obligation, to the Aiel, Rand al’Thor, and you cannot fulfill it dead. You cannot do everything yourself.”
For a moment he could only gape at her. He had barely managed to do anything at all, had left the battle to others for all practical purposes while he stumbled about trying to be useful. He had not even been able to stop Sammael from striking where and as he chose. And she upbraided him for doing too much.
“I will try to remember,” he said finally. Even so, she looked ready to lecture more. “What news of the Miagoma and the other three clans?” he asked, as much to divert her as because he wanted to know. Women seldom seemed willing to stop until they had hammered you into the ground, unless you managed to distract them.
It worked. She was full of what she knew, of course, and as eager to instruct as to scold. Asmodean’s soft strumming — for once, something pleasant, even pastoral
— made an odd background for her words.
The Miagoma, the Shiande, the Daryne and the Codarra were camped within sight of one another, a few miles to the east. A steady stream of men and Maidens moved between the camps, including Rand’s, but only among societies, and Indirian and the other chiefs were not stirring. There was no doubt now that they would come to Rand eventually, but not until the Wise Ones finished their talks.
“They are still talking?” Rand said. “What under the Light do they have to discuss that takes so long? The chiefs are coming to follow me, not them.”
She gave him a flat look that would have done credit to Moiraine. “The Wise Ones’ words are for Wise Ones, Rand al’Thor.” Hesitating, she added, as if making a concession, “Egwene may tell you something of it. When it is done.” Her tone implied that Egwene might not, too.
She resisted his attempts to learn more, and finally he let it lie. Perhaps he would find out before it bit him, and perhaps not, but either way, he was not going to pry one word out of her that she did not want to speak. Aes Sedai had nothing on Aiel Wise Ones when it came to guarding their secrets and surrounding themselves with mystery. Aviendha was absorbing that particular lesson very well.
Egwene’s presence at the meeting of Wise Ones came as a surprise, and so did Moiraine’s absence — he would have expected her to be in the middle, twitching strings to her plans — but it turned out that one grew from the other. The newcome Wise Ones had wanted to meet with one of the Aes Sedai who followed the Car’a’carn, and although she was back on her feet after Healing him, Moiraine claimed to have no time. Egwene had been routed from her blankets as a replacement.
That made Aviendha laugh. She had been outside when Sorilea and Bair practically dragged Egwene from her tent, trying to pull on her clothes while they hustled her along. “I called to her that she would have to dig holes in the ground
with her teeth this time if she had been caught in a misdeed, and she was so sleepy she believed me. She began protesting that she would not, so hard that Sorilea began demanding what she had done to think she deserved to. You should have seen Egwene’s face.” She laughed so hard that she nearly toppled over.
Asmodean actually looked at her askance — though why he should, being what and who he was, was beyond Rand — but Rand only waited patiently until she caught her breath. For Aiel humor, this was mild. More the sort of thing he would have expected from Mat than from any woman, but mild even so.
When she straightened, wiping her eyes, he said, “What of the Shaido, then? Or are their Wise Ones also at this conclave?”
She answered still giggling into her wine; she considered the Shaido finished, hardly worth considering now. Thousands of prisoners had been taken, with a trickle still being brought in, and the fighting had died down except for a few small skirmishes here and there. Yet the more he got out of her, the less he could see them as done for. With the four clans keeping Han occupied, the bulk of Couladin’s people had crossed the Gaelin in good order, even carrying away most of the Cairhienin prisoners they had captured. Worse, they had destroyed the stone bridges behind them.
That did not concern her, but it did him. Tens of thousands of Shaido north of the river, no way to get at them until the bridges were replaced, and even wooden spans would take time. It was time that he did not have.
At the very end, when it seemed there was no more to say on the Shaido, she told him what made him forget worrying about the Shaido and what trouble they would cause. She just tossed it in, as if she had almost forgotten.
“Mat killed Couladin?” he said incredulously when she was done. “Mat?”
“Did I not say so?” The words were sharp, but halfhearted. Peering at him over her winecup, she seemed more interested in how he would take the news than in whether he doubted her word.
Asmodean plucked a few chords of something martial; the harp seemed to echo to drums and trumpets. “In some ways, a young man of as many surprises as you. I truly look forward to meeting the third of you, this Perrin, one day.”
Rand shook his head. So Mat had not escaped the pull of ta’veren to ta’veren after all. Or maybe it was the Pattern that had caught him, and being ta’veren himself. Either way, he suspected Mat was not too happy right that moment. Mat had not learned the lesson that he had. Try to run away, and the Pattern pulled you back, often roughly; run in the direction the Wheel wove you, and sometimes you could manage a little control over your life. Sometimes. With luck, maybe more than any expected, at least in the long haul. But he had more urgent concerns than Mat, or the Shaido.
A glance at the entrance told him the sun was well up, though all he saw otherwise was two Maidens squatting just outside, spears across their knees. A night and most of a morning with him unconscious, and Sammael had either not tried to
find him or had failed.
He was careful to use that name, even to himself, though another floated in the back of his mind now. Tel Janin Aellinsar. No history recorded the name, no fragment in the library at Tar Valon; Moiraine had told him everything the Aes Sedai knew of the Forsaken, and it was little more than was told in village tales. Even Asmodean had always called him Sammael, if for a different reason. Long before the War of the Shadow ended, the Forsaken had embraced the names men had given them, as if symbols of rebirth in the Shadow. Asmodean’s own true name
— Joar Addam Nesossin — made the man flinch, and he claimed to have forgotten the others in the course of three thousand years.
Perhaps there was no real reason to hide what was going on inside his head — maybe it was only an attempt to deny reality to himself — but Sammael the man would remain. And as Sammael, he would pay in full for every Maiden he had killed. The Maidens Rand had not been able to keep safe.
Even as he made the resolution, he grimaced. He had made a beginning by sending Weiramon back to Tear — the Light willing, only he and Weiramon knew how much of one, so far — but he could not go chasing off after Sammael, whatever he wanted or vowed. Not yet. There were matters to be seen to here in Cairhien, first. Aviendha might think he did not understand ji’e’toh, and perhaps he did not, but he understood duty, and he had one to Cairhien. Besides, there were ways to tail it in with Weiramon.
Sitting up — and trying not to show the effort of it — he covered himself as decently as he could in the blanket and wondered where his clothes were; he did not see anything but his boots, standing over behind Aviendha. She probably knew. It might have been gai’shain who undressed him, but it could just as easily have been she. “I need to go into the city. Natael, have Jeade’en saddled and brought up.”
“Tomorrow, perhaps,” Aviendha told him firmly, catching Asmodean’s coatsleeve as he, started to rise. “Moiraine Sedai said you would need to rest for
—”
“Today, Aviendha. Now. I don’t know why Meilan isn’t here, if he’s alive, but I mean to find out. Natael, my horse?”
She put on a stubborn face, but Asmodean jerked his arm free, smoothing the wrinkled velvet, and said, “Meilan was here, and others.”
“He was not to be told —” Aviendha began angrily, then tightened her mouth before finishing, “He needs to rest.”
So the Wise Ones thought they could keep things from him. Well, he was not as weak as they believed. He tried to stand, holding the blanket close, and turned the motion into shifting his position when his legs refused to cooperate. Maybe he was as weak as they thought. But he did not intend to let that stop him.
“I can rest when I’m dead,” he said, and wished he had not when she flinched as if he had hit her: No, she would not have flinched at a blow. His staying alive was important to her for the Aiel’s sake, and a threat there could hurt her more than a
fist. “Tell me about Meilan, Natael.”
Aviendha kept a sullen silence, though if looks had had anything to do with it, Asmodean would have been struck dumb as well.
A rider had come from Meilan in the night, bearing flowery praises and assurances of undying loyalty. At dawn Meilan himself appeared, with the six other High Lords of Tear who were in the city and a small host of Tairen soldiers who fingered sword hilts and gripped lances as though more than half expecting to fight the Aiel who had stood silently watching them ride in.
“It came close,” Asmodean said. “This Meilan is not used to being thwarted, I think, and the others scarcely more so. Especially the lumpyfaced one — Torean?
— and Simaan. That one has eyes as sharp as his nose. You know I am used to dangerous company, but these men are as dangerous in their way as any I have known.”
Aviendha sniffed loudly. “Whatever they are used to, they had no choice with Sorilea and Amys and Bair and Melaine on one side, and Sulin with a thousand Far Dareis Mai on the other. And there were some Stone Dogs,” she conceded, “and a few Water Seekers and some Red Shields. If you truly serve the Car’a’carn as you claim, Jasin Natael, you should guard his rest as they do.”
“It is the Dragon Reborn I follow, young woman. The Car’a’carn, I leave to you.”
“Go on, Natael,” Rand said impatiently, earning a sniff for himself.
She was right concerning the Tairens’ choices, though perhaps the Maidens and others fingering their veils had concerned them more than the Wise Ones. In any case, even Aracome, a graying, slender man with a longsmoldering temper, had been near bursting aflame by the time they reined their horses around, and Gueyam, bald as a stone and wide as a blacksmith, was whitefaced in rage. Asmodean was not sure whether it had been the certainty of being overwhelmed that stopped them drawing swords, or the realization that if they somehow managed to cut a path to Rand, he was unlikely to welcome them with his allies’ blood on their blades.
“Meilan’s eyes were bulging out of his head,” the man finished. “But before leaving, he shouted out his allegiance and fealty to you. Perhaps he thought you might hear. The others echoed him quickly, yet Meilan added something that made them stare. ‘I make a gift of Cairhien to the Lord Dragon,’ he said. Then he announced that he would prepare a grand triumph for you when you’re ready to enter the city.”
“There’s an old saying in the Two Rivers,” Rand said dryly. “The louder a man tells you he’s honest, the harder you must hold on to your purse.” Another said, “The fox often offers to give the duck its pond.” Cairhien was his without gifts from Meilan.
He had no doubts about the man’s loyalty. It would last just as long as Meilan believed he would be destroyed if caught betraying Rand. If caught; that was the hook. Those seven High Lords in Cairhien had been the most assiduous in trying to
see him dead in Tear. That was why he had sent them here. Had he executed every Tairen noble who plotted against him, there might have been none left. At the time, handing them anarchy, famine and civil war to deal with a thousand miles from Tear had seemed a good way to put a crimp in their schemes while doing some good where it needed doing. Of course, he had not even known Couladin existed then, much less that the man would lead him to Cairhien.
It would be easier if this was a story, he thought. In stories, there were only so many surprises before the hero knew everything he needed; he himself never seemed to know a quarter of everything.
Asmodean hesitated — that old saying about shouting men might be applied to him, too, as he was no doubt aware — but when Rand said no more, he added, “I think he wants to be King of Cairhien. Subject to you, of course.”
“And preferably with me far away.” Meilan probably expected Rand to return to Tear, and to Callandor. Meilan certainly would never be afraid of too much power.
“Of course.” Asmodean sounded even drier than Rand had. “There was another visit between those two.” A dozen Cairhienin lords and ladies, without retainers, came cloaked and with faces hidden in their hoods despite the heat. Plainly they knew that the Aiel despised Cairhienin, and just as plainly returned the sentiment, yet they were as nervous that Meilan might discover they had come as that the Aiel might decide to kill them. “When they saw me,” Asmodean said wryly, “half seemed ready to kill me for fear I was Tairen. You have Far Dareis Mai to thank that you still have a bard.”
Few as they were, the Cairhienin had still been harder to turn back than Meilan, growing sweatier and more whitefaced by the minute, but stubbornly demanding to see the Lord Dragon. It was a measure of their desire that when demands failed, they finally descended to open begging. Asmodean might have thought Aiel humor odd or harsh, but he chuckled over nobles in silk coats and riding dresses trying to pretend he was not there as they knelt to catch at the Wise Ones’ woolen skirts.
“Sorilea threatened to have them stripped and flogged back to the city.” His muted laughter turned disbelieving. “They actually discussed it among themselves. Had the requirement allowed them to reach you, I do believe some would have accepted.”
“Sorilea should have done it,” Aviendha put in, surprisingly agreeable. “The oathbreakers have no honor. At last Melaine had the Maidens throw them across their horses like bundles and run the animals from camp, with the oathbreakers hanging on as they might.”
Asmodean nodded. “But before that, two of them did speak to me, once they were certain I was not a Tairen spy. Lord Dobraine, and Lady Colavaere. They clouded everything in so many hints and innuendoes that I cannot be certain, but I would not be surprised if they mean to offer you the Sun Throne. They could bandy words with… some people I used to be acquainted with.”
Rand barked a laugh. “Maybe they will. If they can manage the same terms as
Meilan.” He had not needed Moiraine to tell him that Cairhienin played the Game of Houses in their sleep, nor Asmodean to tell him they would try it with the Forsaken. The High Lords to the left and the Cairhienin to the right. One battle done, and another, of a different sort if no less dangerous, beginning. “In any case, I mean the Sun Throne for someone who has a right to it.” He ignored the speculation on Asmodean’s face; perhaps the man had tried to help him the night before and perhaps he had not, but he did not trust the fellow enough to let him know half of his plans. However much Asmodean’s future might be tied to his, his loyalty was all necessity, and he was still the same man who had chosen to give his soul to the Shadow. “Meilan wants to give me a grand entry when I am ready, does he? So much the better that I see what’s what before he expects me.” It came to him why Aviendha had become so agreeable, even helping the talk along. As long as he sat here talking, he was doing exactly what she wanted. “Are you going to get my horse, Natael, or must I?”
Asmodean’s bow was deep, formal, and on the surface, at least, sincere. “I serve the Lord Dragon.”
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 46
(Full Aes Sedai Symbol) Other Battles, Other Weapons
Frowning after Asmodean and wondering how far he trusted the man, Rand was startled when Aviendha threw down her cup, splashing wine onto the rugs. Aiel did not waste anything that could be drunk, not only water.
Staring at the wet spot, she appeared just as surprised, but only for a moment. The next instant she had planted fists on hips where she sat and was glaring at him. “So the Car’a’carn will enter the city when he can barely sit up. I said the Car’a’carn must be more than other men, but I did not know he was more than mortal.”
“Where are my clothes, Aviendha?” “You are only flesh!”
“My clothes?”
“Remember your toh, Rand al’Thor. If I can remember ji’e’toh, so can you.” That seemed a strange thing to say; the sun would rise at midnight before she forgot the smallest scrap of ji’e’toh.
“If you keep on like this,” he said with a smile, “I will begin thinking you care for me.”
He meant it for a jest — there were only two ways to deal with her, joke or simply override her; arguing was fatal — and a mild one considering they had spent a night in each other’s arms, but her eyes went wide in outrage, and she jerked at the ivory bracelet as if to pull it off and throw it at him. “The Car’a’carn is so far above other men that he does not need clothes,” she spat. “If he wishes to go, let him go in his skin! Must I bring Sorilea and Bair? Or perhaps Enaila, and Somara, and Lamelle?”
He stiffened. Of all the Maidens who treated him as a longlost son of ten, she had chosen the three worst. Lamelle even brought him soup — the woman could not cook a lick, but she insisted on making him soup! “You bring whoever you wish,” he told her in a tight, flat voice, “but I am the Car’a’carn, and I am going into the city.” With luck, he could find his clothes before she returned. Somara was nearly as tall as he, and, at the moment, probably stronger. The One Power certainly would do him no good; he could not have embraced saidin if Sammael appeared in front of him, much less held onto it.
For a long moment she met his stare, then abruptly picked up the leopardworked cup and refilled it from a hammeredsilver pitcher. “If you can find your clothes and dress yourself without falling down,” she said calmly, “you may go. But I will accompany you, and if I think you are too weak to continue, you will return here if Somara must carry you in her arms.”
He stared as she stretched out on one elbow, carefully arranged her skirts, and began sipping at her wine. If he mentioned marriage again, no doubt she would snap his head off again, but in some ways she behaved as if they were married. The
worst parts of it, at least. The parts that did not seem a pennyworth different from Enaila or Lamelle at their worst.
Muttering to himself, he gathered the blanket around him and shuffled past her and the firepit to his boots. Clean woolen stockings were folded up inside, but nothing else. He could summon gai’shain. And have the entire matter spread through the camp. Not to mention the possibility that the Maidens would get into it after all; then the question would be whether he was the Car’a’carn, who must be obeyed, or just Rand al’Thor, another man entirely in their eyes. A rolled rug at the back of the tent caught his eye; rugs were always spread out. His sword was inside, the belt with the Dragon buckle wrapped around the scabbard.
Humming to herself, eyes lidded, Aviendha looked half asleep as she watched him search. “You no longer need… that.” She invested the word with so much disgust that no one would have believed she had given him the sword.
“What do you mean?” There were only a few small chests in the tent, inlaid with motherofpearl or worked in brass, or in one case, gold leaf. The Aiel preferred putting things in bundles. None held his clothes. The goldcovered chest, all unfamiliar birds and animals, held tightly tied leather sacks and gave off a smell of spices when he raised the lid.
“Couladin is dead, Rand al’Thor.”
Startled, he stopped and stared at her. “What are you talking about?” Would Lan have told her? No one else knew. But why?
“No one told me, if that is what you are thinking. I know you now, Rand al’Thor. I learn you more every day.”
“I wasn’t thinking any such thing,” he growled. “There isn’t anything anybody could tell.” Irritably, he snatched up the scabbarded sword and carried it awkwardly under his arm as he went on searching. Aviendha continued sipping wine; he thought she might be hiding a smile.
A fine thing. The High Lords of Tear sweated when Rand al’Thor looked at them, and the Cairhienin might offer him their throne. The greatest Aiel army the world had ever seen had crossed the Dragonwall on the orders of the Car’a’carn, the chief of chiefs. Nations trembled at mention of the Dragon Reborn. Nations! And if he did not find his clothes, he would sit waiting on permission to go outside from a lot of women who thought they knew better about everything than he did.
He finally found them when he noticed the goldembroidered cuff of a red coatsleeve sticking out from under Aviendha. She had been sitting on them all along. She grunted sourly when he asked her to move, but she did it. Finally.
As usual, she watched him shave and dress, channeling the water hot for him without comment — and without being asked — after the third time he nicked himself and muttered about cold water. In truth, this time he was bothered as much because she might see his unsteadiness as for any other cause. You can become used to anything if it goes on long enough, he thought wryly.
She misunderstood his head shaking. “Elayne will not mind if I look, Rand
al’Thor.”
Pausing with the laces of his shirt half done, he stared at her. “Do you really believe that?”
“Of course. You belong to her, but she cannot own the sight of you.”
Laughing silently, he went back to the laces. It was good to be reminded that her newfound mystery hid ignorance, aside from anything else. He could not help smiling smugly as he finished dressing, buckled on his sword and took up the tasseled Seanchan spearhead. That last turned the smile a touch toward grimness. He had meant it as a reminder that the Seanchan were still in the world, but it served to recall all the things that he must juggle. Cairhienin and Tairens, Sammael and the other Forsaken, the Shaido and nations that did not know him yet, nations that would have to before Tarmon Gai’don. Dealing with Aviendha was really quite simple compared with that.
Maidens leaped to their feet when he ducked out of the tent quickly to hide the unsteadiness of his legs. He was not sure how far he succeeded. Aviendha kept to his side as though she not only intended to catch him if he fell over but fully expected him to. It did nothing for his mood when Sulin, in her cap of bandages, looked questioningly at her — not him; her! — and waited for her nod before ordering the Maidens to be ready to move.
Asmodean came riding his mule up the hill, leading Jeade’en by the reins. Somehow he had found time to don fresh clothes, all dark green silk. With spills of white lace, of course. The gilded harp hung on his back, but he had given up wearing the gleeman’s cloak, and he no longer carried the crimson banner with its ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai. That office fell to a Cairhienin refugee named Pevin, an expressionless fellow in a patched farmer’s coat of rough dark gray wool, on a brown mule that should have been put out to grass from pulling a cart some years back. A long scar, still red, ran up the side of his narrow face from jaw to thinning hair.
Pevin had lost his wife and sister to the famine, his brother and a son to the civil war. He had no idea which Houses’ men had killed them, or who they had supported for the Sun Throne. Fleeing toward Andor had cost him a second son at the hands of Andoran soldiers and a second brother to bandits, and returning had cost the last son, dead on a Shaido spear, and his daughter as well, carried off while Pevin was left for dead. The man rarely spoke, but as near as Rand could make out, his beliefs had been winnowed down to a bare three. The Dragon had been Reborn. The Last Battle was coming. And if he stayed close to Rand al’Thor, he would see his family avenged before the world was destroyed. The world would end, surely, but it did not matter, nothing did, so long as he saw that vengeance. He bowed silently to Rand from his saddle as the mare reached the crest. His face was absolutely blank, but he held the banner straight and steady.
Climbing onto Jeade’en, Rand pulled Aviendha up behind him without letting her use a stirrup, just to show her that he could, and kicked the dapple into motion
before she was settled. She flung both arms around his waist, grumbling only partly under her breath; he caught a few more snippets of her current opinion of Rand al’Thor, and of the Car’a’carn, too. She made no move to let go, though, for which he was grateful. Not only was it pleasant having her pressed against his back, the support was welcome. With her halfway to the saddle, he had suddenly not been sure whether she was coming up or he down. He hoped she had not noticed. He hoped that was not why she was holding on to him so tightly.
The crimson banner with its large blackandwhite disc rippled behind Pevin as they zigzagged down the hill and along the shallow valleys. As usual, the Aiel gave little attention to the party as it passed, though the banner marked his presence as surely as the encircling escort of several hundred Far Dareis Mai easily keeping pace with Jeade’en and the mules. They went on about their business among the tents covering the slopes, at most glancing up at the sound of hooves.
It had been startling to hear of nearly twenty thousand prisoners taken from Couladin’s followers — until leaving the Two Rivers, he had never really believed so many people could be in one place — but seeing them was twice the shock. In clusters of forty or fifty, they dotted the hillsides like cabbages, men and women alike sitting naked in the sun, each cluster under the eyes of one gai’shain if that. Certainly no one else paid them much mind, though now and again a cadin’sorclad figure approached one of the groups and ordered a man or woman off on an errand. Whoever was called out went at a run, unguarded, and Rand saw several returning to slip back into their places. For the rest, they sat quietly, almost looking bored, as if they had no reason to be elsewhere, or desire to be, either.
Perhaps they would put on white robes just as calmly. Yet he could not help remembering how easily these same people had violated their own laws and customs already. Couladin might have begun the violation or ordered it, but they had followed and obeyed.
Frowning at the prisoners — twenty thousand, and more to come; he would certainly never trust one to hold to gai’shain — it took some time before he noticed an oddity among the other Aiel. Maidens and Aielmen who carried the spear never wore anything on their heads except the shoufa, and never any color that would not fade into rocks and shadows, but now he saw men with a narrow scarlet headband. Perhaps one in four or five had a strip of cloth knotted around his temples, with a disc embroidered or painted above the brows, two joined teardrops, black and white. Perhaps most strangely of all, gai’shain wore it, too; most had their cowls up, but every last bareheaded one wore it. And algai’d’siswai in their cadin’sor saw and did nothing, whether wearing the headband or not. Gai’shain were never to wear anything that those who could touch weapons did. Never.
“I do not know,” Aviendha said curtly into his back when he asked what it meant. He tried to sit up straighter; she really did seem to be holding to him more tightly than necessary. After a moment, she went on, so softly that he had to listen sharp to catch it all. “Bair threatened to strike me if I mentioned it again, and
Sorilea hit me across the shoulders with a stick, but I think they are those who claim we are siswai’aman.”
Rand opened his mouth to ask the meaning — he knew a scant few words of the Old Tongue, no more — when interpretation floated to the surface in his mind. Siswai’aman. Literally, the spear of the Dragon.
“Sometimes,” Asmodean chuckled, “it is difficult to see the difference between oneself and one’s enemies. They want to own the world, but it seems you already own a people.”
Turning his head, Rand stared at him until amusement faded and, shrugging uncomfortably, he let his mule fall back beside Pevin and the banner. The trouble was that the name did imply — more than implied — ownership; that was out of Lews Therin’s memories, too. It did not seem possible to own people, but if it was, he did not want to. All I want is to use them, he thought wryly.
“I see you don’t believe it,” he said over his shoulder. None of the Maidens had donned the thing.
Aviendha hesitated before saying, “I do not know what to believe.” She spoke as quietly as before, yet she sounded angry, and unsure. “There are many beliefs, and the Wise Ones are often silent, as if they do not know the truth. Some say that in following you, we expiate the sin of our ancestors in… in failing the Aes Sedai.”
The catch in her voice startled him; he had never considered that she might be as worried as any other Aiel about what he had revealed of their past. Ashamed might be a better word than worried; shame was an important part of ji’e’toh. They were ashamed of what they had been — followers of the Way of the Leaf — and at the same time ashamed that they had abandoned their pledge to it.
“Too many have heard some version of part of the Prophecy of Rhuidean now,” she went on in a more controlled tone, for all the world as if she had heard a word of that prophecy herself before she began training to become a Wise One, “but it has been twisted. They know that you will destroy us…” Her control faltered for the space of one deep breath. “But many believe that you will kill us all in endless dances of the spear, a sacrifice to atone for the sin. Others believe that the bleakness itself is a testing, to wear away all but the hard core before the Last Battle. I have even heard some say that the Aiel are now your dream, and that when you wake from this life, we will be no more.”
A grim set of beliefs, that. Bad enough that he had revealed a past they saw as shaming. It was a wonder they had not all left him. Or gone mad. “What do the Wise Ones believe?” he asked, as quietly as she.
“That what must be, will be. We will save what can be saved, Rand al’Thor. We do not hope to do more.”
We. She included herself among the Wise Ones, just as Egwene and Elayne included themselves among Aes Sedai. “Well,” he said lightly, “I expect Sorilea at least believes I should have my ears boxed. Probably Bair does, too. And certainly Melaine.”
“Among other things,” she mumbled. To his disappointment, she pushed away from him, although keeping a hold on his coat. “They believe many things I could wish they did not.”
He grinned in spite of himself. So she did not believe he needed his ears boxed.
That was a pleasant change since waking.
Hadnan Kadere’s wagons lay a mile or so from his tent, circled in a broad depression between two hills where Stone Dogs kept watch. A creamcolored coat straining over his bulk, the hatchetnosed Darkfriend looked up, mopping his face with the inevitable large handkerchief, as Rand rode past with his banner and loping escort. Moiraine was there as well, examining the wagon where the doorframe ter’angreal was lashed under canvas behind the driver’s seat. She did not even glance around until Kadere spoke to her. By his gestures, he was plainly suggesting that she might want to accompany Rand. In fact, he appeared eager for her to go, and small wonder. He had to be congratulating himself on keeping his being a Darkfriend hidden so long, but the more he was in company with an Aes Sedai, the more he was in danger of discovery.
Indeed, it was a surprise to Rand that the man was still there. At least half of the drivers who had entered the Waste with him had slipped away since crossing the Dragonwall, replaced by Cairhienin refugees chosen by Rand himself, to make sure they were not of Kadere’s sort. He expected every morning to find the fellow himself gone, too, especially since Isendre’s escape. The Maidens had nearly torn the wagons apart looking for the woman, while Kadere sweated his way through three handkerchiefs. Rand would not regret it if Kadere managed to sneak off in the night. The Aiel guards had orders to let him go, so long as he did not try to take Moiraine’s precious wagons. More obviously every day, their loads were a treasure to her, and Rand would not see her lose them.
He glanced over his shoulder, but Asmodean was staring straight ahead, ignoring the wagons altogether. He claimed to have had no contact with Kadere since Rand captured him, and Rand thought it might be true. Certainly, the merchant never left his wagons, and was never out of sight of Aiel guards except when inside his own wagon.
Opposite the wagons, Rand half drew rein without thinking. Surely Moiraine would want to accompany him into Cairhien; she might have crammed his head full, but it always seemed there was another piece she wanted to fit in, and this once in particular he could do with her presence and advice. But she merely looked at him for a long moment, then turned back to the wagon.
Frowning, he heeled the dapple on. As well to remember she had other sheep to shear than he knew about. He had become too trusting. Best to be as wary of her as of Asmodean.
Trust no one, he thought bleakly. For an instant he did not know whether it was his thought or Lews Therin’s, but in the end he decided it did not matter. Everybody had their own goals, their own desires. Much the best to trust no one completely
except himself. Yet he wondered, with another man oozing through the back of his mind, how far could he trust himself?
Vultures filled the sky around Cairhien in spiraling layers of black wings. On the ground they flapped about among clouds of buzzing flies, squawking hoarsely at glossy ravens that tried to usurp their rights to the dead. Where Aiel went across the treeless hills, recovering the bodies of their slain, the birds lumbered aloft fatly, screeching protests, then settled again as soon as the living humans were a few paces gone. Vultures and ravens and flies together could not really have made the sunlight dimmer, yet it seemed so.
Stomach twisting, trying not to see, Rand heeled Jeade’en faster, until Aviendha clung to his back once more and the Maidens were running. No one protested, and he did not believe it was only because Aiel could maintain that speed for hours. Even Asmodean looked pale around the eyes. Pevin’s face never changed, though the bright banner whipping above him appeared a mockery in that place.
What lay ahead was little better. Rand remembered the Foregate as a raucous beehive, a tangled warren of streets full of noise and color. Now it was a still, thick band of ashes surrounding the square gray walls of Cairhien on three sides. Charred timbers lay crazily atop stone foundations, and here and there a sootblack chimney yet stood, sometimes tilting precariously. In places, a chair lying somehow untouched in the dirt street, a hasty bundle dropped by someone fleeing, a rag doll, emphasized the desolation.
Breezes stirred some of the banners on the city’s towers and along the walls, a Dragon standing out redandgold on white at one place, the Crescents of Tear white on redandgold at another. The middle set of the Jangai Gates stood open, three tall square arches in the gray stone guarded by Tairen soldiers in rimmed helmets. Some were mounted but most afoot, and the variously colored stripes on their wide sleeves showed they were retainers of several lords.
Whatever was known in the city about the battle being won, and Aiel allies coming to the rescue, the approach of half a thousand Far Dareis Mai created some little stir. Hands went uncertainly to sword hilts, or spears and long shields, or lances. Some of the soldiers half moved as if to close the gates even while looking to their officer, with three white plumes on his helmet, who hesitated, standing in his stirrups and shading his eyes against the sun to study the crimson banner. And more particularly, Rand.
Abruptly the officer sat down, saying something that sent two of the mounted Tairens galloping back through the gates. Almost immediately, he was waving the other men aside, calling, “Make way for the Lord Dragon Rand al’Thor! The Light illumine the Lord Dragon! All glory to the Dragon Reborn!”
The soldiers still appeared uneasy about the Maidens, but they formed into lines to either side of the gates, bowing deeply as Rand rode through. Aviendha sniffed loudly at his back, and again when he laughed. She did not understand, and he had no intention of explaining. What amused him was that however hard Tairens or
Cairhienin or anyone else tried to puff up his head, he could rely on her and the Maidens, at least, to take the swelling down. And Egwene. And Moiraine. And Elayne and Nynaeve, for that matter, if he ever saw either again. Come to think of it, the lot of them seemed to make that a large part of their life’s work.
The city beyond the gates stilled his laughter.
Here the streets were paved, some broad enough for a dozen or more large wagons abreast, all straight as knife cuts and crossing at right angles. The hills that rolled outside the walls were here carved and terraced, faced with stone; they looked as much made by men as the stone buildings with their severe straight lines and sharp angles, or the great towers with their unfinished tops surrounded by scaffolding. People crowded the streets and the alleys, dulleyed and hollowcheeked, huddling beneath makeshift leantos or ragged blankets rigged as tents, or simply jammed together in the open, in the dark clothes favored by Cairhienin city dwellers and the bright colors of Foregaters and the rough garb of farmers and villagers. Even the scaffolds were filled, on every level to the very top, where folk looked tiny for the height. Only the middle of the streets remained clear as Rand and the Maidens made their way along, and that only for as long as it took the people to surge out around them.
It was the people who stilled his mirth. Worn and ragged as they were, jammed together like sheep in a toosmall pen, they cheered. He had no idea how they knew who he was, unless perhaps the officer’s shouts at the gates had been heard, but a roar sprang ahead of him as he circled through the streets, the Maidens forcing a way through the throng. The thunder of it overwhelmed any words except for the occasional “Lord Dragon” when enough shouted it together, but the meaning was clear in men and women holding up children to see him pass, in scarves and scraps of cloth waved from every window, in people who tried to push past the Maidens with outstretched hands.
They certainly seemed to have no fear of Aiel, not at the chance to lay a finger on Rand’s boots, and their numbers were such, the pressure of hundreds shoving them forward, that some managed to wriggle through. Actually, a good many touched Asmodean’s instead — he certainly looked a lord; in all his dripping lace, and perhaps they thought the Lord Dragon must be an older man than the youth in a red coat — but it made no difference. Whoever managed to put hand to anyone’s boot or stirrup, even Pevin’s, wore joy on their faces and mouthed “Lord Dragon” into the din even as Maidens forced them back with their bucklers.
Between the clamor of acclaim and the riders sent by the officer at the gate it was no surprise when Meilan appeared, a dozen lesser Tairen lords for retinue and fifty Defenders of the Stone to clear his way, laying about them with the butts of their lances. Grayhaired, hard and lean in his fine silk coat with stripes and cuffs of green satin, the High Lord sat his saddle with the stiffbacked ease of one who had been put on a horse and taught to command it almost as soon as he could walk. He ignored the sweat on his face, and equally the possibility that his escort might
trample someone. Both were minor annoyances and the sweat likely the greater. Edorion, the pinkcheeked lordling who had come to Eianrod, was among the others, not quite so plump as he had been, so his redstriped coat hung on him. The only other Rand recognized was a broadshouldered fellow in shades of green; Reimon had liked to play at cards with Mat back in the Stone, as he recalled. The others were older men for the most part. None displayed any more consideration of the crowd they plowed through than Meilan. There was not one Cairhienin in the lot.
The Maidens let Meilan ride through when Rand nodded, but closed behind him to exclude the rest, a fact the High Lord did not notice at first. When he did, his dark eyes smoldered angrily. He was often angry, Meilan was, since Rand had first come to the Stone of Tear.
The noise began to abate with the Tairen arrival, fading to a dull murmur by the time Meilan made a rigid bow to Rand from his saddle. His gaze flickered to Aviendha before he decided to ignore her, just as he was trying to ignore the Maidens. “The Light illumine you, my Lord Dragon. Be you well come to Cairhien. I must apologize for the peasants, but I was unaware you meant to enter the city now. Had I known, they would have been cleared. I meant to give you a grand entry, befitting the Dragon Reborn.”
“I have had one,” Rand said, and the other man blinked.
“As you say, my Lord Dragon.” He went on after a moment, his tone making it clear that he did not understand. “If you will accompany me to the Royal Palace, I have arranged a small greeting. Small indeed, I fear, since I had no warning of you, yet by this even I will make sure —”
“Whatever you have arranged now will do,” Rand cut in, and received another bow and a thin, oily smile for reply. The fellow was all subservience now, and in an hour he would be talking as to someone too feeblewitted to understand facts held under his nose, but beneath it all lay a contempt and hatred that he believed Rand did not see although they shone in his eyes. Contempt because Rand was not a lord
— not truly, as Meilan saw it, by birth — and hatred because Meilan had had the power of life and death before Rand came, with few his equal and none his superior. To believe that the Prophecies of the Dragon would be fulfilled someday was one thing; to have them fulfilled, and his own power diminished by them, was quite another.
There was a moment of confusion before Rand made Sulin allow the other Tairen lords to bring their horses in behind Asmodean and Pevin’s banner. Meilan would have had the Defenders clear the way again, but Rand curtly ordered that they follow behind the Maidens. The soldiers obeyed, faces unchanging beneath the rims of their helmets, though their whiteplumed officer shook his head, and the High Lord put on a condescending smile. That smile faded when it became clear that the crowds opened up easily ahead of the Maidens. That they did not have to club a path through, he attributed to the Aiel reputation for savagery, and frowned when Rand made no reply. One thing Rand made note of: Now that he had Tairens
with him, the cheers did not rise again.
The Royal Palace of Cairhien occupied the highest hill of the city, exactly in the center, square and dark and massive. In fact, between the palace in all its levels and the stonefaced terracing, it was hard to say there was a hill there at all. Lofty colonnaded walks and tall narrow windows, high above the ground, did no more to relieve the rigidity than did gray, stepped towers precisely placed in concentric squares of increasing height. The street became a long, broad ramp leading up to tall bronze gates, and a huge square courtyard beyond lined with Tairen soldiers standing like statues, spears slanted. More stood on the overlooking stone balconies.
A ripple of murmurs ran through the ranks at the appearance of the Maidens, but it was quickly stilled in chanted shouts of “All glory to the Dragon Reborn! All glory to the Lord Dragon and Tear! All glory to the Lord Dragon and the High Lord Meilan!” From Meilan’s expression, you would have thought it all spontaneous.
Darkgarbed servants, the first Cairhienin Rand had seen in the palace, rushed out with worked golden bowls and white linen cloths as he swung a leg over the high pommel and slid from his saddle. Others came to take reins. He took the excuse of bathing his face and hands in cool water to leave Aviendha to climb down by herself. Trying to help her down might have ended with them both flat on the paving stones.
Unprompted, Sulin chose out twenty Maidens besides herself to accompany him within. On the one hand, he was glad she did not want to keep every last spear around him. On the other hand, he wished Enaila, Lamelle and Somara were not among the twenty. The considering looks they gave him — especially Lamelle, a lean, strongjawed woman with dark red hair, nearly twenty years older than he — made him grind his teeth while trying to smile reassuringly. Somehow Aviendha must have managed to speak to them, and to Sulin, behind his back. I may not be able to do anything about the Maidens, he thought grimly as he tossed a linen towel back to one of the serving men, but burn me if there isn’t one Aiel woman who’ll learn I’m the Car’a’carn!
The other High Lords greeted him at the foot of the broad gray stairs that led up from the courtyard, all in colorful silk coats and satin stripes and silverworked boots. It was plain that none were aware Meilan had gone to meet him until after the fact. Potatofaced Torean, oddly languid for such a lumpy man, sniffed anxiously at a scented handkerchief. Gueyam, oiled beard making his head seem even balder, clenched fists the size of small hams and glared at Meilan even as he bowed to Rand. Simaan’s sharp nose seemed to quiver in outrage; Maraconn, with blue eyes rare in Tear, compressed his thin lips until they almost disappeared; and while Hearne’s narrow face was all smiles, he tugged unconsciously at one earlobe as he did when furious. Only bladeslender Aracome showed no outward emotion, but then he almost always kept his anger well banked until ready to let it burst into flame.
It was too good an opportunity to miss. Silently thanking Moiraine for her,
lessons — it was easier to trip a fool than to knock him down, she said — Rand clasped Torean’s pudgy hand warmly and clapped Gueyam on the point of a thick shoulder, returned Hearne’s smile with one warm enough for a close companion and nodded silently to Aracome with a seemingly significant glance. Simaan and Maraconn he all but ignored after one look as flat and cool as a deep winter pond for each.
That was all it needed for the moment, beyond watching their eyes shift and faces tighten in thought. They had played Daes Dae’mar, the Game of Houses, their entire lives, and being among Cairhienin, who could read volumes in a raised eyebrow or a cough, had only heightened their sensitivity. Each man knew Rand had no reason to be friendly toward him, but each had to wonder if his own greeting was only to cover something real with someone else. Simaan and Maraconn appeared the most worried, yet the others eyed those two perhaps the most suspiciously of all. Perhaps his coolness had been the true cover. Or maybe that was what they were meant to think.
For himself, Rand thought that Moiraine would be proud of him, and so would Thom Merrilin. Even if none of these seven was actively plotting against him at the moment — something he did not think even Mat would bet on — men in their positions could do much to disrupt his plans without being seen to, and they would do so from habit if for no other reason. Or they would have. He had them off balance now. If he could keep them that way, they would be too busy watching each other, and too afraid of being watched in turn, to trouble him. They might even obey for once without finding a hundred reasons why things should be done differently from what he wanted. Well, that might be asking too much.
His satisfaction slipped when he saw Asmodean’s sardonic grin. Worse was Aviendha’s wondering stare. She had been in the Stone of Tear; she knew who these men were, and why he had sent them here. I do what I must, he thought sourly, and wished it did not sound as if he were trying to excuse himself.
“Inside,” he said, more sharply than he intended, and the seven High Lords jumped as if suddenly recalling who and what he was.
They wanted to crowd around him as he climbed the stairs, but except for Meilan to show the way, the Maidens simply made a solid circle around him, and the High Lords brought up the rear with Asmodean and the lesser lords. Aviendha stuck close by… of course, and Sulin was on his other side, Somara and Lamelle and Enaila right behind him. They could have reached out and touched his back without stretching. He gave Aviendha an accusing look, and she arched her eyebrows at him so questioningly that he almost believed she had nothing to do with it. Almost.
The corridors of the palace were empty except for darkliveried servants who bowed almost chest to knees or curtsied just as deeply as he passed, but when he entered the Grand Hall of the Sun he discovered that the Cairhienin nobility had not been excluded from the palace entirely.
“The Dragon Reborn comes,” intoned a whitehaired man just inside the huge
gilded doors worked with the Rising Sun. His red coat embroidered with sixpointed stars in blue, a little large on him after his time in Cairhien, marked him for an upper servant of Meilan’s House. “All hail the Lord Dragon Rand al’Thor. All glory to the Lord Dragon.”
A quick roar filled the chamber to its anglevaulted ceiling, fifty paces up. “Hail the Lord Dragon Rand al’Thor! All glory to the Lord Dragon! The Light illumine the Lord Dragon!” The silence that followed seemed twice as still by comparison.
Between massive square columns of marble thick streaked with blue so deep it was almost black stood more Tairens than Rand expected, ranks of Lords and Ladies of the Land dressed in their finest, in peaked velvet hats and coats with puffy, striped sleeves, in colorful gowns and lace ruffs and closefitting caps intricately embroidered or sewn with pearls or small gems.
To their rear were the Cairhienin, darkly garbed except for slashes of color across the breast of gown or kneelength coat. The more stripes in House colors, the higher the rank of the wearer, but men and women with color from neck to waist or lower stood behind Tairens clearly of minor Houses, with yellow embroidery instead of threadofgold and wool instead of silk. No few of the Cairhienin men had shaved and powdered the front of their heads; all of the younger men had.
The Tairens looked expectant, if uneasy; the Cairhienin faces could have been chiseled from ice. There was no way to say who had cheered and who not, but Rand suspected most of those cries had come from the front rows.
“A good many wished to serve you here,” Meilan murmured as they made their way up the bluetiled floor with its great golden mosaic of the Rising Sun. A ripple of silent curtsies and bows followed.
Rand only grunted. They wished to serve him? He did not need Moiraine to know that these lesser nobles hoped to become greater on estates carved out of Cairhien. No doubt Meilan and the other six had already intimated if not promised which lands would be whose.
At the far end of the Grand Hall, the Sun Throne itself stood centered atop a wide dais of deep blue marble. Even here Cairhienin restraint held, for a throne at any rate. The great heavyarmed chair glittered with gilt and golden silk, but somehow it seemed to be all plain vertical lines, except for the wavyrayed Rising Sun that would stand above the head of whoever sat on it.
That was meant to be him, Rand realized long before reaching the nine steps to the dais. Aviendha climbed up with him, and Asmodean, as his bard, was allowed up as well, but Sulin quickly arrayed the other Maidens around the dais, their casually held spears blocking Meilan as well as the rest of the High Lords. Frustration painted those Tairen faces. The Hall was so quiet that Rand could hear himself breathe.
“This belongs to someone else,” he said finally. “Besides, I’ve spent too long in the saddle to welcome such a hard seat. Bring me a comfortable chair.”
There was a moment of shocked silence before a murmur ran through the Hall.
Meilan suddenly wore such a look of speculation, quickly suppressed, that Rand nearly laughed. Very likely Asmodean was right about the man. Asmodean himself was eyeing Rand with barely hidden surmise.
It was some minutes before the fellow in the starembroidered coat ran up panting, followed by two darkliveried Cairhienin carrying a highbacked chair piled with silkcovered cushions, and pointed out where to place it with a great many worried glances at Rand. Vertical lines of gilt ran up the chair’s heavy legs and back, but it seemed insignificant in front of the Sun Throne.
While the three servants were still bowing themselves away, bending double on every step, Rand tossed most of the cushions to one side and sat down gratefully, the Seanchan spearhead on his knee. He was careful not to sigh, though. Aviendha was watching him too carefully for that, and the way Somara kept glancing from her to him and back confirmed his suspicions.
But whatever his problems with Aviendha and Far Dareis Mai, most present awaited his words with equal parts eagerness and trepidation. At least they’ll jump when I say “toad,” he thought. They might not like it, but they would do it.
With Moiraine’s help he had worked out what he must do here. Some he had known was right even without her suggestions. It would have been good to have her there to whisper in his ear if needed, instead of Aviendha waiting to signal Somara, but there was no point in waiting. Surely every Tairen and Cairhienin noble in the city was in this chamber.
“Why do the Cairhienin hang back?” he said loudly, and the crowd of nobles shifted, exchanging confused glances. “Tairens came to help, but that is no reason for Cairhienin to hold themselves in the rear here. Let everyone sort themselves by rank. Everyone.”
It was difficult to say whether Tairens or Cairhienin were the most stunned, though Meilan looked ready to swallow his tongue, and the other six not far behind. Even slowburning Aracome went white in the face. With much shuffling of boots and twitching aside of skirts, with many icy stares on both sides, it was done, until the front rows were all men and women with stripes across their chests and the second held only a few Tairens. Meilan and his fellows had been joined at the foot of the dais by twice their number of Cairhienin lords and ladies, most graying and everyone stripes from neck nearly to knees, though perhaps “joined” was not the right word. They stood in two groups, with a full three paces between, and looked away from one another so hard that they might as well have shaken fists and shouted. Every eye was on Rand, and if the Tairens were in a fury, the Cairhienin were still ice, with only hints of a thaw in the considering way they studied him.
“I have noticed the banners flying above Cairhien,” he went on once the movement stilled. “It is well that so many of the Crescents of Tear fly. Without Tairen grain, Cairhien would have no living to hoist a banner, and without Tairen swords, the people of this city who survived today, noble as well as common, would be learning to obey the Shaido. Tear has earned her honor.” That puffed up the
Tairens, of course, bringing fierce nods and fiercer smiles, though it certainly seemed to confuse the High Lords, coming on the heels of the other. For that matter, the Cairhienin below the dais were eyeing one another doubtfully. “But I do not need so many banners for myself. Let one Dragon banner remain, on the highest tower of the city so all who approach can see, but let the rest be taken down and replaced with the banners of Cairhien. This is Cairhien, and the Rising Sun must and will fly proudly. Cairhien has her own honor, which she shall keep.”
The chamber erupted in a roar so suddenly that Maidens hefted their spears, a roar that reverberated from wall to wall. In an instant Sulin was flashing Maiden handtalk, but already halfraised veils were being let fall. The Cairhienin nobles were cheering every bit as loudly as the people in the streets had, capering and waving their arms like Foregaters at festival. In the pandemonium it was the Tairens’ turn to exchange silent stares. They did not look angry. Even Meilan appeared unsure more than anything else, though like Torean and the others, he watched in amazement the lords and ladies of high rank around him, so coldly dignified a moment before, now dancing and shouting for the Lord Dragon.
Rand did not know what any of them read into his words. Certainly he had expected them to hear more than he said, especially the Cairhienin, and perhaps even that some would hear what he really meant, but nothing had prepared him for this display. Cairhienin reserve was an odd thing, he well knew, mixed at times with unexpected boldness. Moiraine had been reticent on the matter, for all her insistence on trying to teach him everything; the most she had said was that if that reserve broke, it could do so to a surprising degree. Surprising, indeed.
When the cheering finally died down, the giving of oaths of fealty began. Meilan was the first to kneel, tightfaced as he pledged under the Light and by his hope of salvation and rebirth to serve faithfully and obey; it was an old form, and Rand hoped it might actually constrain some to keep the oath. Once Meilan had kissed the tip of the Seanchan spearhead, trying to hide a sour grimace by stroking his beard, he was replaced by the Lady Colavaere. A more than handsome woman in her middle years, with dark ivory lace spilling over the hands she placed between Rand’s, and horizontal slashes of color from high lace collar to her knees, she gave the oath in a clear, firm voice and the musical accent he was used to hearing from Moiraine. Her dark gaze had something of the weighingandmeasuring look of Moiraine as well, most especially when she eyed Aviendha as she curtsied her way back down the steps. Torean replaced her, sweating as he swore, and Lord Dobraine replaced Torean, deepset eyes probing, one of the few older men to have shaved the front of his long, mostly gray hair, then Aracome, and…
Rand felt impatience as the procession continued, one by one up to kneel before him, Cairhienin succeeding Tairen succeeding Cairhienin, as he had decreed. This was all necessary, so Moiraine said — and so agreed a voice in his head that he knew for Lews Therin’s — but to him it was part of the delay. He must have their loyalty, if only on the surface, in order to begin making Cairhien secure, and that
beginning, at least, had to be made before he could move on Sammael. And that I will do! I have too much to do yet to let him go on stabbing at my ankles from the bushes! He will find out what it means to rouse the Dragon!
He did not understand why those coming before him began to sweat and lick their lips as they knelt and stammered the words of fealty. But then, he could not see the cold light burning in his own eyes.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 47
(Elephant)
The Price of a Ship
Finishing her morning wash, Nynaeve toweled herself dry and pulled on a fresh silk shift reluctantly. Silk was not as cool as linen, and even with the sun only just up, the heat in the wagon foretold another scorching day. Besides which, the thing was cut so she was half afraid it would fall in a puddle around her ankles if she breathed wrong. At least it was not damp with nightsweat, as her discarded one was.
Disturbing dreams had racked her sleep, dreams of Moghedien that woke her bolt upright — and those better than the ones she did not wake out of — dreams of Birgitte shooting arrows at her and not missing, dreams of the Prophet’s followers rioting through the menagerie, of being stranded forever in Samara because no vessel ever came, of reaching Salidar and finding Elaida in charge. Or Moghedien again, there too. She had wakened weeping from that one.
All just worry, of course, and natural enough. Three nights camped here without a ship appearing, three sweltering days of standing blindfolded against that cursed piece of wall. That was enough to put anyone on edge, even without worrying whether Moghedien was closing in. But then, just because the woman knew they were with a menagerie did not mean she had to find them in Samara. There were other traveling menageries in the world besides those gathered here. Thinking up reasons not to worry was easier than not worrying, though.
But why should I be anxious about Egwene? Dipping a split twig into a small dish of saltandsoda on the washstand, she began scrubbing her teeth vigorously. Egwene had popped up in nearly every dream, yammering at her, but she could not see how Egwene came into them.
In truth, anxiety and lack of sleep were only part of what made her mood vile this morning. The others were such minor things, but they were realities. A pebble in your shoe was small compared to having your head cut off, but if the pebble was there and the chopping block might never be…
It was not possible to avoid her own reflection, and her hair hanging loose about her shoulders instead of decently braided. Brush it how she would, the brassy red color never became less loathsome. And she knew all too well that a blue dress was laid out on the bed behind her. A blue to make even a Tinker woman blink, and cut as low as the original red gown hanging on a peg. That was why she had on this precariously clinging shift. One dress like that was not enough, not according to Valan Luca. Clarine was at work on another pair in a virulent yellow, and there was talk of stripes. Nynaeve did not want to know about stripes.
At least the man could let me choose the colors, she thought, working the split twig furiously. Or Clarine. But no, he had his own ideas, and he never asked. Not Valan Luca. His color choices sometimes made her forget the necklines. I ought to
throw it in his face! Yet she knew she would not. Birgitte flaunted herself in those dresses without the hint of a blush. The woman was certainly nothing like any of the stories about her! Not that she was going to wear the fool dress without protest because Birgitte did. She was not competing with the woman in any way. It was just that… “If you have to do a thing,” she growled around the twig, “best you get used it.”
“What did you say?” Elayne asked. “If you’re going to talk, please take that out of your mouth. The noise is disgusting otherwise.”
Wiping her chin, Nynaeve glared over her shoulder. Elayne was seated on her own narrow bed with her legs drawn up beside her, braiding her blackdyed hair. She already had on her white breeches, all sewn with spangles, and a snowy silk blouse with ruffles at the neck that was much too sheer. Her sequinsplattered white coat lay beside her. White. She also had two suits of clothes for performing, with a third in the making, all in white, if not exactly plain. “If you are going to dress in that fashion; Elayne, you should not sit so. It’s indecent.”
The other woman glowered sullenly, but She did put her slippered feet on the floor. And raised her chin in that haughty way she had. “I think I may take a walk into the town this morning,” she said coolly, still working at the braid. “This wagon is… confining.”
Rinsing her mouth, Nynaeve spat into the washbowl. Loudly. The wagon certainly did seem smaller by the day. Maybe they did need to keep out of sight as much as possible — it had been her idea, one she was coming to regret — but this was becoming ridiculous. Three days shut up with Elayne except when they went to perform was beginning to feel like three weeks. Or three months. She had never before realized what an acid tongue Elayne had. A ship had to come. Any kind of ship. She would give every last coin hidden in the brick stove, every last jewel, anything, for a ship today. “Well, that wouldn’t attract any attention, would it? But perhaps you could use the exercise. Or maybe it’s just the way those breeches fit your hips.”
Blue eyes flared, but Elayne’s chin remained high and her tone cold. “I dreamed about Egwene last night, and between going on about Rand and Cairhien — I worry about what is happening there, even if you do not — in between, she said you were turning into a screaming harridan. Not that I think so, necessarily. I would have said a fishmonger.”
“Now you listen to me, you illtempered little chit! If you don’t —”
Still glaring, Nynaeve snapped her mouth shut, then drew breath slowly. With an effort she forced her voice to be level. “You dreamed about Egwene?” Elayne nodded curtly. “And she talked of Rand and Cairhien?” The younger woman rolled her eyes in exaggerated exasperation and went on with her, braid. Nynaeve made her hand loose its fistful of brassy red hair, made herself stop thinking of teaching the DaughterHeir of bloody Andor some simple common courtesy. If they did not find a ship soon… “If you can think of anything except how to show more of your
legs than you already are, it might interest you to know that she was in my dreams, too. She said Rand won a great victory at Cairhien yesterday.”
“I may be exposing my legs,” Elayne barked, spots of color rising in her cheeks, “but at least I am not flashing my — You dreamed of her, too?”
It did not take long to compare notes, though Elayne continued to show a viperish tongue; Nynaeve had had a perfectly good reason for screaming at Egwene, and Elayne probably had been dreaming of parading in front of Rand in her sequined costume, if not less. Saying so was simple honesty. Even so, it quickly became clear that Egwene had said the same things in both their dreams, and that left little room for doubt.
“She kept saying she was really there,” Nynaeve muttered, “but I thought it was just part of the dream.” Egwene had told them often enough that it was possible, talking to someone in her dreams, but she had never said that she could. “Why should I have believed? I mean, she said she’d finally recognized some spear he’s taken to carrying as Seanchan work. That’s preposterous.”
“Of course.” Elayne arched one eyebrow in an irritating manner. “Just as preposterous as finding Cerandin and her s’redit. There must be other Seanchan refugees, Nynaeve, and spears are likely the least of what they left behind.”
Why could the woman not say anything without a barb? “I notice how well you believed.”
Elayne threw the finished braid over her shoulder, then tossed her head again, superciliously, for good measure. “I do hope Rand is all right.” Nynaeve sniffed; Egwene had said he would need days of rest before he was on his feet again but he had been Healed. The other woman continued, “No one has ever taught him he mustn’t overextend himself. Doesn’t he know the Power can kill him if he draws too much, or weaves when tired? That much is the same for him as for us.”
So she meant to change the subject, did she? “Perhaps he doesn’t know,” Nynaeve told her sweetly, “since there isn’t a White Tower for men.” That made her think of something else. “Do you think it really was Sammael?”
Caught with a retort on the tip of her tongue, Elayne glowered at her sideways, then heaved a peevish sigh. “It hardly matters to us, does it? What we should be thinking about is using the ring again. For more than meeting Egwene. There is so much to learn. The more I do learn, the more I know how much I don’t know yet.”
“No.” Nynaeve did not really expect the other woman to take out the ring ter’angreal then and there, but she took a reflexive step toward the brick stove. “No more trips to Tel’aran’rhiod, for either of us, except to meet her.”
Elayne went right on without appearing to notice. Nynaeve could have been talking to herself. “It isn’t as though we need to channel. We won’t give ourselves away that way.” She did not look at Nynaeve, but there was a hint of bite in her voice. She maintained that they could use the Power, if they were careful. For all Nynaeve knew, Elayne did just that behind her back. “I’ll wager if one of us visited the Heart of the Stone tonight, Egwene would be there. Think, if we could talk to
her in her dreams, we’d not need to worry about encountering Moghedien in Tel’aran’rhiod any longer.”
“You think it’s easy to learn, then?” Nynaeve asked dryly. “If that’s so, why hasn’t she taught us already? Why hasn’t she done it before this?” Her heart was not in it, though. She was the one worried about Moghedien. Elayne knew the woman was dangerous, but it was like knowing a viper was dangerous; Elayne knew, but Nynaeve had been bitten. And being able to communicate without entering the World of Dreams would be valuable quite aside from avoiding Moghedien.
In any case, Elayne still was paying no attention to her. “I wonder why she was so insistent we not tell anyone. That makes no sense.” For a moment she worried her underlip with her teeth. “There is another reason to talk to her as soon as we can. It didn’t mean anything to me then, but the last time she spoke to me, she vanished in midsentence. What I remember now is that before she did, she suddenly looked surprised, and frightened.”
Nynaeve took a deep breath and pressed both hands hard against her stomach in a vain effort to quiet sudden flutters. She managed to keep her voice flat, though. “Moghedien?”
“Light, you do have cheerful thoughts! No. If Moghedien could come into our dreams, I think we would know it by now.” Elayne gave a small shiver; she did have some idea of how dangerous Moghedien was. “Anyway, it wasn’t that sort of look. She was frightened, but not enough for that.”
“Then maybe she isn’t in any danger. Maybe…” Forcing her hands to her sides, Nynaeve compressed her lips angrily. Only, she was not certain who she was angry with.
Putting the ring away, out of sight, except for meetings with Egwene, had been a good idea. It had. Any venture into the World of Dreams could have found Moghedien, and keeping clear of her was better than a good idea. She already knew she was overmatched. That thought rankled, worse every time she had it, but it was the simple truth.
Yet now there was the chance that Egwene needed help. A small chance. Just because she was properly wary of Moghedien did not mean she was underrating the possibility. And it might be that Rand had one of the Forsaken after him in the same personal way that Moghedien was after her and Elayne. What Egwene reported, both of Cairhien and of the mountains, smacked of one man daring another to knock a chip off his shoulder. Not that she could see anything to do about that. But Egwene…
Sometimes it seemed to Nynaeve that she had forgotten why she had left the Two Rivers in the first place. To protect young people from her village who had been caught in Aes Sedai webs. Not that much younger than herself — only a few years — yet the gap seemed wider when you were the village Wisdom. Of course, the Women’s Circle in Emond’s Field had certainly chosen a new Wisdom by now, but that did not make it less her village, or them less her people. In her heart of
hearts, it made her no less the Wisdom. Somehow, though, protecting Rand and Egwene and Mat and Perrin from Aes Sedai had become helping them survive, and finally, without her quite realizing when or how, even that goal had been submerged in other needs. Entering the White Tower to learn how better to pull down Moiraine had become a burning desire to learn how to Heal. Even her hatred for Aes Sedai meddling in people’s lives now coexisted with her desire to become one. Not that she really wanted to, but it was the only way to learn what she wanted to learn. Everything had become as tangled as one of those Aes Sedai webs, herself included, and she did not know how to escape.
I am still who I always have been. I will help them, as much as I can. “Tonight,” she said aloud, “I will use the ring.” Sitting down on the bed, she began to pull, on her stockings. Stout wool was hardly comfortable in this heat, but at least part of her would be decently clothed. Stout stockings, and stout shoes. Birgitte wore brocaded slippers, and gossamer silk stockings that surely looked cool. She put the thought firmly out of her head. “Just to see if Egwene is in the Stone. If she isn’t, I will come back, and we won’t use the ring again until the next scheduled meeting.”
Elayne watched her, with an unblinking stare that made her tug at her stockings in increasing discomfort. The woman did not say a word, but her expressionless gaze implied that Nynaeve might be lying. To Nynaeve it did. It did not help that the thought had flittered on the edge of consciousness, that she could easily make sure the ring was not touching her skin when she went to sleep; there was no real reason to believe that Egwene would be waiting in the Heart of the Stone tonight. She had never really considered it — the thought had drifted up unbidden — but it had been there, and made it hard to meet Elayne’s eyes. What if she was afraid of Moghedien? It was only good sense, however it galled to admit it.
I will do what I must. She clamped down firmly on butterflies in the pit of her belly. By the time she tossed the shift down over her stockings, she was eager to don the blue dress and go out into the heat just to escape Elayne’s eyes.
Elayne was just finishing helping her with the rows of small buttons up the back
— and muttering that no one had helped her, as if anyone needed help with breeches — when the wagon door banged open, letting in a wave of hot air. Startled, Nynaeve jumped and covered her bosom with both hands before she could stop herself. When Birgitte climbed in instead of Valan Luca, she tried to pretend she was adjusting the neckline.
Smoothing identical brilliant blue silk over her hip, the taller woman pulled her thick black braid over one bare shoulder with a selfpleased grin. “If you want to draw attention; don’t bother fiddling. It is too obvious. Just breathe deeply.” She demonstrated, then laughed at Nynaeve’s scowl.
Nynaeve made an effort to keep her temper. Though why she should, she did not know. She could hardly imagine that she had felt guilt over what had happened. Gaidal Cain was probably glad to get away from the woman. And Birgitte got to wear her hair the way she wanted. Not that that had anything to do with anything. “I
knew someone like you in the Two Rivers, Maerion. Calle knew every merchant’s guard by his first name, and she certainly had no secrets from any of them.”
Birgitte’s smile tightened. “And I knew a woman like you, once. Mathena looked down her nose at men, too, and even had a poor fellow executed for coming on her by accident while she swam naked. She had never even been kissed, until Zheres stole one from her. You’d have thought she had discovered men for the first time. She became so besotted, Zheres had to go live on a mountain to escape her. Watch out for the first man to kiss you. One has to come along sooner or later.”
Fists clenching, Nynaeve took a step toward her. Or tried to. Somehow Elayne was in between them, hands upraised.
“Both of you stop it this minute,” she said, eyeing them in turn with equal haughtiness. “Lini always said ‘Waiting turns men into bears in a barn, and women into cats in a sack,’ but you will stop clawing at one another right now! I will not put up with it any longer!”
To Nynaeve’s surprise, Birgitte actually blushed and mumbled a sullen apology. To Elayne, of course, but the apology itself was the surprise. Birgitte had chosen to stay close to Elayne — there was no need for her to hide — but after three days the heat was apparently affecting her as badly as it did Elayne. For herself, Nynaeve gave the DaughterHeir her frostiest stare. She had managed to maintain an even disposition while they waited, cooped up together — she had — but Elayne certainly had no room to talk.
“Now,” Elayne said, still in that icy tone, “did you have some reason for barging in like a bull, or have you simply forgotten how to knock?”
Nynaeve opened her mouth to say something about cats — just a gentle reminder — but Birgitte forestalled her, if in a tighter voice.
“Thom and Juilin are back from the town.”
“Back!” Nynaeve exclaimed, and Birgitte glanced at her before returning to Elayne.
“You did not send them?” ‘
“I did not,” Elayne said grimly.
She was out of the door, Birgitte at her heels, before Nynaeve could say a word. There was nothing for it but to follow, grumbling to herself. Elayne had better not suddenly think she was the one giving orders. Nynaeve had still not forgiven her for revealing so much to the men.
The dry heat seemed even worse outside, for all the sun still sat on the canvas wall around the menagerie. Sweat popped out on her brow before she reached the foot of the ladder, but for once she did not grimace.
The two men sat on threelegged stools beside the cookfire, hair wild and coats looking as if they had rolled in the dirt. A trickle of red ran from beneath a wadded cloth Thom was pressing to his scalp, down across a fan of dried blood that covered his cheek and stained one long white mustache. A purple lump the size of a hen’s egg stood out beside Juilin’s eye, and he held his thumbthick staff of pale ridged
wood in a hand roughly wrapped with a bloody bandage. That ridiculous conical red cap, sitting on the back of his head, appeared to have been trampled.
From the noises inside the canvas walls, the horse handlers were already at work cleaning cages, and no doubt Cerandin was with her s’redit — none of the men would go near them — but there was relatively little stir around the wagons as yet. Petra was smoking his longstemmed pipe while he helped Clarine prepare their breakfast. Two of the Chavanas were studying some piece of apparatus with Muelin, the contortionist, while the other pair were chatting with two of the six female acrobats Luca had hired away from Sillia Cerano’s show. They claimed to be sisters named Murasaka, despite being even more disparate in looks and coloring than the Chavanas. One of the pair lounging in colorful silk robes with Brugh and Taeric had blue eyes and almost white hair, the other skin nearly as dark as her eyes. Everyone else was already garbed for the day’s first performance, the men barechested in colorful breeches, Muelin in gauzy red and a tight matching vest, Clarine in highnecked green sequins.
Thom and Juilin attracted a few looks, but fortunately no one thought it necessary to come inquire after their health. Perhaps it was the hangdog way they sat, shoulders slumped, eyes on the ground under their boots. Doubtless they knew they were in for a tonguelashing that would sear their hides. Nynaeve certainly intended to give them one.
Elayne, though, gasped at the sight of them and went running to kneel beside Thom, all the anger of a moment before taking wing. “What happened? Oh, Thom, your poor head. That must hurt so. This is beyond my abilities. Nynaeve will take you inside and see to it. Thom, you are too old to get yourself into scrapes like this.”
Indignantly, he fended her off as best he could while holding his compress in place. “Leave over, child. I’ve had worse than this falling out of bed. Will you leave over?”
Nynaeve was not about to do any Healing, despite being angry enough. She planted herself in front of Juilin, fists on her hips and a brooknononsense, answermerightnow look on her face. “What do you mean, sneaking off without telling me?” As well to start letting Elayne know that she was not in charge. “If you had gotten your throat cut instead of a mouse on your eye, how would we know what had happened to you? There was no reason for you to go. None! Finding a ship has been seen to.”
Juilin glared up at her, shoving his cap forward over his forehead. “Seen to, is it? Is that why the three of you have taken to stalking about like —?” He cut off as Thom groaned loudly and swayed.
Once the old gleeman had quieted Elayne’s concerned flutters with protestations that it had just been a momentary pang, that he was fit to attend a ball — and given Juilin a significant glance he obviously hoped the women would not see — Nynaeve turned a dangerous eye back to the dark Tairen, to learn just what it was he
thought they had been stalking about like.
“A good thing we did go,” he told her instead in a tight voice. “Samara’s a school of silverpike around a chunk of bloody meat. There are mobs on every street hunting Darkfriends and anybody else who isn’t ready to hail the Prophet as the one true voice of the Dragon Reborn.”
“It started three hours or so ago, near the river,” Thom put in, giving in with a sigh to Elayne’s bathing his face with a damp cloth. He appeared to be ignoring her mutters, which must have taken some doing, since Nynaeve could clearly hear “foolish old man” and “need someone to take care of you before you get yourself killed” among other things in a tone easily as exasperated as it was fond. “How it began, I don’t know. I heard Aes Sedai blamed, Whitecloaks, Trollocs, everybody but the Seanchan, and if they knew the name, they’d blame them, too.” He winced at Elayne’s pressure. “The last hour we were a little too personally involved in getting clear to learn much.”
“There are fires,” Birgitte said. Petra and his wife noticed her pointing and stood to stare worriedly. Two dark plumes of smoke rose above the canvas wall in the direction of the town.
Juilin rose and looked Nynaeve in the eyes with a hard gaze. “It is time to go. Maybe we’ll stand out enough for Moghedien to find us, but I doubt it; there are people running every direction they can run. In another two hours, it won’t be a pair of fires, it will be fifty, and avoiding her won’t do much good if we’re torn to pieces by a mob. They’ll turn to the shows once they have smashed what can be smashed in the town.”
“Don’t use that name,” Nynaeve said sharply, with a frown for Elayne that the younger woman did not see. Letting men know too much was always a mistake. The trouble was, he was right, but letting a man know that too quickly was a mistake, too. “I will consider your suggestion, Juilin. I would hate to run away for no reason, and then learn that a ship had come right after we left.” He stared at her as if she were mad, and Thom shook his head despite Elayne’s holding it still for her washing, but a figure making his way through the wagons brightened Nynaeve. “Perhaps it’s come already.”
Uno’s painted eyepatch and scarred face, his topknot and the sword on his back, attracted casual nods from Petra and the various Chavanas and one shiver from Muelin. He had made each of the evening visits himself, though with nothing to report. His presence now had to mean there was something.
As usual he grinned at Birgitte as soon as he saw her, and rolled his lone eye in an ostentatious stare at her exposed bosom, and as usual she grinned back and eyed him up and down lazily. For once, though, Nynaeve did not care how reprehensibly they behaved. “Is there a ship?”
Uno’s grin faded. “There’s a bloo— a ship,” he said grimly, “if I can get you to it whole.”
“We know all about the rioting. Surely fifteen Shienarans can get us safely
through.”
“You know about the rioting,” he muttered, eyeing Thom and Juilin. “Do you fla
— do you know Masema’s people are fighting Whitecloaks in the streets? Do you know he’s bloo— he’s ordered his people to take Amadicia with fire and sword? There are thousands across the blo— aagh! — the river already.”
“That’s as may be,” Nynaeve said firmly, “but I expect you to do as you said you would. You promised to obey me, if you recall.” She put just a slight emphasis on the word, and gave Elayne a meaning look.
Pretending not to see, the woman stood, bloodied washcloth in her hand, and directed her attention to Uno. “I have always been told that Shienarans are among the bravest soldiers in the world.” That razor edge to her voice had suddenly become regal silk and honey. “I heard many stories of Shienaran bravery when I was a child.” She rested a hand on Thom’s shoulder, but her eyes remained on Uno. “I remember them still. I hope I shall always remember them.”
Birgitte stepped closer and began massaging the back of Uno’s neck while she looked him straight in the eye. That glaring red eye on his eyepatch did not seem to upset her at all. “Three thousand years guarding the Blight,” she said gently. Gently. It had been two days since she had spoken to Nynaeve like that! “Three thousand years, and never a step back not paid for ten times over in blood. This may not be Enkara, or the Soralle Step, but I know what you will do.”
“What did you do,” he growled, “read all the flaming histories of the flaming Borderlands?” Immediately he flinched and glanced at Nynaeve. It had been necessary to tell him she expected absolutely clean language out of him. He was not taking it well, but there was no other way to prevent backsliding, and Birgitte should not frown at her. “Can you talk to them?” he directed at Thom and Juilin. “They’re fla— fools to try this.”
Juilin flung up his hands, and Thom laughed out loud. “Did you ever know a woman who listened to sense when she didn’t want to?” the gleeman replied. He grunted as Elayne pulled his compress away and began dabbing at his split scalp with perhaps a bit more force than was strictly necessary.
Uno shook his head. “Well, if I’m to be cozened, I suppose I’ll be cozened. But mark this. Masema’s people found the ship — Riversnake, or something like — not an hour after it docked, but Whitecloaks seized it. That’s what started this little row. The bad news is the Whitecloaks still hold the docks. The worse is, Masema may have forgotten the ship — I went to see him, and he wouldn’t hear of ships; all he can talk about is hanging Whitecloaks, and making Amadicia bend knee to the Lord Dragon if he has to put the whole land to the torch — but he hasn’t bothered to tell all of his people. There’s been fighting near the river, and may still be. Getting you through the riots will be bad enough, but if there’s a battle at the docks, I make no promises. And how I’m to put you on a ship in Whitecloak hands, I don’t begin to know.” Letting out a long breath, he scrubbed sweat from his forehead with the back of a scarred hand. The strain of so long a speech without cursing was plain on
his face.
Nynaeve might have relented on his language at that moment if she had not been too stunned to speak. It had to be coincidence. Light, I said anything for a ship, but I didn’t mean this. Not this! She did not know why Elayne and Birgitte were staring at her with such blank expressions. They had known everything she had, and neither had brought up this possibility. The three men exchanged frowns, obviously aware that something was going on and just as obviously unaware what it was, for which thank the Light. Much better when they did not know everything. It just had to be coincidence.
In one way, she was more than happy to focus on another man making his way through the wagons; it gave an excuse to pull her eyes away from Elayne and Birgitte. In another way, the sight of Galad made her stomach settle right to her shoes.
He wore plain brown and a flat velvet cap instead of his white cloak and burnished mail, but his sword still rested on his hip. He had not been to the wagons before, and the effect of his face was dramatic. Muelin took an unconscious step toward him, and the two slender acrobats leaned forward, mouths open. The Chavanas were plainly forgotten, and scowling for it. Even Clarine smoothed her dress as she watched him, until Petra took his pipe from his mouth and said something. Then she went over to where he sat, laughing, and snuggled his face to her plump bosom. But her eyes still followed Galad over her husband’s head.
Nynaeve was in no mood to be affected by a handsome face; her breath hardly quickened at all. “It was you, wasn’t it?” she demanded before he even reached her. “You seized the Riversnake, didn’t you? Why?”
“Riverserpent,” he corrected, eyeing her incredulously. “You did ask me to secure you passage.”
“I didn’t ask you to start a riot!”
“A riot?” Elayne put in. “A war. An invasion. All begun over this vessel.”
Galad answered calmly. “I gave Nynaeve my word, sister. My first duty is to see you safely on your way to Caemlyn. And Nynaeve, of course. The Children would have had to fight this Prophet soon or late.”
“Couldn’t you simply have let us know the ship was here?” Nynaeve asked wearily. Men and their word. It was all very admirable, sometimes, but she should have listened when Elayne said he did what he saw as right no matter who was hurt. “I don’t know what the Prophet wanted the ship for, but I doubt it was so you could take passage downriver.” Nynaeve flinched. “Besides which, I paid the captain your passage while he was still unloading his cargo. An hour later, one of the two men I left to make sure he did not sail without you came to tell me the other man was dead and the Prophet had taken the ship. I don’t understand what you are so upset about. You wanted a ship, needed a ship, and I got you one.” Frowning,
Galad addressed Thom and Juilin. “What is the matter with them? Why do they keep staring at one another?”
“Women,” Juilin said simply, and got slapped on the back of the head by Birgitte for his trouble. He glared at her.
“Horseflies have a nasty bite,” she grinned, and his glower faded into uncertainty as he readjusted his cap.
“We can sit here all day discussing right and wrong,” Thom said dryly, “or we can take this vessel. Passage has been paid, and there’s no getting the price back now.”
Nynaeve flinched again. However he meant it, she knew how she heard it. “There may be trouble reaching the river,” Galad said. “I donned this clothing
because the Children are not popular in Samara at the moment, but the mobs can set on anyone.” He eyed Thom doubtfully, with his white hair and long white mustaches, and Juilin a little less so — even disheveled, the Tairen looked hard enough to pound posts — then turned to Uno. “Where is your friend? Another sword might be useful until we reach my men.”
Uno’s smile was villainous. Clearly, there was no more love between them than at their first meeting. “He’s about. And maybe one or two more. I’ll see them to the ship, if your Whitecloaks can hold on to it. Or if they can’t.”
Elayne opened her mouth, but Nynaeve spoke up quickly. “That’s enough, both of you!” Elayne would just have tried honeyed words again. They might have worked, but she wanted to lash out. At something, anything. “We need to move quickly.” She should have considered, when she flung two madmen at the same target, what might happen if they both hit at once. “Uno, gather the rest of your men, as fast as you can.” He tried to tell her they were already waiting on the other side of the menagerie, but she plowed on. They were madmen, both of them. All men were! “Galad, you —”
“Rouse and rise!” Luca’s shout cut into her words as he trotted between the wagons, limping, and with a bruise discoloring the side of his face. His scarlet cape was soiled and torn. It seemed Thom and Juilin were not the only ones to have entered the town. “Brugh, go tell the horse handlers to hitch the teams! We’ll have to abandon the canvas,” he grimaced at the words, “but I mean to be on the road in under an hour! Andaya, Kuan, pull your sisters out! Wake anybody still asleep, and if they’re washing, tell them to dress dirty or come naked! Hurry, unless you’re ready to proclaim the Prophet and march to Amadicia! Chin Akima’s lost his head already, along with half his performers, and Sillia Cerano and a dozen of hers were flogged for being too slow! Move!” By that time, everybody except those around Nynaeve’s wagon were at the run.
Luca’s limp slowed as he approached, eyeing Galad warily. And Uno, for that matter, though he had seen the oneeyed man twice before. “Nana, I want to talk to you,” he said, quietly. “Alone.”
“We will not be going with you, Master Luca,” she told him. “Alone,” he said, and seized her arm, hauling her away.
She looked back to tell the others not to interfere and found there was no need.
Elayne and Birgitte were hurrying off toward the canvas wall that encompassed the menagerie, and except for a few glances at her and Luca, the four men were engrossed in conversation. She sniffed loudly. Fine men they were, to watch a woman manhandled and do nothing.
Jerking her arm free, she strode along beside Luca, silk skirts swishing her displeasure. “I suppose you want your money, now that we are going. Well, you shall have it. One hundred gold marks. Though I think you should allow something for the wagon and horses we’re leaving behind. And for what we’ve brought in. We have certainly increased the number of your patrons. Morelin and Juilin with their highwalking, me with the arrows, Thom —”
“Do you think I want the gold, woman?” he demanded rounding on her. “If I did, I’d have asked for it the day we crossed the river! Have I asked? Did you ever think why not?”
In spite of herself, she took a step back, crossing her arms beneath her breasts sternly. And immediately wished she had not; that stance more than emphasized what she was exposing. Stubbornness kept her arms where they were — she was not about to let him think she was flustered, especially since she was — but surprisingly, his eyes remained on hers. Maybe he was ill. He had never avoided looking at her bosom before, and if Valan Luca was not interested in bosoms or gold… “If not about the gold, then why do you want to talk to me?”
“All the way back here from the town,” he said slowly, following her, “I kept thinking that now you would finally go.” She refused to back away again, even when he was standing over her and staring down intently. At least he was still looking at her face. “I don’t know what you are running from, Nana. Sometimes, I almost believe your story. Morelin certainly has a noblewoman’s manner about her, at least. But you were never a lady’s maid. The last few days, I’ve half expected to find the pair of you rolling on the ground tearing one another’s hair. And maybe Maerion in the pile.” He must have seen something on her face, because he cleared his throat and hurried on. “The point is, I can find someone else for Maerion to shoot at. You do scream so beautifully, anyone would think you were truly terrified, but —” He cleared his throat again, even more hastily, and drew back. “What I am trying to say is that I want you to stay. There’s a wide world out there, a thousand towns waiting for a show like mine, and whatever is chasing you will never find you with me. A few of Akima’s people, and some of Silica’s who haven’t been marched off across the river — they’re joining me. Valan Luca’s show will be the greatest the world has ever seen.”
“Stay? Why should I stay? I told you from the first we only wanted to reach Ghealdan, and nothing has changed.”
“Why? Why, to have my children, of course.” He took one of her hands in both of his. “Nana, your eyes drink my soul, your lips inflame my heart, your shoulders make my pulse race, your —”
She cut in hurriedly. “You want to marry me?” she said incredulously.
“Marry?” He blinked. “Well… uh… yes. Yes, of course.” His voice picked up strength again, and he pressed her fingers to his lips. “We will be wed at the first town where I can arrange it. I’ve never asked another woman to marry me.”
“I can quite believe it,” she said faintly. It took some effort to pull her hand free. “I am sensible of the honor, Master Luca, but —”
“Valan, Nana. Valan.”
“But I must decline. I am betrothed to another.” Well, she was, in a way. Lan Mandragoran might think his signet ring just a gift, but she saw it differently. “And I am going.”
“1 should bundle you up and carry you with me.” Dirt and rips somewhat spoiled the grandiloquent flourish of his cape as he drew himself up. “With time, you would forget the fellow.”
“You try it, and I’ll have Uno make you wish you had been sliced for sausage.” That barely deflated the fool man at all. She drove a finger hard against his chest. “You do not know me, Valan Luca. You don’t know anything about me. My enemies, the ones you dismiss so easily, would make you take off your skin and dance in your bones, and you would be grateful if that was all they did. Now, I am going, and I don’t have time to listen to your drivel. No, don’t say any more! My mind is set, and you will not change it, so you might as well stop blathering.”
Luca sighed heavily. “You are the only woman for me, Nana. Let other men choose boring flutterers with their shy sighs. A man would know he had to walk through fire and tame a lioness with his bare hands every time he approached you. Every day an adventure, and every night…” His smile almost earned him boxed ears. “I will find you again, Nana, and you will choose me. I know it in here.” Thumping his chest dramatically, he gave his cape an even more pretentious swirl. “And you know it, too, my dearest Nana. In your fair heart, you do.”
Nynaeve did not know whether to shake her head or gape. Men were mad. All of them.
He insisted on escorting her back to her wagon, holding her arm as if they were at a ball.
Stalking though the turmoil of horse handlers rushing to hitch teams, the din of men shouting, horses whickering, bears growling, leopards coughing, Elayne found herself muttering under her breath to match any of the animals. Nynaeve had no room to talk about her showing her legs. She had seen the way the woman stood up straighter when Valan Luca appeared. And breathed deeper, too. For Galad as well, for that matter. It was not as if she enjoyed wearing breeches. They were comfortable, true, and cooler than skirts. She could see why Min chose to wear men’s clothes. Almost. There was the problem of getting past the feeling that the coat was really a dress that barely covered your hips. She had just managed that, so far. Not that she intended to let Nynaeve know, her and her viperish tongue. The woman should have realized Galad would ignore the cost of keeping his promise. It was not as if Elayne had not told her about him often enough. And involving the
Prophet! Nynaeve just acted without thinking about what she was doing.
“Did you say something?” Birgitte asked. She had gathered her skirts over one arm to keep up, unashamedly baring her legs from blue brocaded slippers to well above her knees, and those sheer silk stockings did not hide as much as breeches.
Elayne stopped dead. “What do you think of how I am dressed?”
“It allows freedom of movement,” the other woman said judiciously. Elayne nodded. “Of course, it’s good that your bottom isn’t too big, as tight as those —”
Striding on furiously, Elayne tugged the coat down with sharp yanks. Nynaeve’s tongue had nothing on Birgitte’s. She really should have required some oath of obedience, or at least some show of proper respect. She would have to remember that once it came time to bond Rand. When Birgitte caught up to her, wearing a sour expression as if she were driven almost beyond endurance, neither of them spoke.
Dressed in green sequins, the palehaired Seanchan woman was using her goad to guide the huge bull s’redit as his head pushed the heavy wagon holding the blackmaned lion’s cage. A horse handler in a shabby leather vest held the wagon tongue; steering the wagon around to where its horses could be hitched more easily. The lion stalked back and forth, lashing his tail and now and then giving a hoarse cough that sounded like the beginning of a roar.
“Cerandin,” Elayne said, “I must speak to you.”
“In a moment, Morelin.” Fixed on the tusked gray animal as she was, her quick, slurred way of speaking made her nearly unintelligible.
“Now, Cerandin. We have little time.”
But the woman did not halt the s’redit and turn until the horse handler called out that the wagon was in position. Then she said impatiently, “What do you need, Morelin? I have much to do, yet. And I would like to change; this dress is not for traveling.” The animal stood waiting patiently behind her.
Elayne’s mouth tightened slightly. “We are leaving, Cerandin.”
“Yes, I know. The riots. Such things should not be allowed. If this Prophet thinks to harm us, he will learn what Mer and Sanit can do.” She twisted to scratch Mer’s wrinkled shoulder with her goad, and he touched her shoulder with his long nose. A “trunk,” Cerandin called it. “Some prefer lopar or grolm for battle, but s’redit properly used —”
“Be quiet and listen,” Elayne said firmly. It was an effort to maintain her dignity, with the Seanchan woman being obtuse and Birgitte standing aside with her arms folded. She was certain Birgitte was just waiting to say something else cutting. “I do not mean the show. I mean myself, and Nana, and you. We are taking ship this morning. In a few hours, we will be beyond the Prophet’s reach forever.”
Cerandin shook her head slowly. “Few river craft can carry s’redit, Morelin. Even if you’ve found one that can, what would they do? What would I do? I do not think I can earn as much by myself as I can with Master Luca, not even with you highwalking and Maerion shooting her bow. And I suppose Thom would juggle. No. No, it is better if we all remain with the show.”
“The s’redit will have to be left behind,” Elayne admitted, “but I am sure that Master Luca will take care of them. We will not be performing, Cerandin. There’s no more need for that. Where I am going, there are those who would like to learn about…” She was conscious of the horse handler, a lanky fellow with an incongruously bulbous nose, standing close enough to listen. “About where you came from. Much more than you’ve told us already.” No, not listening. Leering. By turns at Birgitte’s bosom and at her legs. She looked at him until his insolent grin turned sickly and he scuttled back to his duties.
Cerandin was shaking her head again. “I am to leave Mer and Sanit and Nerin to be cared for by men who are afraid to come near them? No, Morelin. We will stay with Master Luca. You, too. It is much better. Remember how bedraggled you were the day, you came? You do not want to return to that.”
Drawing a deep breath, Elayne stepped closer. No one but Birgitte was close enough to overhear, but she did not want to take foolish chances. “Cerandin, my true name is Elayne of House Trakand, DaughterHeir of Andor. One day, I will be Queen of Andor.”
Based on the woman’s behavior the first day, and even more on what she had told them of Seanchan, that should have been enough to quell any resistance. Instead, Cerandin looked her straight in the eye. “You claimed to be a lady the day you came, but…” Pursing her lips, she eyed Elayne’s breeches. “You are a very good highwalker, Morelin. With practice, you may be good enough to perform before the Empress one day. Everyone has a place, and everyone belongs in their place.”
For a moment, Elayne’s mouth worked soundlessly. Cerandin did not believe her! “I have wasted quite enough time, Cerandin.”
She reached for the woman’s arm, to haul her along bodily if necessary, but Cerandin caught her hand, twisted, and with a wideeyed yelp Elayne found herself on tiptoe, wondering whether her wrist would break before her arm came out of her shoulder. Birgitte just stood there, arms folded under her breasts, and had the nerve to raise an eyebrow questioningly!
Elayne gritted her teeth. She would not ask for help. “Release me, Cerandin,” she demanded, wishing she did not sound quite so breathy. “I said, release me!”
Cerandin did, after a moment, and stepped back warily. “You are a friend, Morelin, and always will be. You could be a lady, one day. You have the manner, and if you attract a lord, he may take you for one of his asa. Asa sometimes become wives. Go with the Light, Morelin. I must finish my work.” She held out the goad for Mer to curl his trunk around, and the big animal let her lead him ponderously away.
“Cerandin,” Elayne said sharply. “Cerandin!” The palehaired woman did not look back. Elayne glared at Birgitte. “A great lot of help you were,” she growled, and stalked off before the other woman could reply.
Birgitte caught her up and fell in at her side. “From what I hear, and what I’ve seen, you have spent considerable time teaching the woman she has a backbone.
Did you expect me to help you take it away from her again?”
“I was not trying to do any such thing,” Elayne muttered. “I was trying to take care of her. She is a long way from home, a stranger wherever she goes, and there are some who would not treat her kindly if they learned where she came from.”
“She seems well able to take care of herself,” Birgitte said dryly. “But then, perhaps you taught her that, too? Perhaps she was helpless before you found her.” Elayne’s stare seemed to slide off her like ice sliding down warm steel.
“You just stood and watched her. You are supposed to be my…” She glanced around; it was only a glance, but several of the horse handlers ducked their heads away. “My Warder. You are supposed to help me defend myself when I cannot channel.”
Birgitte looked around, too, but unfortunately there was no one close enough to make her hold her tongue. “I will defend you when you are in danger, but if the danger is only of being turned over someone’s knee because you’ve behaved like a spoiled child, I will have to decide whether it’s better to let you learn a lesson that might save you the same or worse another time. Telling her you were heir to a throne! Really! If you are going to be Aes Sedai, you had better start practicing how to bend the truth, not break it into shards.”
Elayne gaped. It was not until she stumbled over her own feet that she managed to say, “But I am!”
“If you say so,” Birgitte said, rolling her eyes at the spangled breeches.
Elayne could not help herself. Nynaeve wielding her tongue like a needle, Cerandin stubborn as two mules, and now this. She threw back her head and screamed with frustration.
When the sound died, it seemed as if the animals had quieted. Horse handlers stood about, staring at her. Coolly, she ignored them. Nothing could worm its way under her skin now. She was as calm as ice, perfectly in control of herself.
“Was that a cry for help,” Birgitte said, tilting her head, “or are you hungry? I suppose I could find a wet nurse in —”
Elayne strode away with a snarl that would have done any of the leopards proud.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 48
(Sunburst) Leavetakings
Once she was back in the wagon, Nynaeve changed into a decent dress, with a few exasperated mutters for having to undo one set of buttons and do up another by herself. The plain gray wool, fine and well cut yet hardly elaborate, would pass without comment almost anywhere, but it was decidedly warmer. Still, it felt good to be decently garbed again. And somehow odd, as if she were wearing too many clothes. It must be the heat.
Quickly she knelt in front of the small brick stove with its tin chimney and opened the iron door on their valuables.
The twisted stone ring was fast nestled into her belt pouch beside Lan’s heavy signet ring and her gold Great Serpent. The small gilded coffer containing the gems Amathera had given her went into the leather scrip with the pouches of herbs taken from Ronde Macura in Mardecin and the small mortar and pestle for preparing them; she fingered through the latter just to remind herself what each contained, from healall to that dreadful forkroot. The lettersofrights went in as well, and three of the six purses, none quite as fat as it had been after paying the menagerie’s way to Ghealdan. Luca might not be interested in his hundred marks, but he had had no qualms about collecting his expenses. One of the letters authorizing the bearer to do whatever she wished in the name of the Amyrlin Seat joined the rings. No more than vague rumors of some sort of trouble in Tar Valon had reached Samara; she might find a use for it, even with Siuan Sanche’s signature. The dark wooden box she left where it sat, next to three of the purses, as well as the rough jute bag containing the a’dam — that, she certainly had no wish to touch — and the silver arrow Elayne had found the night of the calamitous encounter with Moghedien.
For a moment she frowned at the arrow, contemplating Moghedien. It was best to do whatever was necessary to avoid her. It was. I bested her once! And had been hung up like a sausage in the kitchen the second time. If not for Birgitte… She made her own choice. The woman had said so, and it was true. I could defeat her again. I could. But if I failed… If she failed…
She was only trying to avoid the washleather purse stuffed right to the back, and she knew it, yet there was not a hair’s difference for ugliness between the purse and the thought of losing to Moghedien again. Drawing a deep breath, she gingerly reached in and took it up by the drawstrings, and knew she had been wrong. Evil seemed to bathe her hand, stronger than ever, as if the Dark One really was trying to break through the cuendillar seal inside. Better to dwell all day on defeat by Moghedien; there was a world of difference between thought and reality. It had to be imagination — there had been no such feeling in Tanchico — but she wished she could let Elayne carry that, too. Or leave it there.
Stop being foolish, she told herself firmly. It holds the Dark One’s prison shut.
You are just letting your fancies run wild. But she still dropped it like a weekdead rat onto the red dress Luca had had made, then wrapped and tied the thing securely with more than a little haste. The silken parcel went into the middle of a bundle of clothes she was taking with her, inside her good gray traveling cloak. A few inches’ distance was enough to take away the sensation of dark bleakness, but she still wanted to wash her hand. If only she did not know it was there. She was being foolish. Elayne would laugh at her, and Birgitte, as well. And rightly.
Actually, the clothes she wanted to keep made two packages, and she regretted every stitch she had to leave behind. Even the lowcut blue silk. Not that she ever wanted to wear anything like it again — she did not intend to touch the red dress, certainly, until she handed the intact packet to an Aes Sedai in Salidar — but she could not help totting up the cost of clothes, horses and wagons abandoned since leaving Tanchico. And the coach, and the barrels of dye. Even Elayne would have winced if she had ever thought of it. That young woman believed there would always be coin when she reached into her purse.
She was still making the second bundle when Elayne returned and silently changed into a blue silk dress. Silently, except for mutters when she had to double her arms behind her to fasten the buttons. Nynaeve would have helped, had she been asked, but since she was not, she examined the other woman for bruises while she changed. She thought she had heard a scream only minutes before Elayne arrived, and if she and Birgitte had actually come to blows… She was not certain she was glad to find none. A riverboat would be just as confining as this wagon in its own way, and less than pleasant if the two women were at one another’s throats. But then again, it might have helped had they worked off some of their beastly tempers.
Elayne said not a word while she gathered her own belongings, not even when Nynaeve asked, quite amiably, where she had gone haring off to as if she had sat on a cockleburr. That got only a raised chin and a chilly stare, as though the girl thought she was already on her mother’s throne.
Sometimes Elayne was even more silent, in a way that said far more than words could. Finding three purses remaining, she paused before taking them, and the temperature in the wagon lowered considerably, though the purses were only her share. Nynaeve was tired of the carping over how she doled out coins; let the woman watch them dribble away and realize there might be no more for some time. When Elayne realized the ring was gone, though, and the dark box still sitting there…
Elayne hefted the box and opened the lid, pursing her lips as she studied the contents, the other two ter’angreal they had carried all the way from Tear. A small iron disc worked on both sides with a tight spiral, and a narrow plaque five inches long, seemingly amber yet harder than steel, and with a sleeping woman somehow carved inside it. Either could be used to enter Tel’aran’rhiod, though not so easily or so well as could the ring; to use either it was necessary to channel Spirit, the sole
one of the Five Powers that could be channeled in sleep. It had seemed only right to Nynaeve, leaving them for Elayne, since she was taking charge of the ring. Closing the box with a sharp click, Elayne stared at her, absolutely expressionless, then stuffed it into one of her bundles alongside the silver arrow. Her silence was thunderous.
Elayne also made two bundles, but hers were larger; she left nothing out except the spangled coats and breeches. Nynaeve refrained from suggesting that she had overlooked them; she should have, with the sulking that was going on, but she knew how to promote harmony. She limited herself to one sniff when Elayne ostentatiously added the a’dam to her things, though from the look she got in return, you would have thought she had made her objections known at length. By the time they left the wagon, the quiet could have been chipped and used to chill wine.
Outside, the men were ready. And muttering to themselves, and throwing impatient looks at her and Elayne. It was hardly fair. Galad and Uno had nothing to prepare. Thom’s flute and harp hung on his back in leather cases, along with a small bundle, and Juilin, notched swordbreaker at his belt and leaning on his headhigh staff, wore an even smaller bundle, neatly tied. Men were willing to wear the same clothes until they rotted off,
Of course, Birgitte was ready, too, bow in hand, quiver at her hip, and a cloakwrapped bundle at her feet not much smaller than one of Elayne’s. Nynaeve would not have put it past Birgitte to have Luca’s dresses in there, but it was what she wore that gave a moment’s pause. Her divided skirts could have been the voluminous trousers she had worn in Tel’aran’rhiod, except for being more gold than yellow and not being gathered at the ankles. The short blue coat was identical in cut.
The mystery of where the garments had come from was solved when Clarine scurried up, chattering that she had taken too long, with two more of the skirts and another coat to fold into Birgitte’s bundle. She stayed to say how sorry she was that they were leaving the show, and she was not the only one to take a few moments from the bustle of hitching horses and packing up. Aludra came with wishes for a safe journey, wherever they were going, in her Taraboner accents. And with two more boxes of her firesticks. Nynaeve tucked them into her scrip with a sigh. She had made a point of leaving the others behind, and Elayne had pushed them to the back of the shelf, behind a sack of beans, when she thought Nynaeve was not looking. Petra offered to help escort them to the river, pretending not to see his wife’s eyes tighten with concern, and so did the Chavanas, and Kin and Bari, the jugglers, though when Nynaeve told them there was no need, and Petra frowned, they could barely hide their relief. She had to speak quickly, for Galad and the other men looked on the point of accepting. Surprisingly, even Latelle appeared briefly, with words of regret, smiles, and eyes that said she would carry their bundles if it saw them gone any sooner. Nynaeve was surprised Cerandin did not come, though in a way she was just as glad. Elayne might get on famously with the woman, but
since the incident where she had been assaulted, Nynaeve had felt a tension whenever she was around her, perhaps the more because Cerandin gave no outward sign of the same.
Luca himself was the last, thrusting, a handful of pitiful, droughtdwarfed wildflowers at Nynaeve — the Light alone knew where he had found them — with protestations of undying love, extravagant praises for her beauty, and dramatic vows to find her again if he had to travel to the corners of the world. She was not sure which made her cheeks grow hotter, but her frosty stare wiped the grin from Juilin’s face and astonishment from Uno’s. Whatever Thom and Galad thought, they had enough sense to keep their features smooth. She could not make herself look at Birgitte or Elayne.
The worst was that she had to stand there and listen, wilted flowers drooping over her hand, her face growing redder. Trying to send him away with a flea in his ear would likely only have sparked him to greater efforts, and given the others more fodder than they already had. She very nearly heaved a sigh of relief when the idiot man finally bowed himself away in elaborate flourishes of his cape.
She held on to the flowers, striding ahead of the others so she did not have to see their faces and angrily shoving bundles back into place when they shifted, until she was out of sight of the wagons around the canvas wall. Then she threw the bedraggled blossoms down so violently that Ragan and the rest of the roughclad Shienarans, squatting halfway across the meadow to the road, exchanged glances. Each had a blanketwrapped bundle on his back — small, of course! — alongside his sword, but they were hung about with enough water bottles to last for days, and every third man had a pot or kettle dangling somewhere. Fine. If there was cooking to be done, let them do it! Not waiting for them to decide whether she was safe to approach, she stalked out to the dirt road alone.
Valan Luca was the source of her fury — Humiliating her that way! She should have thumped his head and the Dark One take what anyone thought! — but its target was Lan Mandragoran. Lan had never given her flowers. Not that that was of any account. He had expressed his feelings in words deeper and more heartfelt than Valan Luca could ever manage. She had meant every word to Luca, but if Lan said he was going to carry you off, threats would never stop him; channeling would not stop him unless you managed it before he turned your brain and your knees to jelly with kisses. Still, flowers would have been nice. Nicer than another explanation of why their love could never be, certainly. Men and their word! Men and their honor! Wedded to death, was he? Him and his personal war with the Shadow! He was going to live, he was going to wed her, and if he thought differently on either point, she intended to set him straight. There was only the small matter of his bond to Moiraine to deal with. She could have screamed in frustration.
She was a hundred paces down the road before the others caught up, glancing at her sideways. Elayne only sniffed loudly while struggling to readjust the two large bundles on her back — she would have to take everything — but Birgitte strode
along pretending to speak under her breath yet quite audibly muttering about women who rushed off like Carpan girls leaping from a river cliff. Nynaeve ignored them equally.
The men spread out, Galad in the lead flanked by Thom and Juilin, the Shienarans in a long file to either side, wary eyes searching every withered bush and fold in the ground. Walking in the middle of them, Nynaeve felt foolish — you would have thought they expected an army to rise up out of the ground; you would have thought she and the other two women were helpless — especially when the Shienarans silently followed Uno’s lead and unlimbered their swords. Why, there was not a human being in sight; even the shanty villages appeared abandoned. Galad’s blade remained in its scabbard, but Juilin began hefting his thumbthick staff instead of using it for a walking stick, and knives appeared in Thom’s hands and vanished as if he was unconscious of what he was doing. Even Birgitte fitted an arrow to her bow. Nynaeve shook her head. It would take a brave mob to come in eyeshot of this lot.
Then they reached Samara and she began to wish she had accepted Petra’s offer, and the Chavanas’, and anyone else’s she could have found.
The gates stood open and unguarded, and six black columns of smoke rose above the gray town walls. The streets beyond were still. Shattered glass from broken windows crunched underfoot; that was the only sound except for a distant buzz, like monstrous swarms of wasps scattered through the city. Furniture and bits of clothing littered the paving stones, pots and pottery, things dragged from shops and homes, whether by looters or by people fleeing there was no way to tell.
Not only property had been destroyed. In one place a corpse in a fine green silk coat hung half out of a window, limp and unmoving; in another a fellow garbed in rags dangled by his neck from the eaves of a tinsmith’s shop. Sometimes, down a side street or alley, she caught a glimpse of what might have been discarded bundles of old clothes; she knew they were not.
In one doorway, where the splintered door hung crazily by a single hinge, small flames licked up around a wooden staircase, smoke just beginning to trickle out. The street might be empty now, but whoever had done that was not long gone. Head swiveling, trying to watch every way at once, Nynaeve took a firm hold on her belt knife.
Sometimes the angry buzz grew louder, a wordless guttural roar of rage that seemed no more than one street over, and sometimes it faded to a dull murmur; yet when trouble came, it came suddenly and silently. The mass of men stalked around the next corner but one, like a pack of hunting wolves, jamming the street from side to side, soundless but for the thud of boots. The sight of Nynaeve and the others was a torch tossed into a haystack. There was no hesitation; as one they surged forward, howling and rabid, waving pitchforks and swords, axes and clubs, anything that could be taken to hand for a weapon.
Enough anger still clung in Nynaeve for her to embrace saidar, and she did it
without thinking, even before she saw the glow spring up around Elayne. There were a dozen ways she could halt this mob by herself, a dozen more she could destroy it if she chose. If not for the possibility of Moghedien. She was not sure whether the same thought held Elayne. She only knew that she hung on to her anger and the True Source with equal fervor, and it was Moghedien more than the onrushing rabble that made it hard. She hung on to them, and knew she dared do nothing. Not if there was any other chance. Almost, she wished she could cut the flows being woven by Elayne. There had to be some other chance.
One man, a tall fellow in a ragged red coat that had belonged to someone else once by its greenandgold embroidery, ran out in front of the others on long legs, shaking a woodaxe overhead. Birgitte’s arrow took him through one eye. He went down in a sprawling heap and was trampled by the others, all contorted faces and wordless screams. Nothing was going to stop them. With a wail, half outrage, half pure fear, Nynaeve jerked her belt knife free and at the same time prepared to channel.
Like a wave striking boulders, the charge splintered on Shienaran steel. The topknotted men, not much less ragged than those they fought, worked their twohanded swords methodically, craftsmen at their craft, and the onslaught went no farther than their thin line. Men fell screaming for the Prophet, but more scrambled over them. Juilin, the fool, was in that row, flattopped conical cap perched on his dark head, thin staff a blur that deflected stabs, broke arms and cracked skulls. Thom worked behind the line, his limp strong as he darted from place to place to confront the few who managed to wriggle through; only a dagger in either hand, yet even swordsmen died on those blades. The gleeman’s leathery face was grim, but when one bulky fellow in a blacksmith’s leather vest nearly reached Elayne with his pitchfork, Thom snarled as viciously as any in the mob and very nearly cut the man’s head off while slitting his throat. Through it all Birgitte calmly shifted from spot to spot, every arrow finding an eye.
Yet if they held the mob, it was Galad who broke them. He faced their charge as though awaiting the next dance at a ball, arms folded and unconcerned, not even bothering to bare his blade until they were almost on top of him. Then he did dance, all his grace turned in an instant to fluid death. He did not stand against them; he carved a path into their heart, a clear swath as wide as his sword’s reach. Sometimes five or six men closed in around him with swords and axes and table legs for clubs, but only for the brief time it took them to die. In the end, all their rage, all their thirst for blood, could not face him. It was from him that the first ran, flinging away weapons, and when the rest fled, they divided around him. As they vanished back the way they had come, he stood twenty paces from anyone else, alone among the dead and the groans of the dying.
Nynaeve shivered as he bent to clean his blade on a corpse’s coat. He was graceful, even doing that. He was beautiful, even doing that. She thought she might sick up.
She had no idea how long it had taken. Some of the Shienarans were leaning on their swords, panting. And eyeing Galad with a good deal of respect. Thom was bent over with one hand on his knee, trying to fend Elayne off with the other while telling her he just had to catch his breath. Minutes, an hour; it could have been either.
For once, looking at the injured men lying on the pavement here and there, the one crawling away, she felt no desire to Heal, no pity at all. Not far off was a pitchfork, where someone had flung it; a man’s severed head was impaled on one tine, a woman’s on another. All she felt was queasy, and grateful that it was not her head. That, and cold.
“Thank you,” she said aloud, to no one in particular and to everyone. “Thank you very much.” The words grated a little — she did not like confessing something she had not been able to do for herself — but they were fervent. Then Birgitte nodded in acknowledgment, and Nynaeve had to struggle with herself. But the woman had done as much as anyone. Considerably more than she herself. She thrust her belt knife back into its sheath. “You… shot very well.”
With a wry grin, as if she knew exactly how difficult those words had been, Birgitte set about recovering her arrows. Nynaeve shuddered and tried not to watch. Most of the Shienarans had wounds, and Thom and Juilin both wore their own blood in places — miraculously, Galad was untouched; or perhaps not so miraculously, remembering how he had handled his sword — but, manlike to the bitter end, every one of them insisted that his hurts were not serious. Even Uno said they had to keep moving, him with one arm hanging and a gash down the side of his
face whose scar would nearly mirror the first if it was not Healed soon.
In truth, she was not reluctant to go, despite telling herself that she should be seeing to injuries. Elayne put a supporting arm around Thom; he responded by refusing to lean on her and beginning to recite a tale in High Chant, so flowery it was difficult to recognize the story of Kirukan, the beautiful soldier queen of the Trolloc Wars.
“She had a temper like a boar caught in briars at the best,” Birgitte said softly to no one in particular. “Not at all like anyone close by.”
Nynaeve ground her teeth. Catch her complimenting the woman again, no matter what she did. Come to think of it, any man in the Two Rivers could have shot as well at that range. Any boy.
Rumbles followed them, distant roars from other streets, and often she had the feeling of eyes watching from one of the vacant, glassless windows. But word must have spread, or else the watchers had seen what happened, because they saw no one else living until suddenly two dozen Whitecloaks stepped into the street in front of them, half with drawn bows, the rest with bared blades. The Shienarans’ blades were up in a heartbeat.
Quick words between Galad and a fellow with a grizzled face beneath his conical helmet passed them through, though the man did eye the Shienarans
doubtfully, and Thom and Juilin, and for that matter Birgitte. It was enough to rankle Nynaeve. All very well for Elayne to march along with her chin raised, ignoring the Whitecloaks as though they were servants, but Nynaeve did not like being taken for granted,
The river was not far. Beyond a few small stone warehouses under slate roofs, the town’s three stone docks barely reached water over the dried mud. A fat vessel with two masts sat low at the end of one. Nynaeve hoped there would be no problem obtaining separate cabins. She hoped it would not heave too badly.
A small crowd huddled twenty paces from the dock, under the watchful eyes of four whitecloaked guards; nearly a dozen men, mainly old and all ragged and bruised, and twice as many women, most with two or three children clinging to them, some with a babe in arms beside. Two more Whitecloaks stood right at the dock. The children hid their faces in their mothers’ skirts, but the adults gazed yearningly at the ship. The sight wrenched at Nynaeve’s heart; she remembered the same gazes, many more of them, in Tanchico. People desperately hoping for a way to safety. She had not been able to do anything for those.
Before she could do anything for these, Galad had seized her and Elayne by the arm and hustled them along the dock and down an unsteady gangplank. Six more sternfaced men in white cloaks and burnished mail stood on the deck, watching a cluster of barefoot and mostly barechested men squatting in the bluff bows. It was close whether the captain at the foot of the plank gazed at the Whitecloaks more sourly or at the motley party that trooped onto his ship.
Agni Neres was a tall, bony man in a dark coat, with ears that stood out and a dour cast to his narrow face. He paid no mind to the sweat rolling down his cheeks. “You paid me passage for two women. I suppose you want me to take the other wench and the men for free?” Birgitte eyed him dangerously, but he seemed not to see.
“You shall have your fare money, my good captain,” Elayne told him coolly. “As long as it’s reasonable,” Nynaeve said, and ignored Elayne’s sharp glance.
Neres’ mouth thinned, though it hardly seemed possible, and he addressed Galad again. “Then if you’ll get your men off my craft, I’ll sail. I like being here in daylight now less than ever.”
“As soon as you take your other passengers on,” Nynaeve said, nodding to the people huddled ashore.
Neres looked for Galad only to find that he had moved away to speak with the other Whitecloaks, then eyed the folk ashore and spoke at the air above Nynaeve’s head. “Any who can pay. Not many in that lot look like they can. And I could not take the lot if they could.”
She raised herself on tiptoe, so he could not possibly miss her smile. It snapped his chin down into his collar. “Every last one of them, Captain. Else I’ll shave your ears off for you.”
The man’s mouth opened angrily; then abruptly his eyes widened, staring past
her. “All right,” he said quickly. “But I expect some sort of payment, mind. I give alms on Firstday, and that’s long past.”
Heels settling back to the deck, she looked over her shoulder suspiciously. Thom, Juilin and Uno stood there, blandly watching her and Neres. As blandly as they could manage with Uno’s features, and blood all over their faces. Far too blandly.
With a sharp sniff, she said, “I will see them all aboard before anybody touches a rope,” and went in search of Galad. She supposed he deserved some thanks. He had thought what he was doing was the right thing. That was the trouble with the best of men. They always thought they were doing the right thing. Still, whatever the three had done, they had saved argument.
She found him with Elayne, that handsome face painted with frustration. He brightened at the sight of her. “Nynaeve, I’ve paid your way as far as Boannda. That’s only halfway to Altara, where the Boern runs into the Eldar, but I could not afford to pay further. Captain Neres took every copper in my purse, and I had to borrow besides. The fellow charges ten prices. I’m afraid you will have to make your own way to Caemlyn from there. I truly am sorry.”
“You have done quite enough already,” Elayne put in, her eyes drifting toward the plumes of smoke rising above Samara.
“I gave my promise,” he said with a weary resignation. Plainly they had had the same exchange before Nynaeve came.
Nynaeve managed to offer her thanks, which he dismissed graciously, but with a look as if she, too, did not understand. And she was more than ready to admit as much. He started a war to keep a promise — Elayne was right about that; it would be a war, if it was not already — yet, with his men holding Neres’ ship, he would not demand a better price. It was Neres’ ship, and Neres could charge as he chose. As long as he took Elayne and Nynaeve. It was true: Galad never counted the cost of doing right, not to himself or anyone else. At the gangplank, he paused, staring at the town as if seeing the future. “Stay clear of Rand al’Thor,” he said bleakly. “He brings destruction. He will break the world again before he is done. Stay clear of him.” And he was trotting up to the dock, already calling for his armor.
Nynaeve found herself sharing a wondering gaze with Elayne, though it quickly broke up in embarrassment. It was hard to share a moment like that with someone you knew might rake you with her tongue. At least, that was why she felt discomfited; why Elayne should look flustered, she could not imagine, unless the woman was starting to come to her senses. Surely Galad did not suspect they had no intention of going to Caemlyn. Surely not. Men were never that perceptive. She and Elayne did not look at one another again for some time.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 49
(Waves)
To Boannda
There was little trouble getting the huddled crowd of men, women and children aboard. Not once Nynaeve made it clear to Captain Neres that he was going to find room for everyone and whatever he thought he was going to charge, she knew exactly how much she would give for their fares to Boannda. Of course, it might have helped a little that she’d taken the precaution of quietly telling Uno to have the Shienarans do something with their swords. Fifteen hardfaced, roughdressed men, all with shaved heads and topknots not to mention bloodstains, oiling and sharpening blades, laughing as one recounted how another had almost been spitted like a lamb — well, they had a most salutary effect. She counted the money into his hand, and if it pained her, she only had to summon the memory of those docks at Tanchico to keep counting. Neres was right in one thing: these folk did not look to have much coin; they would need whatever coppers they had. Elayne had no call to ask in that sickly sweet tone if she was having a tooth pulled.
The crew ran at Neres’ shouted commands to cast off while the last of the people were still scrambling aboard carrying their wretched possessions in their arms, those who had anything at all beyond the rags on their backs. In truth, they crowded even the fat vessel so that Nynaeve began to wonder whether Neres had been right about that, too. Yet such hope dawned on their faces once their feet were firmly on the deck that she was embarrassed to have considered it. And when they learned she had paid their passage, they clustered around her, struggling to kiss her hands, the hem of her skirt, crying out thanks and blessings, some with tears streaming down dirty cheeks, men as well as women. She wished she could sink through the planks under her feet. The decks bustled as sweeps went out and sails rose, and Samara began to dwindle behind before she could put an end to the demonstration completely. If Elayne or Birgitte had said one word, she would have thumped them both twice around the ship for good measure.
Five days they were on Riverserpent, five days running down the slowly winding Eldar through baking days and nights not much cooler. Some things changed for the better in that time, but the voyage did not begin well.
The first real problem of the trip was Neres’ cabin in the stern, the only accommodation on the ship except the deck. Not that Neres was reluctant about moving out. His haste — breeches and coats and shirts flung over his shoulders and dangling from a great wad in his arms, shaving mug clutched in one hand and razor in the other — made Nynaeve look hard at Thom and Juilin and Uno. It was one thing for her to make use of them when she chose to, quite another for them to go looking after her behind her back. Their faces could not have been more open, or their eyes more innocent. Elayne brought up another of Lini’s sayings. “An open sack hides nothing, and an open door hides little, but an open man is surely hiding
something.”
But whatever problem the men might prove to be, the problem now was the cabin itself. It smelled of must and mold even with the tiny windows swung out, and they let little light into its dank confines. “Confines” was the word. The cabin was small, smaller than the wagon, and most of the space was taken by a heavy table and highbacked chair fastened to the floor, and the ladder leading up to the deck. A washstand built into the wall, with a grimy pitcher and bowl and a narrow dusty mirror, crowded the room still more, and completed the furnishings except for a few empty shelves and pegs for hanging clothes. The ceiling beams crouched right overhead, even for them. And there was only one bed, wider than what they had been sleeping on, yet hardly wide enough for two. Tall as he was, Neres might as well have lived in a box. The man surely had not given up one inch that might be stuffed with cargo.
“He came to Samara in the night,” Elayne muttered, unburdening herself of her bundles and putting hands on hips as she looked around disparagingly, “and he wanted to leave in the night. I heard him tell one of his men that he meant to sail on through the night whatever the… the wenches… wanted. Apparently, he’s not much pleased to be moving in daylight.”
Thinking of the other woman’s elbows and cold feet, Nynaeve wondered whether she would not have done better to sleep up above with the refugees. “What are you going on about?”
“The man is a smuggler, Nynaeve.”
“In this vessel?” Dropping her own bundles, Nynaeve laid the scrip on the table and sat down on the edge of the bed. No, she would not sleep on deck. The cabin might smell, but it could be aired out, and if the bed was cramped, it had a thick feather mattress. The ship did roll disturbingly; she might as well have what comfort she could. Elayne could not chase her out of there. “It is a barrel. We will be lucky to reach Boannda in two weeks. The Light alone knows how long to Salidar.” Neither of them really knew how far Salidar was, and it was not yet time to broach the matter with Captain Neres.
“Everything fits. Even the name. Riverserpent. What honest trader would name his craft so?”
“Well, what if he is? It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve made use of a smuggler.” Elayne threw up her hands in exasperation; she always did think obeying the law was important, however fool the law was. She shared more with Galad than she
would be willing to admit. So Neres had called them wenches, had he?
The second difficulty was room for the others. Riverserpent was not a very large vessel, if wide, and counting everyone there were well over a hundred people aboard. A certain amount of space had to go to the crew working the sweeps and tending ropes and sails, and that did not leave much for the passengers. It did not help that the refugees kept as far from the Shienarans as possible; it seemed they had had their fill of armed men. There was scarcely room for everyone to sit, and
none for lying down.
Nynaeve approached Neres straight away. “These folk need more room. Especially the women and children. Since you have no more cabins, your hold will have to do.”
Neres’ face darkened. Staring straight ahead, somewhere a pace to her left, he growled, “My hold is full of valuable cargo. Very valuable cargo.”
“I wonder if customs men are active along the Eldar here?” Elayne said idly, eyeing the treelined banks to either side. The river was only a few hundred paces wide here, bordered with dried black mud and bare yellow clay. “Ghealdan to one side and Amadicia to the other. It might seem odd, your hold full of goods from the south and you heading south. Of course, you probably have all the documents showing where you’ve paid duties. And you could explain that you didn’t unload because of the troubles in Samara. I have heard that excise men are quite understanding, really.”
The corners of his mouth turning down, he still did not look at either of them. Which was why he had a very good view when Thom fanned empty hands,
made a flourish, and was suddenly twirling a pair of knives through his fingers before making one of them disappear.
“Just keeping in practice,” Thom said, scratching one long mustache with the other blade. “I like to maintain certain… skills.” The gash in his whitehaired scalp and the fresh blood on his face, added to a bloodstained rent in one shoulder of his coat and tears elsewhere besides, made him look villainous in any company but Uno’s. The Shienaran’s toothy smile held no mirth at all, and did unfortunate things to his long scar and the new slash down his face, red and raw. The glaring crimson eye on his patch almost paled in comparison.
Neres shut his eyes and drew a long, long breath.
The hatches came open, and crates and casks went splashing over the side, some heavy, most light and smelling of spices. Neres winced every time the river closed over something else. He brightened — if such a thing could be said of him — when Nynaeve directed that bolts of silk and carpets and bales of fine woolens be left below. Until he realized that she meant them for bedding. If his face had been sour before, now it could have curdled milk in the next room. Through the whole thing he never said a word. When women began drawing up buckets of water on ropes to wash their children right there on the deck, he strode to the stern, hands clenched behind his back, and stared at the few floating casks as they fell behind.
In a way, it was Neres’ peculiar attitude toward women that began smoothing the edges from Elayne’s acid tongue, and Birgitte’s That was the way Nynaeve saw it; she herself had maintained her usual even disposition, of course. Neres disliked women. The crew spoke quickly when they had to speak to one of the women, all the while darting glances at the captain until they could hurry back to their duties. A fellow who seemed to have nothing to do for a moment was more likely than not to be sent running to some task by a roar from Neres if he exchanged two words with
anyone in skirts. Their hasty comments and muttered warnings made Neres’ opinions perfectly clear.
Women cost a man money, they fought like alley cats, and they caused trouble. Any and all trouble a man had could be laid to women, one way or another. Neres expected half of them to be rolling on the deck clawing one another before the first sunset. They would all flirt with his crew, and bring on dissension where they did not cause fights. Could he have sent all women off his ship, forever, he might have been happy. Could he have had them out of his life, he would have been ecstatic.
Nynaeve had never encountered the like. Oh, she had heard men mutter about women and money, as if men did not fling coin about like water — they just had no head for money, less than Elayne — and she had even heard them lay various troubles to women, usually when it was they themselves who had caused all the bother. But she could not recall ever meeting a man who truly disliked women. It was a surprise to learn that Neres had a wife and a horde of children in Ebou Dar, but no surprise that he stayed at home only long enough to load a new cargo. He did not even want to talk to a woman. It was simply amazing. Sometimes Nynaeve found herself looking at him sideways, the way she would have at some incredible animal. Far stranger than s’redit, or anything else in Luca’s menagerie.
Naturally, there was no way that Elayne or Birgitte could vent their bile where he might hear. Rolling eyes and meaningful looks among Thom and the others were bad enough; they at least made some effort to hide them. Neres’ open satisfaction at having his ridiculous expectations met — he surely would have seen it so — that would have been unbearable. He left them no choice but to swallow their acid and smile.
For herself, Nynaeve could have done with a little time with Thom and Uno and Juilin away from Neres’ eye. They were forgetting themselves again, forgetting they were supposed to do as they were told. The results did not matter; they should wait. And for some reason they had taken to tormenting Neres with darkly smiling comments about cracking heads and slitting throats. But the only place she could be sure of avoiding Neres was in the cabin. They were not particularly large men, though Thom was tall and Uno fairly wide, yet crowded in there, they would have filled the tiny space to where they were looming over her. Hardly conducive to the tonguelashing she wanted to hand out; give a man the chance to loom, and he had the battle half won. So she put on a pleasant mask, ignored startled frowns from Thom and Juilin, incredulous stares from Uno and Ragan, and enjoyed the outward good temper the other women had been forced to adopt.
She managed to keep smiling when she learned why the sails were so full, the undulating riverbanks rushing by under the afternoon as fast as a trotting horse. Neres had had the sweeps pulled in and stored along the railings; he almost looked happy. Almost. A low clay bluff ran along the Amadicia bank: on the Ghealdan side lay a broad ribbon of reeds between river and trees, mainly brown where water had receded. Samara lay only a few hours upriver.
“You channeled,” she said to Elayne through her teeth. Wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, she resisted the urge to dash it to the slowly heaving deck. The other passengers left a clear space for the two of them and Birgitte a few paces across, but she still kept her voice low, and as affable as she could manage. Her stomach seemed to move a heartbeat behind the ship’s roll; that hardly improved her temper. “This wind is your doing.” She hoped there was enough red fennel in her scrip.
From Elayne’s damply glowing countenance and wide eyes, milk and honey should have fountained from her mouth. “You are turning into a frightened rabbit. Pull yourself together. Samara is miles behind us. No one could sense anything useful from that far. She would have to be on the ship with us to know. I was very quick.”
Nynaeve thought her own face might crack if she held her smile any longer, but out of the corner of her eye she could see Neres, studying his passengers and shaking his head. Angry as she was at that moment, she could also see the almost faded residue of the other woman’s weaving. Working weather was like rolling a stone downhill; it tended to keep going the way you started it. When it bounced away from the path, as it would sooner or later, you just had to twitch it back. Moghedien might have felt a weave of that size from Samara — maybe — but certainly not well enough to say where it had been done. She herself was a match for Moghedien in raw strength, and if she was not strong enough to do something, it seemed safe to say the Forsaken was not either. And she did want to travel as quickly as possible; right then, one day more than necessary in close quarters with the other two held as much attraction for her as sharing the cabin with Neres. For that matter, an extra day on water was nothing to look forward to. How could a ship move in such a fashion when the river looked so flat?
Smiling was beginning to make her lips ache. “You should have asked, Elayne. You always go and do things without asking, without thinking. It’s time you realized if you fall into a hole running blindly, your old nurse isn’t going to come pick you up and wash your face.” By the last word, Elayne’s eyes were as round as teacups, and her bared teeth looked ready to bite.
Birgitte put a hand on each of them, leaning close and beaming as though joy had her by the throat. “If you two don’t stop this, I’m going to tip you both into the river to cool off. You are both acting like Shago barmaids with winteritch!”
Sweating faces frozen in amiability, the three women stalked in different directions, just as far apart as the ship would allow. Near sunset Nynaeve heard Ragan say that she and the others must really be relieved to be away from Samara, the way they were all but laughing on one another’s shoulder, and the other men seemed to be thinking much the same, but the rest of the women aboard watched them with faces much too smooth. They knew trouble when they saw it.
Yet bit by bit, that trouble oozed away. Nynaeve was not exactly sure how. Perhaps the pleasant exteriors Elayne and Birgitte put on just seeped inside in spite
of them. Perhaps the ridiculousness of it all, trying to keep a friendly smile on your face while putting a proper bite into your words, struck them more and more. Whatever did it, she could not complain at the outcome. Slowly, day by day, words and tones began to match faces, and now and then one of them even looked embarrassed, plainly remembering how she had been behaving. Neither spoke one word of apology, of course, which Nynaeve quite understood. Had she been as foolish and vicious as they, she certainly would not want to remind anyone.
The children played a part in restoring Elayne and Birgitte to equilibrium, too, though it actually started with Nynaeve looking after the men’s wounds that first morning on the river. She brought out her scrip full of herbs, making poultices and ointments, bandaging cuts. Those gashes made her angry enough to Heal — sickness and injury always made her angry — and she did so, for some of the worst, though she had to be careful. Wounds vanishing would have set people talking, and the Light knew what Neres would do if he thought he had an Aes Sedai aboard; very likely sneak a man ashore in Amadicia by night and try to have them arrested. For that matter, the news might have sent some of the refugees over the side.
With Uno, for example, she rubbed a touch of stinging mardrootoil liniment into his heavily bruised shoulder, dabbed a bit of healall ointment on the fresh slash down his face — no point wasting either — and wrapped his head in bandages until he could hardly move his jaw before Healing him. When he gasped and flailed, she said briskly, “Don’t be such a baby. I wouldn’t have thought a little pain would bother a big strong man. Now, you leave those alone; if you even touch them in the next three days, I’ll dose you with something you won’t soon forget.”
He nodded slowly, staring at her so uncertainly that it was plain he did not know what she had done. If he realized when he finally took the bandages off, with luck no one else would remember exactly how bad the gash had been, and he should have sense enough to keep his mouth shut.
Once she began, it was only natural to go on to the rest of the passengers. Few of the refugees lacked bruises and scrapes, and some of the children were showing signs of fevers or worms. Those she could Heal without worry; children always made a fuss when they were dosed with anything that did not taste of honey. If they told their mothers it had felt odd, children always had fancies.
She had never really been comfortable around children. True, she wanted to have Lan’s babies. Part of her did. Children could make a mess from nothing. They seemed to have the habit of doing the opposite of what you told them as soon as your back was turned, just to see how you would react. Yet she found herself smoothing back the dark hair of a boy no higher than her waist who stared up at her owlishly with bright blue eyes. They looked very like Lan’s eyes.
Elayne and Birgitte joined her, just to help keep order at first, but one way or another they gravitated to the children too. Strangely, Birgitte did not look at all silly with a boy of three or four cradled on either hip and a ring of children about her, singing them a nonsense song about dancing animals. And Elayne handed
round a sack of sweet red candies. The Light knew where she had gotten them, or why. She did not look guilty at all when Nynaeve caught her sneaking one into her own mouth; she only grinned, gently pulled a little girl’s thumb from her mouth and replaced it with another candy. The children laughed as if just remembering how, and snuggled themselves into Nynaeve’s skirts, or Elayne’s or Birgitte’s, as easily as into their mothers’. It was very difficult to maintain any sort of temper in those circumstances. She could not even bring herself to do more than sniff, and that faintly, when Elayne resumed her study of the a’dam in the privacy of the cabin on the second day. The woman seemed more convinced than ever that the bracelet, necklace and leash created a strange form of linking. Nynaeve even sat with her once or twice; the sight of the vile thing itself was enough to enable her to embrace saidar and follow along.
The refugees’ stories came out, of course. Families separated, lost or dead. Farms and shops and crafts ruined as ripples of the world’s troubles spread out, disrupting trade. People could not buy when they could not sell. The Prophet had only been the last brick on the cart that broke the axle. Nynaeve said nothing when she saw Elayne slipping a gold mark to a fellow with thin gray hair who knuckled a wrinkled forehead and tried to kiss her hand. She would learn how fast gold vanished. Besides, Nynaeve had handed out a few coins herself., Well, perhaps more than a few.
All but two of the men were grizzled or balding, with leathery faces and workcallused hands. Younger men had been snatched into the army if they were not caught up by the Prophet; those who refused one or the other had been hanged. The young pair — little more than boys, really; Nynaeve doubted if either had to shave regularly — wore hunted stares, and flinched if one of the Shienarans looked at them. Sometimes the older men talked of starting over, finding a bit of land to farm or taking up their trade again, but the tone of their voices said it was more bluff and bravado than real hope. Mostly they talked quietly of their families; a wife lost, sons and daughters lost, grandchildren lost. They sounded lost. The second night, a jugeared fellow who had seemed the most enthusiastic in a sad lot had just vanished; he was simply gone when the sun came up. He might have swum ashore. Nynaeve hoped he had.
Still, it was the women who caught her heart. They had no more prospects than the men, no more certainties, but most had more burdens. None had a husband with her, or even knew if she had a husband alive, yet the responsibilities that weighed them down also kept them moving. No woman with grit could give up when she had children. Even the others meant to find some future, though. They all had at least a scrap of the hope the men only pretended to. Three especially tugged at her.
Nicola was about her age and height, a slender darkhaired weaver with big eyes who had been intending to marry. Until her Hyran took it into his head that duty called him to follow the Prophet, to follow the Dragon Reborn; he would marry her when his duty was seen to. Duty had been very important to Hyran. He would have
made a good and conscientious husband and father, so Nicola said. Only, whatever was in his head had not done him much good when someone split it with an axe. Nicola did not know who, or why, just that she had to get as far from the Prophet as she could. Somewhere, there had to be a place where there was no killing, where she would not always be in fear of what might be around the next corner.
Marigan, a few years older, had been plump once, but her frayed brown dress hung on her loosely now, and her blunt face looked beyond weary. Her two sons, six and seven, stared silently at the world with toobig eyes; clinging to each other, they seemed frightened of everything and everyone else, even their own mother. Marigan had dealt in cures and herbs in Samara, though she had some odd ideas about both. That was no wonder, really; a woman who offered healing with Amadicia and Whitecloaks right across the river had to keep low, and even from the first she had had to teach herself. All she had ever wanted to do was cure sickness, and she claimed to have done it well, though she had not been able to save her husband. The five years since his death had been hard, and the coming of the Prophet had certainly not helped her any. Mobs searching for Aes Sedai chased her into hiding after she had cured a man of fever and rumor had turned it into bringing him back from the dead. That was how little most people knew of Aes Sedai; death was beyond the power to Heal. Even Marigan seemed to think it was not. She did not know where she was going any more than Nicola. A village somewhere, she hoped, where she could dispense herbs again in peace.
Areina was the youngest of the three, with steady blue eyes in a face bruised purple and yellow, and not from Ghealdan at all. Her clothes would have said that if nothing else did, a short dark coat and voluminous trousers not much different from Birgitte’s. They were the sum of her possessions. She would not say where she was from exactly, but she was forthcoming about the road that had led her to Riverserpent. About some of it; Nynaeve had to infer in places. Areina had gone to Illian meaning to bring her younger brother home before he could take the oath as a Hunter for the Horn. With thousands in the city, however, she had never found him, but somehow she had found herself taking the oath, setting out to see the world while not quite believing the Horn of Valere existed, half hoping that somewhere she would find young Gwil and take him home. Things had been… difficult… since. Areina was not precisely reluctant to talk, but she made such an effort to put a good face on things… She had been chased out of several villages, robbed once, and beaten several times. Even so, she had no intention of giving up or seeking sanctuary, or, a peaceful village. The world was still out there, and Areina meant to wrestle it to the ground. Not that she put it that way, but Nynaeve knew it was what the woman meant.
Nynaeve knew very well why they touched her most, too. Each story could have been the reflection of a thread in her own life. What she did not quite understand was why she liked Areina best. It was her opinion, putting this and that together, that nearly all of Areina’s troubles came from having too free a tongue, telling
people exactly what she thought. It could hardly be coincidence that she was harried out of one village so quickly she had to leave her horse behind after calling the mayor a piefaced loon and telling some village women that drybones kitchen sweepers had no right to question why she was on the road alone. That was what she admitted to saying. Nynaeve thought a few days of herself for example would do Areina worlds of good. And there had to be something she could do for the other two, as well. She could understand a desire for safety and peace very well.
There was an odd exchange the morning of the second day, while tempers were still tender and tongues — some people’s tongues! — still rough. Nynaeve said something quite mildly, about Elayne not being in her mother s palace, so she need not think Nynaeve was going to sleep shoved against the wall every night. Elayne tilted up her chin, but before she could open her mouth, Birgitte blurted, “You are the DaughterHeir of Andor?” She hardly looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear.
“I am.” Elayne sounded more dignified than Nynaeve remembered in some time, but there was a hint of — could it be satisfaction?
Face completely blank, Birgitte simply turned away, walking up into the bow where she sat on a coil of rope, staring at the river ahead. Elayne frowned after her, then finally went to sit beside her. They sat talking softly for some time. Nynaeve would not have joined them even had she been asked! Whatever they discussed, Elayne seemed slightly disgruntled, as if she had expected some other result, but after that there was hardly a cross word between them.
Birgitte resumed her own name later that same day, though it was a last flare of temper that did it. With Moghedien safely behind them, she and Elayne washed the black out of their hair with pokeleaf, and Neres seeing one with redgold curls about her shoulders and the other yellowgold in an intricate braid, and that one with bow and quiver, muttered acridly about “Birgitte stepping out of the bloody stories.” It was his misfortune that she overheard. That was her name, she told him sharply, and if he did not like it, she would pin his ears to either mast he chose. Blindfolded. He stalked off redfaced and shouting for lines to be tightened that could not have been made any tighter without popping.
At that point Nynaeve would not have cared whether Birgitte actually carried out the threat. Pokeleaf might have left a slight reddish cast to her own hair, yet it was close enough to its natural color almost to make her cry for joy. Unless everyone aboard came down with sore gums and toothaches, she had more than enough pokeleaf remaining. And sufficient red fennel to keep her stomach in its place. She could not help sighing in satisfaction once her hair was dry and in a proper braid again.
Of course, with Elayne channeling good winds and Neres running light or dark, thatchroofed villages and farms sped past on either bank, marked by people waving in the day and lit windows in the night, showing no sign of the turmoil farther upriver. Broad as the misnamed craft was, it made good time, rolling along
downriver.
Neres seemed torn between pleasure at his good luck at such winds and worry at moving in daylight. More than once he gazed longingly at a backwater, a treeshrouded stream or a pool cut deep into the bank where Riverserpent might have been moored and hidden. Occasionally Nynaeve remarked where he could hear about how glad he must be that the people from Samara would soon be off his ship, with a comment thrown in about how well this woman was looking now that she was rested or how energetic that woman’s children were. That was enough to put ideas of stopping right out of his head. It might have been easier to threaten him with the Shienarans, or Thom and Juilin, but those fellows were getting entirely too bigheaded as it was. And she certainly had no intention of arguing with a man who still would neither look at her nor talk to her.
Gray dawning of the third day saw the crew manning the sweeps again to draw them in to a dock at Boannda. It was a considerable town, larger than Samara, on a point of land where the swift River Boern, coming down from Jehannah, ran into the slower Eldar. There were even three towers inside the tall gray walls, and a building shining white beneath a red tile roof that could certainly pass for a palace, if a small one. As Riverserpent was lashed fast to the heavy pilings at the end of one dock — half their length across dried mud — Nynaeve wondered aloud why Neres had gone all the way to Samara when he could have unloaded his goods here.
Elayne nodded toward a stout man on the dock who wore a chain with some sort of seal hanging across his chest. There were several others like him, all with the chain and a blue coat, intently watching two other broad vessels unload at other docks. “Queen Alliandre’s excisemen, I should say.” Drumming his fingers on the rail, Neres was not looking at the men just as intently as they were at the other vessels. “Perhaps he had an arrangement with those in Samara. I don’t think he wants to talk to these.”
The men and women from Samara marched reluctantly up the gangplank, ignored by the excisemen. There was no custom duty on people. For the Samarans, it was the beginning of uncertainty. They had their lives ahead of them, and to begin anew, what they stood up in and what Nynaeve and Elayne had given them. Before they were halfway down the dock, still huddling together, some of the women were beginning to look as disheartened as the men. Some even began to cry. Vexation painted Elayne’s face. She always wanted to take care of everyone. Nynaeve hoped Elayne did not discover that she had slipped a few more silvers to some of the women.
Not all left the ship. Areina remained, and Nicola, and Marigan, tightly clutching her sons, who gazed in anxious silence after the other children vanishing toward the town. The two lads had not said a word since Samara that Nynaeve had heard.
“I want to go with you,” Nicola told Nynaeve, unconsciously wringing her hands. “I feel safe near you.” Marigan nodded emphatically. Areina said nothing,
but she stepped closer to the other two women, making herself part of the group even as she looked levelly at Nynaeve, defying her to send her away.
Thom shook his head slightly, and Juilin grimaced, but it was to Elayne and Birgitte that Nynaeve looked. Elayne did not hesitate in nodding, and the other woman was only a second behind. Gathering her skirts, Nynaeve marched to Neres, standing in the stern.
“I suppose I will have my ship back now,” he told the air somewhere between the ship and the dock. “Not before time. This voyage has been the worst I ever undertook.”
Nynaeve smiled broadly. For once, he did look at her before she was done.
Well, he almost did.
It was not as if Neres had much choice. He could hardly appeal to the authorities in Boannda. And if he did not like the fares she offered, well, he had to sail downriver anyway. So Riverserpent cast off again, heading for Ebou Dar, with one stop to be made that he was not informed of until Boannda began falling astern. “Salidar!” he growled, staring over Nynaeve’s head. “Salidar’s been abandoned since the Whitecloak War. It would take a fool woman to want to be ashore at
Salidar.”
Even smiling, Nynaeve was angry enough to embrace the Source. Neres roared, slapping at his neck and his hip at the same time. “The horseflies are very bad this time of year,” she said sympathetically. Birgitte roared with laughter before they were halfway down the deck.
Standing in the bows, Nynaeve inhaled deeply as Elayne channeled to bring the wind up again and Riverserpent lumbered into the strong current flowing out of the Boern. She was all but eating red fennel for meals, but even if she ran out before Salidar, she would not care. Their journey was almost over. Everything she had been through was worth it, for that. Of course, she had not always thought so, and Elayne and Birgitte’s rasping tongues had not been the only cause.
That first night, lying on the captain’s bed in her shift while a yawning Elayne occupied the chair and Birgitte leaned against the door with her head brushing the beams, Nynaeve had used the twisted stone ring. A single rusty gimbalmounted lamp gave light, and surprisingly, a scent of spice from the oil; maybe Neres had not liked the stench of must and mold, either. If she was ostentatious about nestling the ring between her breasts — and making sure the others knew it touched skin — well, she had cause. A few hours of superficially reasonable behavior on their parts had not made her less wary.
The Heart of the Stone was exactly as it had been every time before, pale light coming from everywhere and nowhere, the glittering crystal sword Callandor thrust into the floorstones beneath the great dome, rows of huge polished redstone columns running off into shadow. And that sensation of being watched that was so common in Tel’aran’rhiod. It was all Nynaeve could do not to flee, or set off on a frantic search through the columns. She forced herself to stand in one place beside
Callandor, counting slowly to one thousand and pausing every hundred to call Egwene’s name.
Truly, it was all she could do. The control she was so proud of vanished. Her clothes flickered with her worries about herself and Moghedien, Egwene and Rand and Lan. Between one minute and the next stout Two Rivers woolens became a muffling cloak and deep hood which became a suit of Whitecloak mail which became the red silk dress — only transparent! — which became an ever thicker cloak which became… She thought her face changed, too. Once she saw her hands, with skin darker than Juilin’s. Perhaps if Moghedien could not recognize her…
“Egwene!” The last hoarse call echoed among the columns, and Nynaeve made herself stand there shivering for one more count of one hundred. The great chamber remained empty except for her. Wishing she could feel more regret than haste, she stepped out of the dream…
. . . and lay fingering the stone ring on its thong, staring at the thick beams above the bed and listening to the thousand creaks of the ship rushing downriver through the darkness.
“Was she there?” Elayne demanded. “You were not gone very long, but —”
“I am tired of being afraid,” Nynaeve said without taking her gaze from the beams. “I am sso tired of being a ccoward.” The last words dissolved into tears she could neither stop nor hide, no matter how she scrubbed at her eyes.
Elayne was there in an instant, holding her and smoothing her hair, and an instant later, Birgitte pressed a cloth dampened in cool water against the back of her neck. She cried herself out to the sound of them telling her she was not a coward.
“If I thought Moghedien was hunting me,” Birgitte said finally, “I would run. If there was no other place to hide than a badger’s hole, I would wriggle in and curl into a ball and sweat until she was gone. I would not stand in front of one of Cerandin’s s’redit if it charged, either; and neither is cowardice. You must choose your own time and your own ground, and come at her in the way she least expects. I will take my revenge on her if ever I can, but that is the only way I will. Anything else would be foolish.”
That was hardly what Nynaeve wanted to hear, but her tears and their comfort made another gap in the thorny hedges that had grown up between them.
“I will prove to you that you are no coward.” Taking the dark wooden box from the shelf where she had put it, Elayne removed the spiralscribed iron disc. “We will go back together.”
That, Nynaeve wanted to hear even less. But there was no way to avoid it, not after they had told her she was not a coward. So back they went.
To the Stone of Tear, where they stared at Callandor — better than looking over your shoulder and wondering whether Moghedien was going to appear — then to the Royal Palace in Caemlyn with Elayne leading, and Emond’s Field under Nynaeve’s guidance. Nynaeve had seen palaces before, with their huge halls and great painted ceilings and marble floors, their gilding and fine carpets and elaborate
hangings, but this was where Elayne had grown up. Seeing it, and knowing that, made her understand a little of Elayne. Of course the woman expected the world to bend itself to her; she had grown up being taught that it would, in a place where it did.
Elayne, a pale image of herself because of the ter’angreal she was using, was strangely quiet while they were there. But then, Nynaeve was quiet in Emond’s Field. For one thing, the village was larger than she remembered, with more thatchroofed houses and others wooden frameworks going up. Someone was building a very big house just outside the village, three sprawling stories, and a stone plinth five paces high had been erected on the Green, carved all over with names. A good many she recognized; they were mostly Two Rivers names. A flagpole stood to either side of the plinth, one topped by a banner with a red wolf’s head, the other one with a red eagle. Everything looked prosperous and happy — as much as she could say, with no people there — but it made no sense. What on earth were those banners? And who would be building such a house?
They flashed to the White Tower, to Elaida’s study. Nothing had changed there, except that only half a dozen stools remained in the semicircle in front of Elaida’s table. And the triptych of Bonwhin was gone. The painting of Rand remained, with a poorly mended tear in the canvas across Rand’s face, as if someone had thrown something at it.
They rifled the papers in the lacquered box with its golden hawks, and those on the Keeper’s table in the anteroom. Documents and letters changed while they looked at them, yet they did learn a little. Elaida knew that Rand had crossed the Dragonwall into Cairhien, but of what she intended to do about it, there was no clue. An angry demand that all Aes Sedai return to the Tower immediately unless they had specific orders otherwise from her. Elaida seemed to be angry about a good deal, that so few sisters had returned after her offer of amnesty, that most of the eyesandears in Tarabon were still silent, that Pedron Niall was still calling Whitecloaks back to Amadicia when she did not know why, that Davram Bashere still could not be found despite having an army with him. Fury filled every document over her seal. None of it seemed of real use or interest, except maybe about the Whitecloaks. Not that they should have any difficulty there as long as they were on Riverserpent.
When they returned to their bodies on the ship, Elayne was silent as she rose from the chair and replaced the disc in the box. Without thinking, Nynaeve got up to help her out of her dress. Birgitte scrambled up the ladder as they climbed into the bed together in their shifts; she intended to sleep right at the top of the ladder, she said.
Elayne channeled to extinguish the lamp. After a time lying in the dark, she said, “The palace seemed so… empty, Nynaeve. It felt so empty.”
Nynaeve did not know what else a place was supposed to be in Tel’aran’rhiod. “It was the ter’angreal you used. You looked almost foggy to me.”
“Well, I looked just fine to me.” There was only a touch of asperity in Elayne’s voice, though, and they settled down to sleep.
Nynaeve had remembered the other woman’s elbows accurately, but they could not diminish her good mood, and neither could Elayne’s complaining murmur that she had cold feet. She had done it. Perhaps forgetting to be afraid was not the same as not being afraid, but at least she had gone back to the World of Dreams. Perhaps one day she could find the nerve again not to be afraid.
Having begun, it was easier to go on than to stop. Every night after that they entered Tel’aran’rhiod together, always with a visit to the Tower to see what they could learn. There was not very much, besides an order sending an emissary to Salidar to invite the Aes Sedai there to return to the Tower. Except, the invitation — as much as Nynaeve could read before it changed to a report on screening potential novices for proper attitudes, whatever that was supposed to mean — was more a demand that those Aes Sedai submit to Elaida immediately and be thankful they were allowed to. Still, it was confirmation that they were not chasing a wild hare. The trouble with the rest of what they saw in fragments was they did not know enough to fit them together. Who was this Davram Bashere, and why was Elaida so frantic to find him? Why had Elaida forbidden anyone to mention the name of Mazrim Taim, the false Dragon, with a threat of stiff penalties? Why had Queen Tenobia of Saldaea and King Easar of Shienar both written letters politely but stiffly resenting White Tower meddling in their affairs? It all made Elayne murmur one of Lini’s sayings: “To know two, you must first know one.” Nynaeve could only agree that it certainly seemed so.
Aside from the trips to Elaida’s study, they worked at learning control, of themselves and their surroundings in the World of Dreams. Nynaeve did not mean to let herself be caught again as she had been by Egwene, and by the Wise Ones. Moghedien she tried not to think about. Much better to concentrate on the Wise Ones.
Of Egwene’s trick of appearing in their dreams, as she had in Samara, they could puzzle out nothing; calling her did nothing except increase that uneasy feeling of being watched, and she did not make another such appearance. Trying to hold somebody else in Tel’aran’rhiod was incredibly frustrating, even after Elayne hit on the trick, which was to see the other as just another part of the dream. Elayne did it finally — and Nynaeve congratulated her with as good grace as she could muster — but for days Nynaeve could not. Elayne might as well have been the near mist she seemed, vanishing with a smile whenever she chose. When Nynaeve finally managed to fasten Elayne there, she felt the strain as if she were picking up a boulder.
Creating fantastical flowers or shapes by thinking of them was much more fun. The effort involved seemed related to both how large the thing was and whether it might really exist. Trees covered with wildly shaped blossoms in red and gold and purple were harder to make than a standmirror to examine what you had done to
your dress, or what the other woman had done to it. A gleaming crystal palace rising out of the ground was harder still, and even if felt solid to the touch, it changed whenever the image in your mind wavered and vanished as soon as the image did. They quietly decided to leave animals alone after a peculiar thing — much like a horse with a horn on its nose! — chased them both up a hill before they could make it vanish. That very nearly sparked a new argument, with each of them claiming the other had made it, but by that time Elayne had recovered enough of her old self to start giggling over how they must have looked, racing up the hill with their skirts hauled up, shouting at the thing to go away. Even Elayne’s stubborn refusal to admit it had been her fault could not stop Nynaeve’s giggles from bubbling up, too.
Elayne alternated between the iron disc and the apparently amber plaque with its carving of a sleeping woman, but she did not really like using either ter’angreal. As hard as she worked with them, she did not feel as fully in Tel’aran’rhiod as with the ring. And each did have to be worked; it was not possible to tie the flow of Spirit, or you bounced right back out of the World of Dreams immediately. Channeling anything else at the same time seemed all but impossible, yet Elayne could not understand why. She seemed more interested in how they had been made, and not at all pleased that they did not yield their secrets as easily as the a’dam. Not knowing the “why” was a burr in her stocking.
Once, Nynaeve tried one of the pair, coincidentally on the night they were to meet Egwene, the night after leaving Boannda. She would not have been angry enough if not for the thing that rubbed her wrong so often. Men.
Neres began it, stumping around the deck as the sun began to sink, muttering to himself about having his cargo stolen. She ignored him, of course. Then Thom, making up his bed at the foot of the after mast, said quietly, “He has a point.”
It was plain he did not see her in the fading lurid light, and neither did Juilin, squatting beside him. “He’s a smuggler, but he did pay for those goods. Nynaeve had no right to seize them.”
“A woman’s flaming rights are whatever she flaming says they are.” Uno laughed. “That’s what women in Shienar say, anyway.”
That was when they saw her and fell silent, as usual finding wisdom too late. Uno rubbed at his cheek, the one without a scar. He had removed his bandages that day, and he knew now what had been done. She thought he looked embarrassed. It was hard to tell in the fastshifting shadows, but the other two seemed to have no expression at all.
She did nothing to them, of course, only stalked away with a firm grip on her braid. She even managed to stalk down the ladder. Elayne already had the iron disc in her hand; the dark wooden box sat open on the table. Nynaeve picked up the yellowish plaque carved inside with a sleeping woman; it felt slick and soft, not at all something that would scratch metal. With that edge of anger smoldering inside her, saidar was a warm glow just out of sight over her shoulder. “Maybe I can come
up with some idea why this thing won’t let you channel anything but dribbles.”
Which was how she found herself in the Heart of the Stone, channeling a flow of Spirit into the plaque, which in Tel’aran’rhiod was tucked into her belt pouch. As she often did in the World of Dreams, Elayne wore a gown suitable for her mother’s court, green silk embroidered in gold around the neck, with a necklace and bracelets of gold links and moonstones, but Nynaeve was surprised to discover that she herself had on something not very different, though her hair was in a braid — and its own color — instead of loose about her shoulders. Her gown was pale blue and silver, and if not so low as Luca’s dresses, still lower than she thought she would have chosen. Still, she liked the way the single firedrop on its silver chain looked gleaming between her breasts. Egwene would not find it easy to bully a woman dressed so. Certainly not that that could have had anything to do with why she had donned it, even unconsciously.
Right away she saw what Elayne had meant about looking just fine; to herself, she appeared no different than the other woman, who had the twisted stone ring somehow threaded onto her necklace. Elayne, however, said she looked… misty. Misty was how saidar felt, too, except for the flow of Spirit she had begun to weave while awake. The rest was thin, and even the neverseen warmth of the True Source seemed muted. Her anger remained just strong enough for her to channel. If irritation at the men faded before the puzzle, that puzzle was its own irritant; steeling herself to confront Egwene had no part in it; she was not steeling herself at all, and there was no reason for the faint taste of boiled catfern and powdered mavinsleaf on her tongue! Yet producing a single flame, dancing in midair, one of the first things a novice was taught, seemed as difficult as throwing Lan over her shoulder. The flame looked attenuated even to her, and as soon as she tied the weave, it began to fade away. In seconds it was gone.
“Both of you?” Amys said. She and Egwene were just there, on the other side of Callandor, both in Aiel skirts and blouses and shawls. At least Egwene had not donned so many necklaces and bracelets. “Why do you appear so strange, Nynaeve? Have you learned to come waking?”
Nynaeve gave a little jump. She did so hate people sneaking up on her. “Egwene, how did you —” she began, smoothing her skirts, at the same time that Elayne said, “Egwene, we can’t understand how you —”
Egwene broke in. “Rand and the Aiel have won a great victory at Cairhien.” Out it all came in a torrent, everything she had told them in their dreams, from Sammael to the Seanchan spearhead. Each word almost tripped over the next, and she drove every one home with an intent stare.
Nynaeve exchanged confused glances with Elayne. Surely she had told them. They could not have imagined it, not with every word confirmed now. Even Amys, long white hair only emphasizing the not quite Aes Sedai agelessness of her face, looked amazed at the flood.
“Mat killed Couladin?” Nynaeve exclaimed at one point. That had certainly not
been in their dreams of her. It did not sound like Mat at all. Leading soldiers? Mat?
When Egwene finally trailed off, shifting her shawl and breathing a little quickly — she had barely paused for breath along the way — Elayne said weakly, “Is he well?” She sounded as if she was almost beginning to doubt her own memories.
“As well as can be expected,” Amys said. “He drives himself hard, and listens to no one. Except Moiraine.” Amys was not pleased.
“Aviendha is with him almost all the time,” Egwene said. “She is taking good care of him for you.”
Nynaeve doubted that. She did not know much about Aiel, but she suspected that if Amys said “hard,” anyone else would say “murderously.”
Apparently, Elayne agreed. “Then why is she letting him push himself? What is he doing?”
Quite a bit, it turned out, and clearly too much. Two hours each day practicing the sword with Lan or anyone else he could find. That made Amys’ mouth tighten sourly. Two more studying the Aiel way of fighting without weapons. Egwene might find that strange, but Nynaeve was all too aware of how helpless you could be when you could not channel. Still, Rand certainly should never find himself in that position. He had become a king, or something more, surrounded by Far Dareis Mai guards, ordering lords and ladies about. In fact, he spent so much time ordering them, and chasing after them to make sure they did what he said, that he would not spare time for meals if the Maidens did not bring him food wherever he was. For some reason, while that seemed to irk Egwene almost as much as it did Elayne, Amys looked distinctly amused, though her face went back to Aiel stoniness once she saw Nynaeve notice. Yet another hour each day was given to a strange school he had founded, inviting not only scholars but craftsmen, from some fellow who made looking glasses to a woman who had constructed some sort of huge crossbow with pulleys that could hurl a spear a mile. He had told no one his purpose there, except maybe Moiraine, but the only answer the Aes Sedai had given Egwene was that the urge to leave something behind was strong in everyone. Moiraine did not seem to care what Rand did.
“What remains of the Shaido are retreating north,” Amys said grimly, “and more slip across the Dragonwall to them every day, but Rand al’Thor seems to have forgotten them. He is sending the spears south, toward Tear. Half are gone already. Rhuarc says he has not even told the chiefs why, and I do not think Rhuarc would lie to me. Moiraine stands closer to Rand al’Thor than any except Aviendha, yet she refuses to ask him.” Shaking her head, she muttered, “Though in her defense, I will say that even Aviendha has learned nothing.”
“The best way to keep a secret is to tell no one,” Elayne told her, which earned her a hard stare. Amys was not far behind Bair when it came to stares that made you shift your feet. .
“We aren’t going to reason it out here,” Nynaeve said, fixing her gaze on
Egwene. The other woman seemed uneasy. If there was any time to begin redressing the balance between them, it might as well be now. “What I want to know —”
“You are quite right,” Egwene cut in. “We are not in Sheriam’s study, where we can lounge about and chatter. What have you to tell us? Are you still with Master Luca’s menagerie?”
Nynaeve’s breath caught, questions flying right out of her head. There was so much to tell. And so much not to. She claimed she had followed Lanfear to the meeting between the Forsaken, and spoke only of seeing Moghedien spying. Not that she wanted to avoid telling how she had been handled by Moghedien — not really; not exactly — but Birgitte had not released them from their promise of secrecy. Of course, that meant not telling about Birgitte at all, that she was with them. It was awkward, knowing that Egwene knew Brigitte was helping them, and still having to keep pretending that Egwene knew nothing at all, but Nynaeve managed despite stammering when Egwene arched her eyebrows. The Light be thanked, Elayne helped her present Samara as Galad and Masema’s fault. Which it was, in truth. If either had simply sent to tell her about the ship, none of the rest would have followed.
When she finished — with Salidar — Amys said quietly, “You are certain they will support the Car’a’carn?”
“They must know the Prophecies of the Dragon as well as Elaida,” Elayne said. “The best way to oppose her is to attach themselves to Rand, and make it clear to the world that they intend to support him all the way to Tarmon Gai’don.” Not the slightest quaver in her voice betrayed that she was not speaking of an absolute stranger. “Otherwise, they are just rebels, with no claim to legitimacy. They need him at least as much as he needs them.”
Amys nodded, but not as if she was ready to agree yet.
“I think I remember Masema,” Egwene said. “Hollow eyes and a sour mouth?” Nynaeve nodded. “I can hardly imagine him as any sort of prophet, but I can see him starting a riot or a war. I’m sure Galad only did what he thought was best.” Egwene’s cheeks colored slightly; even the memory of Galad’s face could do that. “Rand will want to know about Masema. And Salidar. If I can make him stand still long enough to listen.”
“I want to know how it happens that you are both here,” Amys said. She listened to their explanation, and turned the plaque over in her hand once Nynaeve fished it out. Having the ter’angreal touched by someone else while she was using it made Nynaeve’s skin crawl. “I believe you are less here than Elayne,” the Wise One said finally. “When a Dreamwalker enters the World of Dreams in her sleep, only a tiny bit of her remains with her body, just enough to keep her body alive. If she puts herself into a shallow sleep, where she can be here and also speak to those around her in the waking world, she looks as you do to one who is here fully. Perhaps it is the same. I do not know that I like it, any woman who can channel being able to
enter Tel’aran’rhiod, even in this state.” She returned the ter’angreal to Nynaeve.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Nynaeve hastily tucked the plaque away again. Her stomach was still fluttering.
“If you have told everything…” Amys paused while Nynaeve and Elayne hurriedly said that they had. The woman’s blue eyes were incredibly penetrating. “Then we must go. I will admit there is more to be gained from these meetings than I first supposed, but I have much to do yet tonight.” She glanced at Egwene, and they vanished as one.
Nynaeve and Elayne did not hesitate. Around them the great redstone columns changed in a blink to a small, darkpaneled room, its furnishings few, plain and sturdy. Nynaeve’s anger had been wavering, and with it her hold on saidar, but the Mistress of Novices’ study firmed both. Stubbornly defiant indeed! She hoped that Sheriam was in Salidar; it would be a pleasure to face her on an equal footing. Still, she could have wished to be somewhere else. Elayne was peering into the mirror with its flaking gilt frame, nonchalantly adjusting her hair with her hands. Only she had no need to use her hands here. She did not like being in this room either. Why had Egwene suggested meeting here? Elaida’s study might not be the most comfortable place to be, but it was better than this.
A moment later, Egwene was there, on the other side of the broad table, eyes icy and hands on her hips as if she was the room’s rightful occupant.
Before Nynaeve could open her mouth, Egwene said, “Have you two brainless flaptongues become witless ninnies? If I ask you to keep something to yourselves, do you immediately tell the first person you meet? Did it never occur to you that you don’t have to tell everyone everything? I thought you two were good at keeping secrets.” Nynaeve’s cheeks grew warmer; at least she could not possibly be as scarlet as Elayne. Egwene was not quite finished. “As for how I did it, I can’t teach you. You have to be a Dreamwalker. If you can touch somebody’s dreams with the ring, I don’t know how. And I doubt you can with that other thing. Try to keep your mind on what you’re doing. Salidar may be nothing like you expect. Now, I also have things to do tonight. At least try to keep your wits about you!” And she was gone so suddenly the last word almost seemed to come from empty air.
Embarrassment ate at Nynaeve’s anger. She had nearly burst out with it after Egwene asked her not to. And Birgitte: how could you keep a secret when the other woman knew? Embarrassment won, and saidar slipped away like sand through her fingers.
Nynaeve wakened with a jerk, the deep yellow ter’angreal firmly clutched in one hand. The gimbalmounted lamp was turned down to a dim light. Elayne lay crowded in next to her, still asleep; the ring on its thong had slid down into the hollow of her throat.
Muttering to herself, Nynaeve clambered over the other woman to put away the plaque, then poured a little water into the washbasin to bathe her face and neck. The water was lukewarm, but it felt cool. In the shadowy light, she thought the mirror
said she was still blushing. So much for redressing the balance. If only they had met anywhere else. If only she had not flapped her tongue like a brainless girl. It would have gone better if she had been using the ring, instead of being a wraith as far as the other woman was concerned. It was all Thom and Juilin’s fault. And Uno’s. If they had not made her angry… No, it was Neres’ fault. He… She took the pitcher in both hands and washed her mouth. It was only the taste of sleep she was trying to get rid of. Nothing like boiled catfern and powdered mavinsleaf. Nothing at all.
When she turned from the washstand, Elayne was just sitting up, untying the leather cord that held the ring. “I saw you losing saidar, so I went by Elaida’s study, but I didn’t think I should stay long in case you worried. I didn’t learn anything, except that Shemerin is to be arrested and reduced to Accepted.” She got up and tucked the ring into the box.
“They can do that? Demote an Aes Sedai?”
“I don’t know. I think Elaida is doing anything she wants. Egwene shouldn’t wear those Aiel clothes. They are not very becoming.”
Nynaeve let out the breath she had been holding. Obviously Elayne wanted to ignore what Egwene had said. Nynaeve was willing to let her. “No, they certainly aren’t.” Climbing onto the bed, she scrunched over against the wall; they took turns sleeping on the outside.
“I did not even have a chance to send a message to Rand.” Elayne got in after, and the lamp winked out. The small windows let in only dribbles of moonlight. “And one to Aviendha. If she is taking care of him for me, then she ought to take care of him.”
“He isn’t a horse, Elayne. You don’t own him.”
“I never said I did. How will you feel if Lan takes up with some Cairhienin woman?”
“Don’t be silly. Go to sleep.” Nynaeve burrowed fiercely into her small pillow. Perhaps she should have sent word to Lan. All those noblewomen, Tairen as well as Cairhienin. Feeding a man honey instead of telling him the truth. He had better not forget who he belonged to.
Below Boannda, woods closed in tightly on both sides of the river, unbroken tangles of trees and vines. Villages and farms vanished. The Eldar might as well have run through wilderness a thousand miles from human habitation. Five days out of Samara, early afternoon found Riverserpent anchored in the middle of a bend in the river, while the ship’s one boat ferried the remaining passengers to a beach of cracked dry mud bordered by low, forested hills. Even the tall willows and deeprooted oaks showed some brown leaves.
“There was no need to give the man that necklace,” Nynaeve said on the shore, watching the rowboat approach, crowded with four oarsmen, Juilin and the last five Shienarans. She hoped she had not been gullible; Neres had showed her his map of this stretch of the river, pointing out the mark for Salidar two miles from the water, but nothing else indicated there had ever been a village anywhere near here. The
forest wall was quite unbroken. “What I paid him was quite enough.”
“Not to cover his cargo,” Elayne replied. “Just because he’s a smuggler doesn’t mean we have a right to take it from him.” Nynaeve wondered whether she had been talking to Juilin. Probably not. It was just the law again. “Besides, yellow opals are gaudy, especially in that setting Anyway, it was worth it, just to see his face.” Elayne giggled abruptly. “He looked at me this time.” Nynaeve tried not to, but she could not help giggling too.
Thom was up near the trees, trying to amuse Marigan’s two boys by juggling colored balls produced from his sleeves. Jaril and Seve stared at him silently, hardly blinking, and held on to each other. Nynaeve had not really been surprised when Marigan and Nicola asked to accompany her. Nicola might be watching Thom and laughing delightedly now, but she would have spent every moment at Nynaeve’s side had the latter allowed it. Areina wanting to come had been something of a shock, though. She was sitting off by herself on a fallen log, watching Birgitte, who was stringing her bow. All three women might be in for a shock when they discovered what was in Salidar. At least Nicola would find her sanctuary, and Marigan might even have a chance to dispense herbs if there were not too many Yellows about.
“Nynaeve, have you thought about… how we’re going to be received?”
Nynaeve looked at Elayne in astonishment. They had crossed half the world, or near enough, and defeated the Black Ajah twice. Well, they had had help in Tear, but Tanchico had been all their doing. They brought news of Elaida and the Tower she was willing to bet no one in Salidar had. And most importantly, they could help these sisters make contact with Rand. “Elayne, I won’t say they will greet us as heroes, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they kissed us before today is done.” Rand alone would be worth that.
Two of the barefoot sailors leaped out to hold the rowboat against the current, and Juilin and the Shienarans splashed ashore as the sailors scrambled back aboard. On Riverserpent men were already hauling in the anchor.
“Clear us a path, Uno,” Nynaeve said. “I mean to be there before dark.” From the look of the forest, all vines and dusty undergrowth, two miles might take that long. If Neres had not managed to gull her. That worried her more than anything else.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 50
(Flame of Tar Valon) To Teach, and Learn
Some four hours later, the sweat running down Nynaeve’s face had very little to do with unseasonable heat, and she was wondering whether it might not have been better if Neres had gulled them. Or refused to carry them beyond Boannda. Late afternoon sunlight slanted sharply through windows with mostly cracked panes. Clutching her skirts in blended irritation and unease, she tried to avoid looking at the six Aes Sedai grouped around one of the sturdy tables near the wall. Their mouths moved silently as they conferred behind a screen of saidar. Elayne had her chin high, her hands folded calmly at her waist, but a tightness about her eyes and the corners of her mouth spoiled her regal air. Nynaeve was not sure she wanted to know what the Aes Sedai were saying; one stunning blow after another had knocked all her high expectations into a daze. One more shock and she thought she might scream, and she did not know whether from fury or pure hysteria.
Very nearly everything except their clothes was laid out on that table, from Birgitte’s silver arrow in front of stout Morvrin to the three ter’angreal before Sheriam, to the gilded coffers in front of darkeyed Myrelle. Not one of the women looked pleased. Carlinya’s face might have been carved from snow, even motherly Anaiya wore a stern mask, and Beonin’s look of constant wideeyed startlement had a distinctly annoyed cast. Annoyed and something more. Sometimes Beonin made as if to touch the white cloth spread neatly over the cuendillar seal, but her hand always stopped and retreated.
Nynaeve’s eyes jerked away from the cloth. She knew exactly when things had begun to go wrong. The Warders who surrounded them in. the woods had been proper, if cool — once she made Uno and the Shienarans put up their swords, anyway. And Min’s warm greetings had been all laughter and hugs. But the Aes Sedai and others in the streets, caught up in their own errands, had scurried along with hardly a glance for the party being escorted in. Salidar was quite crowded, with armed men drilling in nearly every open space. The first person aside from the Warders and Min to pay any attention to them at all had been the lean Brown sister they were taken to, in what had once been the common room of this inn. She and Elayne had told the story they had agreed on to Phaedrine Sedai, or tried to. Five minutes into it, they were left standing, with strict orders not to move a foot or speak a word, even to each other. Ten more minutes, staring at one another in confusion, while all around them Accepted and whiteclad novices, Warders and servants and soldiers bustled between tables where Aes Sedai pored over papers and briskly handed out orders, and then they had been hustled before Sheriam and the others so quickly Nynaeve did not think her shoes had touched the floor twice. That was when the grilling had begun, more suitable for captured prisoners than returning heroes. Nynaeve dabbed at the perspiration on her face, but as soon as she
tucked the handkerchief back up her sleeve, her hands returned to their grip on her skirts.
She and Elayne were not alone standing on the colorful silk carpet. Siuan, in a plain dress of fine blue wool, might have been there by choice if Nynaeve had not known better, her face cool, utterly composed. She seemed lost in untroubled thought. Leane at least watched the Aes Sedai, yet she appeared equally confident. In fact, somehow more selfconfident than Nynaeve remembered. The copperskinned woman looked even more willowy, too, more supple in some fashion. Perhaps it was her scandalous dress. That pale green silk was every bit as highnecked as Siuan’s, but it clung to every curve of her, and the material only managed to be opaque by a thin hair. It was their faces that truly stunned Nynaeve, though. She had never expected to find either alive, and certainly never looking so very young — no more than a few years older than she if that. They did not so much as glance at one another. In truth, she thought she detected a distinct chill between them.
There was another difference about them, one that Nynaeve was just beginning to recognize. If everyone including Min had been ginger about it, no one made any real secret of the fact that they had been stilled. Nynaeve could feel that lack. Perhaps it was being in a room where all the other women could channel, or perhaps it was knowing they had been stilled, but for the first time she was truly conscious of the ability in Elayne and the others. And its absence from Siuan and Leane. Something had been taken from them, cut away. It was like a wound. Perhaps the worst wound a woman could suffer.
Curiosity overcame her. What sort of wound would it be? What had been cut away? She might as well make use of the waiting, and the irritation that larded itself through her nervousness. She reached out to saidar.
“Did anyone grant you permission to channel here, Accepted?” Sheriam asked, and Nynaeve gave a start, hurriedly releasing the True Source.
The greeneyed Aes Sedai led the others back to their mismatched chairs, arranged on the carpet in a semicircle that had the four standing women as its focus. Some of them carried things from the table. They sat staring at Nynaeve, earlier emotion swallowed in Aes Sedai calm. None of those ageless faces acknowledged the heat by so much as a single bead of moisture. Finally Anaiya said in a gently chiding voice, “You have been very long from us, child. Whatever you have learned in the interval, you have apparently forgotten much.”
Blushing, Nynaeve curtsied. “Forgive me, Aes Sedai. I did not mean to overstep.” She hoped they thought it was shame that heated her cheeks. She had been away from them a long time. Just one day ago, she had given the orders and people jumped when she spoke. Now she was the one expected to jump. It galled.
“You tell an interesting… story.” Carlinya obviously believed little of it. The White sister turned Birgitte’s silver arrow over in long slender hands. “And you acquired some strange possessions.”
“The Panarch Amathera gave us many gifts, Aes Sedai,” Elayne said. “She seemed to think we saved her throne.” Even delivered in a perfectly level voice, that speech was a walk on thin ice. Nynaeve was not the only one irritated by their fall from freedom. Carlinya’s smooth face tightened.
“You come with disturbing news,” Sheriam said. “And some disturbing… things.” Her slightly tilted eyes wandered to the table, to the silvery a’dam, and returned firmly to Elayne and Nynaeve. Since learning what it was, what it was for, most of the Aes Sedai had treated it like a live red adder. Most had.
“If the thing does what these children claim,” Morvrin said absently, “we need to study it. And if Elayne really believes she can make a ter’angreal…” The Brown sister shook her head. Her real attention was on the flattened stone ring, all flecked and striped in red and blue and brown, that she held in one hand. The other two ter’angreal lay on her broad lap. “You say that this came from Verin Sedai? How is it this was never mentioned to us before?” That was not directed at Nynaeve or Elayne, but at Siuan.
Siuan frowned, but not the fierce frown Nynaeve remembered. It held a touch of diffidence, as if she knew she was speaking to her superiors, and so did her voice. That was another change Nynaeve could hardly believe. “Verin never told me of it. I would very much like to ask her a few questions.”
“And I have questions about this.” Myrelle’s olive face darkened as she unfolded a familiar paper — why had they ever kept that? — and read aloud. “What the bearer does is done at my order and by my authority. Obey, and keep silent, at my command. Siuan Sanche, Watcher of the Seals, Flame of Tar Valon, The Amyrlin Seat.” She crumpled the paper and its seal in her fist. “Hardly something to be handed out to Accepted.”
“At the time, I did not know who I could trust,” Siuan said smoothly. The six Aes Sedai stared at her. “It was within my authority then.” The six Aes Sedai did not blink. Her voice took on a thread of exasperated pleading. “You cannot call me to account for doing what I had to do when I had a perfect right to do it. When the boat’s sinking, you plug the hole with what you can find.”
“And why did you not tell us?” Sheriam asked quietly, but with a hint of steel. As Mistress of Novices she had never raised her voice, though sometimes you wished she would. “Three Accepted — Accepted! — sent out of the Tower chasing thirteen full sisters of the Black Ajah. Do you use babies to plug the hole in your boat, Siuan?”
“We are hardly babies,” Nynaeve told her heatedly. “Several of those thirteen are dead, and we thwarted their plans twice. In Tear, we —”
Carlinya cut her off like an icy knife. “You have told us all about Tear, child. And Tanchico. And defeating Moghedien.” Her mouth twisted wryly. She had already said that Nynaeve had been a fool to come within a mile of one of the Forsaken, that she was lucky to have escaped with her life. That Carlinya did not know how right she was — they certainly had not told everything — only made
Nynaeve’s stomach clench tighter. “You are children, and lucky if we decide not to spank you. Now hold your peace until you are called on to speak.” Nynaeve flushed heavily, hoping they took it for embarrassment, and held her peace.
Sheriam had never taken her eyes from Siuan. “Well? Why have you never mentioned sending three children out to hunt lions?”
Siuan drew a deep breath, but folded her hands and ducked her head penitently. “There seemed no point, Aes Sedai, with so much else of importance. I have held nothing back, when there was the faintest reason for telling. Every scrap I knew of the Black Ajah, I told. I’ve not known where these two were or what they were up to for some time. The important thing is that they are here now, and with those three ter’angreal. You must realize what it means to have access to Elaida’s study, to her papers, if only in bits. You’d never have known that she knows where you are until it was too late, except for that.”
“We realize that,” Anaiya said, eyeing Morvrin, who was still frowning at the ring. “It is just that perhaps the means of it takes us a little by surprise.”
“Tel’aran’rhiod,” Myrelle breathed. “Why, it has become no more than a matter for scholarly discussion in the Tower, almost a legend. And Aiel Dreamwalkers. Who would have imagined that Aiel Wise Ones could channel, much less this?”
Nynaeve wished they had been able to keep that secret — like Birgitte’s true identity and a few other things they had managed to hold back — but it was difficult to keep things from slipping out when you were being questioned by women who could bore holes in stone with a look when they wanted. Well, she supposed she should be glad they had managed to hang on to what they had. Once Tel’aran’rhiod had been mentioned, and that they had entered it, a mouse would have treed cats before these women stopped asking questions.
Leane took a halfstep forward, not looking at Siuan. “The important thing is that with these ter’angreal you can talk to Egwene, and through her to Moiraine. Between them, you can not only keep an eye on Rand al’Thor, you should be able to influence him even in Cairhien.”
“Where he went from the Aiel Waste,” Siuan said, “where I predicted he would be.” If her eyes and words were directed at the Aes Sedai, her astringent tone was plainly meant for Leane, who grunted.
“Much good that did. Two Aes Sedai sent off to the Waste chasing ducks.” Oh, yes, there was very definitely a chill there.
“Enough, children,” Anaiya said, very much as if they really were children and she a mother used to their petty squabbles. She eyed the other Aes Sedai meaningfully. “It will be a very good thing to be able to talk with Egwene.”
“If these work as claimed,” Morvrin said, bouncing the ring on one palm and fingering the other ter’angreal on her lap. The woman would not believe the sky was blue without proof.
Sheriam nodded. “Yes. That will be your first duty, Elayne, Nynaeve. You will have a chance to teach Aes Sedai, showing us how to use them.”
Nynaeve curtsied, baring her teeth; they could take it for a smile if they chose. Teach them? Yes, and never get near the ring, or the others, again after. Elayne’s curtsy was even stiffer, her face a cool mask. Her eyes rolled toward that fool a’dam almost longingly.
“The lettersofrights will be useful,” Carlinya said. With all that White Ajah coolness and logic, testiness still showed in the way she clipped her words. “Gareth Bryne always wants more gold than we have, but with those, we may almost be able to satisfy him.”
“Yes,” Sheriam said. “And we must take most of the coin, too. There are more mouths to feed and more backs to clothe every day, here and elsewhere.”
Elayne gave a gracious nod, just as if they would not take the money whatever she said, but Nynaeve simply waited. Gold and lettersofrights and even ter’angreal were only a part.
“For the rest,” Sheriam went on, “we are agreed that you left the Tower by command, however erroneous it was, and you cannot be held to account for it. Now that you are safely back with us, you will resume your studies.”
Nynaeve only breathed out slowly. It was no more than she had expected since the questioning began. Not that she liked it, but for once no one was going to be able to accuse her of having a temper. Not when in all probability it would do no good.
Elayne, though, burst out with a sharp, “But —!” Just that, before Sheriam cut in just as sharply.
“You will resume your studies. You are both very strong, but you are not Aes Sedai yet.” Those green eyes held them until she was sure they had taken it, and then she spoke again, her voice milder. Milder, but still firm. “You are returned to us, and if Salidar is not the White Tower, you may still consider it so. From what you have told us in the last hour, there is considerably more you have yet to tell.” Nynaeve’s breath caught, but Sheriam’s eyes slid back to the a’dam. “A pity you did not bring the Seanchan woman with you. That, you really should have done.” For some reason, Elayne blushed bright red, and looked angry at the same time. For herself, Nynaeve was only relieved it was the Seanchan the woman meant. “But Accepted cannot be called to account for not thinking as Aes Sedai,” Sheriam went on. “Siuan and Leane will have many questions for you. You will cooperate with them, and answer to the best of your abilities. I trust I do not have to remind you not to take advantage of their present condition. Some Accepted, and even some novices, have thought to lay blame for events, and even take punishments into their own hands.” That mild tone became cold steel. “Those young women are now extremely sorry for themselves. Need I say more?”
Nynaeve was no more hasty than Elayne to let her know she did not, which was to say they both almost stammered in their haste to get it out. Nynaeve had not thought of assigning blame — to her thinking, Aes Sedai were all to blame — but she did not want Sheriam angry with her. Realizing that fact drove the truth home
bitterly; the days of freedom certainly were gone.
“Good. Now you may take the jewels the Panarch gave you, and the arrow — when there is time, you must tell me why she made you a gift like that — and go. One of the other Accepted will find you places to sleep. Proper dresses may be harder to come by, but they will be found. I expect you to put your… adventures… behind you, and fit smoothly back into your proper place.” Plain although unspoken was the promise that if they did not fit back in smoothly, they would be smoothed until they did. Sheriam gave a satisfied nod when she saw they understood.
Beonin had not said a word since the shield of saidar was lowered, but as Nynaeve and Elayne made their curtsies, the Gray sister rose and strode to the table where their things were laid out. “And what of this?” she demanded in heavy Taraboner accents, whipping aside the white cloth that covered the seal on the Dark One’s prison. For a change, her large bluegray eyes looked more angry than startled. “Are there to, be no more questions about this? Do you all mean to ignore it?” The blackandwhite disc lay there, next to the washleather purse, in a dozen or more pieces, fitted back together as neatly as they could be.
“It was whole when we put it in the purse.” Nynaeve paused to work moisture back into her mouth. As much as her eyes had avoided the covering cloth before, they could not leave the seal now. Leane had smirked when she saw the red dress unwrapped from around its cargo, and said… No, she would not run away from it, even in her head! “Why should we have thought to take special care? It’s cuendillar!”
“We didn’t look at it,” Elayne said breathlessly, “or touch it more than we had to. It felt filthy, evil.” It no longer did. Carlinya had made them each hold a piece, demanding to know what evil feeling they were talking about.
They had said the same things before, more than once, and no one paid them any heed now.
Sheriam rose and went to stand beside the honeyhaired Gray. “We are ignoring nothing, Beonin. Asking these girls more questions will do no good. They have told us what they know.”
“More questions are always good,” Morvrin said, but she had stopped fiddling with the ter’angreal to stare at the broken seal as hard as anyone else. It might be cuendillar — she and Beonin had each tested it and said it was — yet she had broken one fragment with her hands.
“How many of the seven still hold?” Myrelle asked softly, as if speaking to herself. “How long until the Dark One breaks free, and the Last Battle comes?” Every Aes Sedai did some of almost everything, according to her talents and inclinations, yet each Ajah had its own reason for being. Greens — who called themselves the Battle Ajah — held themselves ready to face new Dreadlords in the Last Battle. There was almost a hint of eagerness in Myrelle’s voice.
“Three,” Anaiya said unsteadily. “Three still hold. If we know everything. Let us pray that we do. Let us pray three are enough.”
“Let us pray those three are stronger than this one,” Morvrin muttered. “Cuendillar cannot be broken so, not and be cuendillar. It cannot.”
“We will discuss this in due course,” Sheriam said. “After more immediate matters that we can do something about.” Taking the cloth from Beonin, she covered the broken seal once more. “Siuan, Leane, we have reached a decision concerning —” She stopped short as she turned and saw Elayne and Nynaeve. “Were you not told to go?” For all her outward calm, the turmoil inside showed in her forgetting their presence.
Nynaeve was more than ready to drop another curtsy, blurt a hurried “By your leave, Aes Sedai,” and scurry for the door. Without moving a muscle, the Aes Sedai
and Siuan and Leane — watched her and Elayne go. Nynaeve felt their eyes like a shove. Elayne stepped not a whit more slowly, for all she cast another look at the a’dam.
Once Nynaeve had the door closed and could lean back against its unpainted wood, clutching the gilded coffer to her breasts, she took her first comfortable breath, or so it seemed, since entering the old stone inn. She did not want to think about the broken seal. Another broken seal. She would not. Those women could shear sheep with their eyes. She could almost look forward to watching their first meeting with the Wise Ones; if she was not likely to be squarely in the middle. It had been more than difficult when she first went to the Tower, learning to do as she was told by others, to bend her neck. After long months when she gave the orders
well, once she had consulted Elayne; usually — she did not know how she was going to learn to pull wool and scratch gravel all over again.
The common room, with its illpatched plaster ceiling and cold stone fireplaces near collapsing, was the same beehive it had been when she first entered. No one gave her more than a glance now, and she gave them less. A small crowd awaited her and Elayne.
Thom and Juilin, on a rough bench against the flaking plaster wall, had their heads together with Uno, who was squatting in front of them, long sword hilt rising over his shoulder. Areina and Nicola, both staring amazed at everything and trying not to show it, occupied another bench with Marigan, who was watching Birgitte attempt to amuse Jan and Seve by awkwardly juggling three of Thom’s colored wooden balls. Kneeling behind the boys, Min was tickling them, whispering in their ears, but they only clung to each other, silently staring with those toobig eyes.
Only two others in the entire room were not scurrying about. Two of Myrelle’s three Warders happened to be leaning against the wall in conversation a few paces beyond the benches, just this side of the door back to the kitchen corridor. Croi Makin, a yellowhaired young splinter of stone from Andor with a fine profile, and Avar Hachami, hawknosed and squarechinned with a thick graystreaked mustache like downcurved horns. No one would call Hachami handsome even before his darkeyed stare made them swallow. They were not looking at Uno or Thom or anyone else, of course. It was only happenstance that they alone had nothing to do
and had chosen just that spot to do it. Of course.
Birgitte dropped one of the balls when she saw Nynaeve and Elayne. “What did you tell them?” she asked quietly, barely glancing at the silver arrow in Elayne’s hand. The quiver hung at her belt; but her bow was propped against the wall.
Moving closer, Nynaeve carefully did not look toward Makin and Hachami. Just as carefully she lowered her voice and was sparing with emphasis. “We told them everything they asked for.”
Elayne touched Birgitte’s arm. “They know you are a good friend who has helped us. You are welcome to stay here, just the same as Areina and Nicola and Marigan.”
Only when some of Birgitte’s tension melted did Nynaeve realize how much had been there. The blueeyed woman scooped up the fallen yellow ball, and smoothly tossed all three back to Thom, who snagged them with one hand and made them vanish in a single motion. She wore the faintest of relieved grins.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see the pair of you,” Min said for at least the fourth or fifth time. Her hair was longer than it had been, though still a dark cap around her head, and she looked different in some other way that Nynaeve could not put a finger on. Surprisingly, freshly embroidered flowers climbed the lapels of her coat; she had always worn quite plain clothes before. “A friendly face is rare around here.” Her eyes flickered just a fraction toward the two Warders. “We have to settle down alone and have a long talk. I can’t wait to hear what you’ve been up to since you left Tar Valon.” Or to tell what she had been up to as well, else Nynaeve missed her guess.
“I would like very much to talk to you, too,” Elayne said, quite seriously. Min looked at her, then sighed and nodded, not as eager as a moment before.
Thom and Juilin and Uno came up behind Birgitte and Min, their faces set in that way men took on when they meant to say things they thought a woman might not like to hear. Before they could open their mouths, though, a curlyhaired woman in an Accepted’s dress pushed between Juilin and Uno, glowering at them, and planted herself in front of Nynaeve.
Faolain’s dress, with its seven bands of color at the hem for the Ajahs, was not quite as white as it should have been, and her dark face wore a scowl. “I am surprised to see you here, wilder. I thought you had gone running back to your village, and our fine DaughterHeir to her mother.”
“Are you still souring milk for a hobby, Faolain?” Elayne asked.
Nynaeve kept her face pleasant. Just barely. Twice in the Tower Faolain had been set to teach her something. To put her in her place, was her own opinion. Even when teacher and pupil were both Accepted, the teacher had the status of Aes Sedai so long as the lesson lasted, and Faolain took full advantage. The curlyhaired woman had spent eight years as a novice and five more as Accepted; she was not best pleased that Nynaeve had never had to be a novice at all, or that Elayne had worn pure white for less than a year. Two lessons from Faolain, and two trips to
Sheriam’s study for Nynaeve, for stubbornness, temper, a list as long as her arm. She made her voice light. “I heard Siuan and Leane have been badly treated by someone. I think Sheriam means to make an example to end it once and for all.” She kept her eyes steady on the other woman’s, and Faolain’s widened in alarm.
“I’ve done nothing since Sheriam —” Faolain’s mouth snapped shut, and her face colored heavily. Min hid her mouth behind her hand, and Faolain jerked her head around, studying the other women, from Birgitte to Marigan. She motioned brusquely to Nicola and Areina. “You two will do, I suppose. Come with me. Now. No dawdling.” They rose slowly, Areina staring warily and Nicola with fingers fretting at the waist of her dress.
Elayne stepped between them and Faolain before Nynaeve could, chin high and eyes imperious blue ice. “What do you want with them?”
“I am obeying Sheriam Sedai’s orders,” Faolain replied. “I myself think they are too old for first testing, but I obey orders. A sister accompanies Lord Bryne’s recruiting parties, testing women even as old as Nynaeve.” Her sudden smile could have come from a viper. “Shall I inform Sheriam Sedai that you disapprove, Elayne? Shall I tell her you won’t let your retainers be tested?” Elayne’s chin came down somewhat during that, but of course she could not simply back down. She needed a diversion.
Nynaeve touched Faolain’s shoulder. “Have they found many?”
In spite of herself, the woman’s head turned, and when she glanced back, Elayne was soothing Areina and Nicola, explaining that they would not be hurt, or forced into anything. Nynaeve would not have gone so far. When Aes Sedai found someone with the spark born in her like Elayne or Egwene, someone who would channel eventually whether she wanted to or not, they were quite open about bundling her into training whatever her wishes. They seemed more lenient about those who could be trained but would never touch saidar without it, and about wilders, those who had survived the oneinfour chance of teaching themselves, usually without knowing what they had done and often blocked in some way, as Nynaeve was. Supposedly they could choose to come or stay. Nynaeve had chosen to enter the Tower, but she suspected that if she had not, she still would have gone, perhaps even tied hand and foot. Aes Sedai gave women who had the smallest chance of joining them as much choice as a lamb on a feastday.
“Three,” Faolain said after a moment. “All that effort, and they’ve found three. One a wilder.” She truly did not like wilders. “I do not know why they are so eager to find new novices. The novices we have can’t be raised Accepted until we regain the Tower. It is all Siuan Sanche’s fault, her and Leane.” A muscle in her cheek twitched, as if she realized that remark might be thought to harass the former Amyrlin and Keeper, and she seized Areina and Nicola each by an arm. “Come along. I obey orders, and if you’re to be tested, you’ll be tested, waste of time or no waste of time.”
“A nasty woman,” Min murmured, squinting after Faolain as she hurried the
other across the common room. “You’d think, if there was any justice, she would have an unpleasant future ahead of her.”
Nynaeve wanted to ask what Min had seen in her viewing of the curlyhaired Accepted — there were a hundred questions she wanted to ask her — but Thom and the other two men planted themselves firmly in front of her and Elayne, Juilin and Uno to either side so among the three they could see in every direction. Birgitte was leading Jaril and Seve to their mother, keeping her out of it. Min knew what the men were up to, too, by the rueful look she gave them; she seemed about to say something, but in the end she only shrugged and joined Birgitte.
By Thom’s face, he could have been about to comment on the weather, or ask what was for supper. Nothing important. “This place is full of dangerous fools and dreamers. They think they can depose Elaida. That’s why Gareth Bryne is here. To raise an army for them.”
Juilin’s grin almost split his dark face in two. “Not fools. Madwomen. And madmen. I don’t care if Elaida was there the day Logain was born. They’re mad to think they can pull down an Amyrlin sitting in the White Tower from here. We could reach Cairhien in a month, maybe.”
“Ragan and a few of the others already have horses marked out for borrowing.” Uno was grinning, too; it looked incredibly incongruous with that glaring red eye on his patch. “The guards are set to watch for people coming in, not going out. We can lose them in the forest. It’ll be dark soon. They’ll never find us.” The women’s donning their Great Serpent rings back by the river had had a remarkable effect on his language. Though he did seem to make up for it when he thought they could not hear.
Nynaeve looked at Elayne, who shook her head slightly. Elayne would put up with anything to be Aes Sedai. And herself? Small chance that they could influence these Aes Sedai to support Rand if they had decided to try controlling him instead. Make that no chance; she might as well be realistic. And yet… And yet there was Healing. She would learn nothing of it in Cairhien, but here… Not ten paces from her, Therva Maresis, a slender Yellow with a long nose, was methodically ticking off points on a parchment with her pen. A baldheaded Warder with a black beard stood conferring with Nisao Dachen near the door, head and shoulders above her despite being no taller than average, while Dagdara Finchey, as wide as any man in the room and taller than most, addressed a group of novices in front of one of the unlit fireplaces, briskly sending them off one by one on errands. Nisao and Dagdara were Yellow Ajah, too; it was said that Dagdara, her graying hair marking considerable age on an Aes Sedai, knew more of Healing than any two others. It was not as if Nynaeve would be able to do anything useful if she did go to Rand. Just watch him go mad. If she could progress with Healing, maybe she could find a way to hold that madness off. There was too much that Aes Sedai were willing to call hopeless and let go at that to suit her.
All of that flashed through her head in the time it took to look at Elayne and turn
back to the men. “We will be staying here. Uno, if you and the others want to go to Rand, you are free to, as far as I’m concerned. I fear I no longer have money to help you.” The gold the Aes Sedai had taken was needed just as they said, but she could not help wincing at the few silvers left in her purse. These men had followed her — and Elayne, of course — for all the wrong reasons, but that did not lessen her responsibility for them. Their loyalties were to Rand; they had no reason to enter a struggle for the White Tower. With a glance at the gilded coffer, she added reluctantly, “But I do have some things you can sell along the way.”
“You must go too, Thom,” Elayne said. “And you, Juilin. There’s no point in remaining. We have no need of you now, but Rand will.” She tried to press her casket of jewels into Thom’s hands, but he refused to take it.
The three men exchanged looks in that irritating way they had, Uno going so far as to roll his eye. Nynaeve thought she heard Juilin mutter something under his breath about having said they would be stubborn.
“Perhaps in a few days,” Thom said. “A few days,” Juilin agreed.
Uno nodded. “I could do with a little rest if I’m going to be running from Warders halfway to Cairhien.”
Nynaeve gave them her flattest stare and deliberately tugged her braid. Elayne had her chin as high as it had ever been, her blue eyes haughty enough to chip ice. Thom and the others surely knew the signs by now; their nonsense was not going to be allowed. “If you think you are still following Rand al’Thor’s orders to look after us —” Elayne began in frosty tones at the same time that Nynaeve said heatedly, “You promised to do as you were told, and I mean to see —”
“Nothing like that,” Thom broke in, brushing back a strand of Elayne’s hair with a gnarled finger. “Nothing at all like. Can’t an old man with a limp want a little rest?”
“To tell the truth,” Juilin said, “I am just staying because Thom owes me money.
Dice.”
“Do you expect us to steal twenty horses from Warders like falling out of bed?” Uno growled. He seemed to have forgotten just offering to do exactly that.
Elayne stared, at a loss for words, and Nynaeve was having difficulty finding them herself. How far they had fallen. Not so much as a shifted foot in the three of them. The trouble was that she was torn. She had determined to send them away. She had, and not because she didn’t want them around watching her curtsy and scrape right and left. Not at all. Yet with almost nothing in Salidar as she had expected, she had to admit, however reluctantly, that it would be… comforting… to know she and Elayne had more than Birgitte to depend on. Not that she would take up the offer of escape, of course — if that was what it should be called — not under any circumstances. Their presence would just be… comforting. Certainly not that she would let them know that. She would not have to, since they were going, whatever they thought. Rand could find use for them, very probably, and they
would only get in the way here. Except…
The unpainted door opened, and Siuan stalked out, followed by Leane. They stared at each other coldly before Leane sniffed and glided away, startlingly sinuous as she vanished around Croi and Avar into the corridor that led to the kitchens. Nynaeve frowned slightly. In the midst of all that iciness there had been one instant, a brief flicker she almost missed with it right in front of her…
Siuan swung toward her, then abruptly stopped short, her face going blank.
Someone else had joined the small gathering.
Gareth Bryne, dented breastplate buckled over his plain buffcolored coat and steelbacked gauntlets tucked behind his sword belt, radiated command. Mostly gray hair and a bluff face gave him the appearance of a man who had seen everything, endured everything; a man who could endure anything.
Elayne smiled, nodding graciously. A far cry from her astonished stares, coming into Salidar, when she had first recognized him at the length of the street. “I will not say it is entirely good to see you, Lord Gareth. I have heard of some difficulty between Mother and you, but I am sure it can be mended. You know Mother is hasty sometimes. She will come ’round, and ask you back to your proper place in Caemlyn, you may be certain of it.”
“Done is done, Elayne.” Ignoring her astonishment — Nynaeve doubted anyone who knew Elayne’s rank had ever been so curt to her — he turned to Uno. “Have you thought on what I said? Shienarans are the finest heavy cavalry in the world, and I have lads who are just right for proper training.”
Uno frowned, his one eye sliding to Elayne and Nynaeve. Slowly, he nodded. “I’ve nothing better to do. I’ll ask the others.”
Bryne clapped him on the shoulder. “Well enough. And you, Thom Merrilin.” Thom had half turned away at the other man’s approach, knuckling his mustaches and staring at the floor as if to obscure his face. Now he met Bryne’s level stare with one of his own. “I once knew a fellow with a name much like yours,” Bryne said. “A skilled player of a certain game.”
“I once knew a fellow who looked much like you,” Thom replied. “He tried hard to put me in chains. I think he’d have cut my head off if he ever laid hands on me.”
“A long time ago, that would be? Men do strange things for women sometimes.” Bryne glanced at Siuan and shook his head. “Will you join me for a game of stones, Master Merrilin? I sometimes find myself wishing for a man who knows the game well, the way it’s played in lofty circles.”
Thom’s bushy white eyebrows drew down almost as far as Uno’s had, but he never took his eyes from Bryne. “I might play a game or two,” he said finally, “once I know the stakes. As long as you understand I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life playing stones with you. I don’t like staying too long in one place anymore. My feet itch, sometimes.”
“So long as they don’t itch in the middle of a crucial game,” Bryne told him
dryly. “The two of you come with me. And don’t expect much sleep. Around here, everything needs doing yesterday, except what should have been done last week.” Pausing, he looked at Siuan again. “My shirts came back only half clean today.” With that he was leading Thom and Uno off. Siuan glared at his back, then shifted her frown to Min, and Min grimaced and darted off the way Leane had gone.
Nynaeve did not understand that last exchange at all. And the nerve of those men, thinking they could talk over her head — or under her nose, or whatever — without her understanding every word. Enough of them, anyway.
“A good thing he has no need for a thiefcatcher,” Juilin said, eyeing Siuan sideways, and plainly uncomfortable. He had not gotten over the shock of learning her name; Nynaeve was not sure he had taken in about her being stilled, and no longer the Amyrlin Seat. He certainly shifted his feet for her. “This way I can sit and talk. I’ve seen a lot of fellows who look like they might unwind over a mug of ale.”
“He practically ignored me,” Elayne said incredulously. “I don’t care what the trouble is between him and Mother, he has no right… Well, I will tend to Lord Gareth Bryne later. I have to talk to Min, Nynaeve.”
Nynaeve started to follow as Elayne hurried toward that hall to the kitchens — Min would give straight answers — but Siuan caught her arm in an iron grip.
The Siuan Sanche who had meekly ducked her head before those Aes Sedai was gone. No one here wore the shawl. Her voice never rose; it did not need to. She fixed Juilin with a stare that had him almost jumping out of his skin. “You watch what questions you ask, thiefcatcher, or you’ll gut yourself for market.” Those cold blue eyes shifted to Birgitte and Marigan. Marigan’s mouth twisted as if she tasted something bad, and even Birgitte blinked. “You two find an Accepted named Theodrin and ask her about somewhere to sleep tonight. Those children look as if they should be in bed already. Well? Move your feet!” Before they had stirred a step
— and Birgitte was moving as quickly as Marigan, maybe quicker — she rounded on Nynaeve. “You I have questions for. You were told to cooperate, and I suggest you do if you know what’s good for you.”
It was like being caught in a high wind. Before Nynaeve knew it, Siuan was hurrying her up rickety steps with a railing cobbled together from unpainted wood, hustling her down a roughfloored corridor to a tiny room with two cramped beds built into the wall, one above the other. Siuan took the only stool, motioning her to sit on the lower bed. Nynaeve chose to stand, if only to show she was not going to be pushed. There was not much else in the room. A washstand with a brick propping up one leg held a chipped pitcher and basin. A few dresses hung from pegs, and what appeared to be a pallet lay rolled up in one corner. Nynaeve had fallen far in the space of a day, but Siuan had fallen farther than she could imagine. She did not think she would have too much trouble with the woman. Even if Siuan did still have the same eyes.
Siuan sniffed. “Suit yourself, then, girl. The ring. It doesn’t require channeling?”
“No. You heard me tell Sheriam —”
“Anyone can use it? A woman who can’t channel? A man?”
“Possibly a man.” Ter’angreal that did not need the Power usually worked for men or women. “For any woman, yes.”
“Then you are going to teach me to use it.”
Nynaeve raised one eyebrow. This might be a lever to get what she wanted. If not, she had another. Maybe. “Do they know about this? All the talk was of showing them how it works. You were never mentioned.”
“They don’t know.” Siuan did not appear shaken at all. She even smiled, and not pleasantly. “And they won’t. Else they’ll learn you and Elayne have been posing as full sisters since you left Tar Valon. Moiraine might be letting Egwene get away with it — if she hasn’t tried it, too, I don’t know a bar knot from a running hitch — but Sheriam, Carlinya…? They’ll have you squealing like a spawning grunter before they’re done. Long before.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Nynaeve realized she was sitting on the edge of the bed. She did not remember sitting down. Thom and Juilin would hold their tongues. No one else knew. She had to talk to Elayne. “We haven’t pretended anything of the sort.”
“Don’t lie to me, girl. If I needed confirmation, your eyes gave it. Your stomach is turning somersaults, isn’t it?”
It most certainly was. “Of course not. If I teach you anything, it’s because I want to.” She was not going to let this woman bully her. The last vestige of pity winked out. “If I do, I want something in return. To study you and Leane. I want to know if stilling can be Healed.”
“It can’t,” Siuan said flatly. “Now —” “Anything short of death should be.”
“’Should be’ isn’t ‘is,’ girl. Leane and I were promised we would be left alone. Speak to Faolain or Emara if you want to know what happens to anyone who molests us. They weren’t the first or the worst, but they cried the longest.”
Her other lever. Near panic had driven it right out of her head. If it existed. One glance. “What would Sheriam say if she knew you and Leane weren’t ready to tear out each other’s hair at all?” Siuan just looked at her. “They think you’re tamed, don’t they? The more you snap at anybody who can’t snap back, the more they take it for proof when you leap to obey every time an Aes Sedai coughs. Was a little cringing all it took to make them forget the two of you had worked handinhand for years? Or did you convince them stilling had changed everything about you, not just your face? When they find out you’ve been scheming behind their backs, manipulating them, you’ll howl louder than any grunter. Whatever that is.” Not so much as a blink. Siuan was not going to loose her temper and let any admissions slip out. Yet there had been something in that brief look; Nynaeve was sure of it. “I want to study you — and Leane — whenever I want. And Logain.” Perhaps she could learn something there as well. Men were different; it would be like looking at
the problem from another angle. Not that she would Heal him even if she discovered how. Rand’s channeling was necessary. She was not about to loose another man on the world who could wield the Power. “If not, then you can forget about the ring, and Tel’aran’rhiod.” What was Siuan after there? Probably just to revisit something that at least seemed like being Aes Sedai. Nynaeve stamped firmly on momentarily rekindled pity. “And if you make any claims about us pretending to be Aes Sedai, then I’ll have no choice but to tell about you and Leane. Elayne and I might be uncomfortable until the truth comes out, but it will, and the truth will make you weep as long as Faolain and Emara together.”
Silence stretched. How did the other woman manage to look so cool? Nynaeve had always thought it had to do with being Aes Sedai. Her lips felt dry, the only part of her that did. If she was wrong, if Siuan was willing to put it to the test, she knew who would be weeping.
Finally, Siuan muttered, “I hope Moiraine has managed to keep Egwene’s backbone more supple than this.” Nynaeve did not understand, but she hardly had time to consider it. The next instant, the other woman was leaning forward, hand outstretched. “You keep my secrets, and I will keep yours. Teach me the ring, and you can study stilling and gentling to your heart’s content.”
Nynaeve barely managed to hold in a relieved sigh as she clasped the offered hand. She had done it. For the first time in what seemed forever, someone had tried to bully her and failed. She almost felt ready to face Moghedien. Almost.
Elayne caught up with Min just outside the back door of the inn and fell in beside her. Min had what looked like two or three white shirts wadded under one arm. The sun sat on the treetops, and in the fading light the stableyard had the soft look of dirt not long turned, with a huge stump that might have belonged to an oak right in the middle. The thatchroofed stone stable had no doors, allowing a good look at men moving among filled stalls. Surprisingly, Leane was talking to a large man on the edge of the stable’s shadow. Roughly dressed, he looked a blacksmith, or a brawler. What was surprising was how close Leane stood, head tilted as she stared up at him. And then she actually patted his cheek before turning away and hurrying back into the inn. The big man stared after her a moment, then melted into the shadows.
“Don’t ask me what she’s up to,” Min said. “Strange people come to see Siuan or her, and some of the men, she… Well, you saw.”
Elayne did not really care what Leane did. But now that she had Min alone, she did not know how to bring up what she wanted. “What are you doing?”
“Laundry,” Min muttered, shifting the shirts irritably. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see Siuan the mouse for once. She doesn’t know whether the eagle is going to eat her or make her a pet, but she has the same choice she gives everybody else. None!”
Elayne quickened her pace to keep up as they crossed the stableyard. Whatever that was about, it gave no opening. “Did you know what Thom was going to
suggest? We are staying.”
“I told them you would. Not a viewing.” Min’s step slowed again as they started between the stable and a crumbling stone wall, down a dim alley of brush stubble and trampled weeds. “I just didn’t think you would give up the chance to study again. You were always eager. Nynaeve, too, even if she won’t admit it. I wish I’d been wrong. I’d go with you. At least, I…” She muttered something furioussounding under her breath. “Those three you brought with you are trouble, and that is a viewing.”
There it was. The crack she needed. But instead of asking what she had intended, she said, “You mean Marigan and Nicola and Areina? How can they be trouble?” Only a fool passed over what Min saw.
“I don’t know exactly. I only caught glimpses of aura, and just out of the corner of my eye. Never when I was looking right at them, where I might have made something out. There aren’t many who have auras all the time, you know. Trouble. Maybe they’ll carry tales. Were you up to anything you wouldn’t want the Aes Sedai to know about?”
“Certainly not,” Elayne said briskly. Min looked at her sideways, and she added, “Well, nothing we didn’t have to do. They can’t possibly know about it anyway.” This was not taking her where she wanted to go. Drawing a deep breath, she leaped off the cliff. “Min, you had a viewing about Rand and me, didn’t you?” She went two steps before she realized the other woman had stopped.
“Yes.” It was a wary word.
“You saw that we were going to fall in love.”
“Not exactly. I saw you’d fall in love with him. I don’t know what he feels for you, only that he’s tied to you some way.”
Elayne’s mouth tightened. That was about what she had expected, but not what she wanted to hear. “Wish” and “want” trip the feet, but “is” makes the path smoother. That was what Lini said. You had to deal with what was, not what you wished was. “And you saw there would be someone else. Someone I’d have to… share him with.”
“Two,” Min said hoarsely. “Two others. And… And I’m one.”
Mouth already open for the next question, for a moment Elayne could only stare. “You?” she got out at last.
Min bristled. “Yes, me! Do you think I can’t fall in love? I didn’t want to, but I did, and that’s that.” She stalked past Elayne down the alleyway, and this time Elayne was slower to catch up.
It certainly explained a few things. How nervously Min had always sidestepped talking about it. The embroidery on her lapels. And unless she was imagining it, Min was wearing rouge, too. How do I feel about it? she wondered. She could not sort it out. “Who is the third?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” Min mumbled. “Only that she has a temper. Not Nynaeve, thank the Light.” She gave a weak laugh. “I don’t think I could have survived that.” Once
more she gave Elayne a cautious sidelong look. “What does this mean between you and me? I like you. I never had a sister, but sometimes I feel like you… I want to be your friend, Elayne, and I won’t stop liking you whatever happens, but I can’t stop loving him.”
“I don’t very much like the idea of having to share a man,” Elayne said stiffly.
That was certainly an understatement.
“Me, neither. Only… Elayne, it shames me to admit it, but I will take him any way I can get him. Not that either of us has much choice. Light, he’s scrambled my whole life. Just thinking about him scrambles my brains.” Min sounded as if she did not know whether to laugh or cry.
Elayne exhaled slowly. Not Min’s fault. Was it better that it was Min rather than, say, Berelain or somebody else she could not abide? “Ta’veren,” she said. “He bends the world around him. We are chips caught in a whirlpool. But I seem to recall you and me and Egwene saying we’d never let a man come between us being friends, We will work it out somehow, Min. And when we find out who the third is… Well, we’ll work that out, as well. Somehow.” A third! Could she be Berelain? Oh, blood and ashes!
“Somehow,” Min said bleakly. “Meanwhile, you and I are caught here in a leg trap. I know there’s another, I know I can’t do anything about it, but I had enough trouble reconciling myself to you, and… Cairhienin women aren’t all like Moiraine. I saw a Cairhienin noblewoman in Baerlon once. On the surface, she made Moiraine look like Leane, but sometimes she said things, hinting. And her auras! I don’t think a man in the whole town was safe alone with her, not unless he was ugly, lame, and better yet, dead.”
Elayne sniffed, but she managed to make her voice light. “Never you mind about that. We have another sister, you and I, one you’ve never met. Aviendha is keeping a close eye on Rand, and he doesn’t go ten steps without a guard of Aiel Maidens of the Spear.” A Cairhienin woman? At least she had met Berelain, knew something of her. No. She was not going to fret over it like some brainless girl. A grown woman dealt with the world as it was and made the best of it. Who could it be?
They had come out into an open yard dotted with cold ashes. Huge kettles, most pitted where rust had been scrubbed away, stood against the encircling stone wall, which had been toppled in several places by trees growing up in it. Despite the shadows crossing the yard, two steaming kettles still sat on flames, and three novices, hair sweatsoaked and white skirts tied up, were hard at work on scrub boards stuck into broad washpots full of soapy water.
With a glance at the shirts under Min’s arm, Elayne embraced saidar. “Let me help you with those.” Channeling to do assigned chores was forbidden — physical labor built character, so they said — but this could not be counted the same. If she swirled the shirts around in the water violently enough, there should be no reason to get their hands wet. “Tell me everything. Are Siuan and Leane as changed as they
seem? How did you get here? Is Logain really here? And why are you laundering some man’s shirts? Everything.”
Min laughed, plainly pleased to change the subject. “’Everything’ will take a week. But I’ll try. First, I helped Siuan and Leane get out of the dungeon Elaida had stuck them in, and then…”
Making appropriate sounds of amazement, Elayne channeled Air to lift one of the boiling kettles clear of its flames. She hardly noticed the novices’ incredulous stares; she was used to her own strength now, and it rarely occurred to her that she did things, without thinking, that some full Aes Sedai could not do at all. Who was the third woman? Aviendha had better be keeping a close eye on him.
The Fires of Heaven
Chapter 51
(Dice)
News Comes to Cairhien
A thin thread of blue smoke rising from the plain, shortstemmed pipe clenched in his teeth, Rand rested one hand on the balcony’s stone railing and looked into the garden below. Sharp shadows were lengthening; the sun was a red ball falling through a cloudless sky. Ten days in Cairhien, and this seemed the first moment he had stood still when he was not asleep. Selande stood close by his side, pale face tilted up to watch him, not the garden. Her hair was not so elaborately done as that of a woman of higher rank, but it still added half a foot to her height. He tried to ignore her, but it was difficult to ignore a woman who insisted on pressing her firm bosom against your arm. The meeting had gone on long enough for him to want a moment’s break. He had known it for a mistake as soon as Selande followed him out.
“I know a secluded pool,” she said softly, “where this heat might be escaped. A sheltered pool, where nothing would disturb us.” The music of Asmodean’s harp drifted out through the square arches behind them. Something light, cool sounding.
Rand puffed a little more vigorously. The heat. Nothing compared to the Waste, but… Autumn should be coming on, yet the afternoon felt like the depths of summer. A rainless summer. Shirtsleeved men in the garden were spreading water from buckets, doing it late to avoid evaporation, but too much was brown or dying. The weather could not be natural. The burning sun mocked him. Moiraine agreed, and Asmodean, but neither knew what to do or how, any more than he did. Sammael. Sammael he could do something about.
“Cool water,” Selande murmured, “and you and I alone.” She snuggled closer, though he did not see how it was possible.
He wondered when the next taunt would come. No dashing off in a temper, whatever Sammael did. Once his methodical buildup in Tear was done, then he would loose the lightning. One crushing stroke to put an end to Sammael, and add Illian to his bag at the same time. With Illian, Tear and Cairhien, plus an army of Aiel big enough to overwhelm any nation in weeks, he…
“Would you not like to swim? I do not swim well myself, but surely you will teach me.”
Rand sighed. For a moment he wished Aviendha was there. No. The last thing he wanted was a bruised Selande running screaming with her clothes half torn off.
Hooding his eyes, he looked down at her and spoke quietly around his pipe. “I can channel.” She blinked, drawing back without moving a muscle. They never understood why he would bring that up; for them it was something to be glossed over, ignored if possible. “They say I’ll go mad. But I’m not mad yet. Not yet.” He chuckled from deep in his chest, then cut it off abruptly, made his face blank. “Teach you to swim? I’ll hold you up in the water with the Power. Saidin is tainted,
you know. The Dark One’s touch. You won’t feel it, though. All around you, but you’ll not feel a thing.” Another chuckle, with a hint of a wheeze. Her dark eyes were as wide and round as they would go, her smile a sickly rictus. “Later, then. I want to be alone, to think about…” He bent as if to kiss her, and with a squeak, she dropped a curtsy so sudden that at first he thought her legs had collapsed.
Backing away, curtsying hurriedly at every other step, she babbled about the honor of serving him, her deepest wish to serve him, all in a voice on the brink of hysteria, until she bumped into one of the square arches. A final, halfbend of her knees, and she darted inside.
With a grimace, he turned back to the railing. Frightening women. She would have made excuses had he asked her to leave him, would have taken a command as only a temporary setback unless it was to stay out of his sight, and even then… Maybe word would spread this time. He had to keep a short rein on his temper; it ran away too easily of late. It was the drought he could do nothing about, the problems that sprang up like weeds wherever he looked. A few moments more alone with his pipe. Who would rule a nation when he could have easier work, such as carrying water uphill in a sieve?
Across the garden, between two of the Royal Palace’s stepped towers, he had a view of Cairhien, harshly lit and shadowed, mastering the hills more than flowing over them. His crimson flag with the ancient Aes Sedai symbol hung limply above one of those two towers, a long copy of the Dragon Banner over the other. That one flew a dozen places in the city, including the tallest of the great unfinished towers, right in front of him. Shouting had done as little as orders there; neither Tairens nor Cairhienin could believe he really meant that he only wanted one, and Aiel did not care about banners one way or another.
Even now, deep inside the palace, be could hear the murmur of a city jammed to bursting. Refugees from every corner of the land, more afraid to return to their homes than they were to have the Dragon Reborn in their midst. Merchants seeping in, selling whatever people could afford to buy and buying whatever people could not afford to keep. Lords and armed men rallying to his banner, or to someone’s. Hunters for the Horn thinking it must be found near him; a dozen Foregaters, or a hundred, were ready to sell it to any of them. Ogier stonemasons down from Stedding Tsofu to see if there was work for their fabled skills. Adventurers, some of whom might have been bandits a week gone, come to see what they could pick up. There had even been a hundred or so Whitecloaks, though they had galloped out as soon as it was clear the siege had been lifted. Did Pedron Niall’s ingathering of the Whitecloaks concern him? Egwene gave him hints of things, but she saw matters from the White Tower, wherever she stood. The Aes Sedai point of view was not his.
At least the wagon trains full of grain were beginning to arrive from Tear with some regularity. Hungry people could riot. He wished he could have simply left it at being glad they were not so hungry anymore, but there it was. The bandits were
fewer. And the civil war had not resumed. Yet. More good news. He had to make certain it stayed that way before he could leave. A hundred things to take care of before he could go after Sammael. Only Rhuarc and Bael remained of the chiefs he really trusted, those who had marched from Rhuidean with him. But if the four clans who had joined him late could not be trusted on the march to Tear, could he trust them loose in Cairhien? Indirian and the others had acknowledged him as Car’a’carn, but they knew him as little as he knew them. The message that morning might be a problem. Berelain, First of Mayene, was only a few hundred miles south of the city, on her way to join him with a small army; he had no idea how she had led it across Tear. Oddly, her letter had asked if Perrin was with him. No doubt she feared Rand might forget her small country if she did not remind him. It might almost be a pleasure to watch her spar with the Cairhienin, the latest in a long line of Firsts who had managed to keep Tear from swallowing their country by playing the Game of Houses. Perhaps if he put her in charge here… He would be taking Meilan and the other Tairens with him when the time came. If it ever came.
This was no better than what was waiting inside. Tapping the dottle from his pipe, he ground out the tabac’s last sparks under his boot. No need to risk fire to the garden; it would go up like a torch. The drought. The unnatural weather. He realized he was snarling silently. First work on what he knew he could do something about. It took an effort to smooth his face before he went in.
Asmodean, as well dressed as any lord, with falls of lace at his neck, plucked a soothing melody from his harp in one corner, leaning against the dark severe paneling as if lounging at his leisure. The others who were sitting bobbed out of their chairs at Rand’s appearance, and back down at his sharp gesture. Meilan, Torean and Aracome occupied carvedandgilded chairs on one side of the deep red and gold carpet, each with a young Tairen lord at his back, mirroring the Cairhienin on the other side. Dobraine and Manngil had a young lord apiece behind them, too, each with the front of his head shaved and powdered like Dobraine’s. A whitefaced Selande stood at Colavaere’s shoulder, and trembled when Rand looked at her.
Schooling his face, he strode down the carpet to his own chair. That chair alone was reason to control his features. It was a new gift from Colavaere and the other two, in what they imagined was the Tairen style. He must like Tairen gaudiness; he ruled Tear, had sent them here. Carved Dragons held it up, all sparkling red and gold with enamel and gilt, and great sunstones for their golden eyes. Two more made the arms, and others climbed the tall back. Countless craftsmen must have gone without sleep since his arrival to make the thing. He felt like a fool sitting on it. Asmodean’s music had changed; it had a grand sound, now, a triumphal march.
And yet, there was an added wariness in those dark Cairhienin eyes watching him, a wariness reflected in the Tairens. It had been there before he went outside, too. Perhaps in attempting to curry favor they had made a mistake that was only now dawning on them. They had all tried to ignore who he was, pretend he was simply some young lord who had conquered them, who could be dealt with and
manipulated. That chair — that throne — held up in front of them who and what he really was.
“Are the soldiers moving on schedule, Lord Dobraine?” The harp faded away as soon as he opened his mouth, Asmodean apparently absorbed in preening it.
The leathery man smiled grimly. “They are, my Lord Dragon.” No more than that. Rand had no illusions that Dobraine liked him more than any of the others did, or that he would not try to gain advantage where he could, but Dobraine actually seemed ready to hold to the oath he had sworn. The colorful slashes down the chest of his coat were worn from a breastplate being buckled over them.
Maringil shifted forward on his chair, whipslender and tall for a Cairhienin, white hair almost touching his shoulders. His forehead was not shaved, and his coat, stripes nearly to his knees, bore no visible wear. “We need those men here, my Lord Dragon.” Hawk’s eyes blinked at the gilded throne, focused on Rand again. “There are many bandits at large in the land yet.” He shifted again, so he did not have to look at the Tairens. Meilan and the other two were smiling faintly.
“I have set Aiel to hunting bandits,” Rand said. They did have orders to sweep up any brigands in their path. And to not go out of their way to find them. Even Aiel could not do that and move quickly. “I’m told that three days ago, Stone Dogs killed nearly two hundred near Morelle.” That was near the southernmost line claimed by Cairhien in recent years, halfway to the River Iralell. No need to let this lot know that those Aiel might be as far as the river by now. They could cover long distances faster than horses.
Maringil persisted, frowning uneasily. “There is another reason. Half of our land west of the Alguenya is in the hands of Andor.” He hesitated. They all knew Rand had grown up in Andor; a dozen rumors made him a son of one Andoran House or another, even a son of Morgase herself, either cast off because he could channel or fled before he could be gentled. The slender man went on as if tiptoeing barefoot and. blindfolded among daggers. “Morgase does not seem to be reaching for more as yet, but what she has already must be taken back. Her heralds have even proclaimed her right to the —” He stopped abruptly. None of them knew who Rand meant the Sun Throne for. Maybe it was Morgase.
Colavaere’s dark gaze had Rand on balance scales again; she had said little today. She would not until she learned why Selande’s face was so white.
Suddenly Rand was tired, of nobles balking, of all the maneuvering in Daes Dae’mar. “Andoran claims to Cairhien will be taken care of when I am ready. Those soldiers will go to Tear. You will follow the High Lord Meilan’s good example of obedience, and I’ll hear no more on it.” He swung toward the Tairens. “Your example is a good one, Meilan, isn’t it? And yours, Aracome? If I ride out tomorrow, I won’t find a thousand Defenders of the Stone camped ten miles south who were supposed to be on their way back to Tear two days ago, will I? Or two thousand armsmen from Tairen Houses?”
Those faint smiles faded with each word. Meilan became very still, dark eyes
glittering, and Aracome’s narrow face went pale, whether from anger or fear it was hard to say. Torean dabbed at his lumpy face with a silk handkerchief pulled from his sleeve. Rand ruled in Tear, and meant to rule; Callandor driven into the Heart of the Stone proved that. That was why they had not protested against his sending Cairhienin soldiers to Tear. They thought to carve new estates, perhaps kingdoms, here, far from where he ruled.
“You will not, my Lord Dragon,” Meilan said finally. “Tomorrow I will ride with you so you may see for yourself.”
Rand did not doubt it. A rider would be dispatched south as soon as the man could arrange it, and by tomorrow those soldiers would be far on toward Tear. It would do. For now. “I am done, then. You may leave me.”
A few starts of surprise, masked so quickly they might have been imagined, and they were rising, bowing and curtsying, Selande and the young lords backing away. They had expected more. An audience with the Dragon Reborn was always long, and tortuous as they saw it, with him firmly bending them the way he meant them to go, whether it was declaring that no Tairen could claim lands in Cairhien without marrying into a Cairhienin House, or refusing to allow the expulsion of Foregaters, or making laws apply to nobles that had never applied to any but commoners before.
His eyes followed Selande for a moment. She was not the first in the last ten days. Nor the tenth, or even the twentieth. He had been tempted, at least at first. When he rejected slender, plump promptly replaced her, as tall or dark, for Cairhienin anyway, replaced short or fair. A constant search for the woman who would please him. The Maidens turned back those who tried to sneak into his quarters at night, firmly but more gently than Aviendha had handled the one she caught. Aviendha apparently took Elayne’s ownership of him with little short of deadly seriousness. Yet her Aiel sense of humor seemed to find tormenting him very satisfying; he had seen the satisfaction on her face when he groaned and hid his face as she started undressing for the night. Thus he could have resented her deadly seriousness if he had not quickly understood what was behind that string of pretty young women.
“My Lady Colavaere.”
She stopped as soon as he spoke her name, cooleyed and calm beneath her ornate tower of dark curls. Selande had no choice but to remain with her, though she was plainly as reluctant to stay as the others were to go. Meilan and Maringil bowed themselves out last, so intent on Colavaere and trying to puzzle out why she had been called to stay that they did not realize they were side by side. Their eyes were a perfect match, dark and predatory.
The darkpaneled door closed. “Selande is very pretty young woman,” Rand said. “But some prefer the company of a more mature… more knowledgeable… woman. You will sup alone with me tonight, when Second Even is rung. I look forward to the pleasure.” He waved her away before she could say anything, if she
could have. Her face did not change, but her curtsy was a trifle unsteady. Selande looked purely amazed. And infinitely relieved.
Once the door had closed again, behind the two women, Rand threw back his head and laughed. A harsh, sardonic laugh. He was tired of the Game of Houses, so he played it without thinking. He was disgusted with himself for frightening one woman, so he frightened another. It was reason enough to laugh. Colavaere stood behind that line of young women who had been flinging themselves at him. Find a bedpartner for the Lord Dragon, a young woman whose strings she pulled, and Colavaere would have a string tied firmly to Rand. But it was some other woman she meant to bed, and perhaps even marry, the Dragon Reborn. Now she would sweat all the hours until Second Even. She had to know she was pretty, if short of beautiful, and if he rebuffed all the young women she sent, perhaps it was because he wanted one with another fifteen or so years. And she would be certain she did not dare say no to the man who held Cairhien in his fist. By tonight, she should be amenable, should stop this idiocy. Aviendha would very likely slit the throat of any woman she found in his bed; besides, he had no time for all these easily frightened doves thinking to sacrifice themselves for Cairhien and Colavaere. There were too many problems to deal with, and no time.
Light, what if Colavaere decides it’s worth the sacrifice? She might. She was easily coldblooded enough. Then I’ll have to see that it’s cold with fear. It would not be difficult. He could sense saidin like something just beyond the edge of sight. He could feel the taint on it. Sometimes he thought that what he felt was the taint in him, now, the dregs left by saidin.
He found that he was glaring at Asmodean. The man seemed to be studying him, face expressionless. The music resumed again, like water babbling over stones, soothing. So he needed soothing, did he?
The door opened without a knock, admitting Moiraine, Egwene and Aviendha together, the younger women’s Aiel garb framing the Aes Sedai’s pale blue. For anyone else, even Rhuarc or another chief still near the city or yet another delegation of Wise Ones, a Maiden would have entered to announce them. These three the Maidens sent on in even if he was taking a bath. Egwene glanced at “Natael” and grimaced, and the tune became lower, and for a moment intricate, perhaps a dance, before settling to what might have been the sighing of breezes. The man wore a twisted smile, directed at his harp.
“I’m surprised to see you, Egwene,” Rand said. He swung his leg over the arm of the chair. “What is it — six days you’ve been avoiding me? Have you brought me more good news? Has Masema sacked Amador in my name? Or have these Aes Sedai you say support me turned out to be Black Ajah? You notice I don’t ask who they are, or where. Not even how you know. I don’t ask you to divulge Aes Sedai secrets, or Wise Ones’ secrets, or whatever they are. Just give me the driblets you’re willing to dole out, and let me worry whether what you don’t care to tell me will stab me in the night.”
She looked at him calmly. “You know what you need to know. And I will not tell you what you do not need to know.” That was what she had said six days ago. She was as much Aes Sedai as Moiraine, for all one wore Aiel garb and the other pale blue silk.
There was nothing calm about Aviendha. She moved to stand shouldertoshoulder with Egwene, green eyes flashing, back so straight it might have been iron. He was half surprised Moiraine did not join them, so they could all three glare at him. Her vow of obedience left a startling amount of room, it seemed, and the three seemed to have become close since his argument with Egwene. Not that it had been much of an argument; you could not argue very well with a woman who watched with cool eyes, never raised her voice, and after one refusal to answer declined even to acknowledge your question again.
“What do you want?” he said.
“These came for you in the last hour,” Moiraine said, extending two folded letters. Her voice seemed to fit Asmodean’s chimelike tune.
Rand rose to take them suspiciously. “If they’re for me, how did they come into your hands?” One was addressed to “Rand al’Thor” in an exact, angular hand, the other to “The Lord Dragon Reborn” in script flowing yet no less precise. The seals were unbroken. A second look made him blink. The two seals seemed to be the same red wax, and one bore the impression of the Flame of Tar Valon, the other a tower overlaid on what he recognized as the island of Tar Valon.
“Perhaps because of where they came from,” Moiraine replied, “and from whom.” It was no explanation, but it was as much as he would get unless he demanded more. Even then he would have to prod her through every step. She kept her vow, but in her own way. “There are no poison needles in the seals. And no traps woven.”
He paused with his thumb against the Flame of Tar Valon — he had not thought of either — then broke it. Another Flame in red wax stood beside the signature, Elaida do Avriny a’Roihan in a hasty scrawl above her titles. The rest was in the angular hand.
There can be no denial that you are the one prophesied, yet many will try to destroy you for what else you are. For the sake of the world, this can not be allowed. Two nations have bent knee to you, and the savage Aiel as well, but the power of thrones is as dust beside the One Power. The White Tower will shelter and protect you against those who refuse to see what must be. The White Tower will see that you live to see Tarmon Gai’don. None else can do this. An escort of Aes Sedai will come to bring you to Tar Valon with the honor and respect you deserve. This I pledge to you.
“She doesn’t even ask,” he said wryly. He remembered Elaida well for having met her only once. A woman hard enough to make Moiraine seem a kitten. The “honor and respect” he deserved. He would wager that the escort of Aes Sedai just happened to number thirteen.
Passing Elaida’s letter back to Moiraine, he opened the other. The page was covered in the same hand that had addressed it.
With respect, I humbly beg to make myself known to the great Lord Dragon Reborn, whom the Light blesses as savior of the world.
All the world must stand in awe of you, who has conquered Cairhien in one day as you did Tear. Yet be wary, I beseech you, for your splendor will inspire jealousy even in those not toiled in the Shadow. Even here in the White Tower are the blind who cannot see your true radiance, which will illumine us all. Yet know that some rejoice in your coming, and will delight to serve your glory. We are not those who would steal your luster for ourselves, but rather those who would kneel to bask in your brilliance. You shall save the world, according to the Prophecies, and the world shall be yours.
To my shame, I must beg you to let no one see these words, and to destroy them when once read. I stand, naked of your protection, among some who would usurp your power, and I cannot know who around you is as faithful as I. I am told that Moiraine Damodred may be with you. She may serve you devotedly, obeying your words as law, as I will, yet I cannot know, for I remember her as a secretive woman, much given to plotting, as Cairhienin are. Yet even if you believe she is your creature, as I do, I beg you to keep this missive secret, even from her. My life lies beneath your fingers, my Lord Dragon Reborn, and I am your servant.
Alviarin Freidhen
He read it through again, blinking, then handed it to Moiraine. She barely scanned the page before giving it to Egwene, who had her head over the other letter with Aviendha. Perhaps Moiraine already knew what they contained?
“A good thing you gave your oath,” he said. “The way you used to be, keeping everything back, I might have been ready to suspect you by now. A good thing you’re more open now.” She did not react. “What do you make of it?”
“She must have heard about your swelled head,” Egwene said softly. He did not think he had been meant to hear. Shaking her head, she said more loudly, “This doesn’t sound like Alviarin at all.”
“It is her hand,” Moiraine said. “What do you make of it, Rand?”
“I think there’s a rift in the Tower, whether Elaida knows it or not. I assume an Aes Sedai can’t write a lie more easily than she can speak one?” He did not wait for her nod. “If Alviarin had been less flowery, I might have thought they were working together to pull me in. I can’t see Elaida even thinking half of what Alviarin wrote, and I can’t see her having a Keeper who could write it, not if she knew.”
“You are not going to do this thing,” Aviendha said, Elaida’s letter crumpled in her hand. It was not a question.
“I am not a fool.”
“Sometimes you are not,” she said grudgingly, and made it worse by raising a questioning eyebrow to Egwene, who considered for a moment, then shrugged.
“Do you see anything else?” Moiraine asked.
“I see White Tower spies,” he told her dryly. “They know I hold the city.” For at least two or three days after the battle, the Shaido would have stopped anything but a pigeon going north. Even a rider who knew where to change horses, no sure thing between Cairhien and Tar Valon, could not have reached the Tower in time for these letters to come back today.
Moiraine smiled. “You learn quickly. You will do well.” For a moment she almost looked fond. “What will you do about it?”
“Nothing, except make sure that Elaida’s ‘escort’ doesn’t get within a mile of me.” Thirteen of the weakest Aes Sedai could overwhelm him linked, and he did not think Elaida would send her weakest. “That, and be aware that the Tower knows what I do the day after I do it. Nothing more until I know more. Could Alviarin be one of your mysterious friends, Egwene?”
She hesitated, and he suddenly wondered whether she had told Moiraine any more than she had him. Was it Aes Sedai secrets she kept, or Wise Ones’? At last she said simply, “I do not know.”
A rap came at the door, and Somara put her flaxen head into the room. “Matrim Cauthon has come, Car’a’carn. He says that you sent for him.”
Four hours ago, as soon as he had learned Mat was back in the city. What would the excuse be this time? It was time to be done with excuses. “Stay,” he told the women. Wise Ones made Mat almost as uneasy as Aes Sedai did; these three would put him off balance. He did not give a second thought to using them. He was going to use Mat, too. “Send him in, Somara.”
Mat strolled into the room grinning, as if it was a common room. His green coat hung open, and his shirt was half unlaced, exposing the silver foxhead dangling on his sweaty chest, but the dark silk scarf was draped around his neck to hide his hanging scar in spite of the heat. “Sorry if I took too long. There were some Cairhienin who thought they knew how to play cards. Doesn’t he know anything livelier?” he asked, jerking his head toward Asmodean.
“I hear,” Rand said, “that every young man who can pick up a sword wants to join the Band of the Red Hand. Talmanes and Nalesean are having to turn them away in droves. And Daerid has doubled the number of his footmen.”
Mat paused in lowering himself into the chair Aracome had used. “It’s true. A fine lot of young… fellows wanting to be heroes.”
“The Band of the Red Hand,” Moiraine murmured. “Shen an Calhar. A legendary group of heroes indeed, though the men in it must have changed many times in a war that lasted well over three hundred years. It is said they were the last to fall to the Trollocs, guarding Aemon himself, when Manetheren died. Legend says a spring rose where they fell, to mark their passing, but I rather think the spring was already there.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.” Mat touched the foxhead medallion, and his voice picked up strength. “Some fool got the name from somewhere, and they all started using it.”
Moiraine glanced at the medallion dismissively. The small blue stone hanging on the forehead seemed to catch the light and glow, though the angles were wrong. “You are very brave, it seems, Mat.” It was flatly said, and the silence that followed stiffened his face. “Very brave,” she said finally, “to lead Shen an Calhar across the Alguenya and south against the Andorans. Even braver than that, for there are rumors that you went alone to scout the way, and Talmanes and Nalesean had to ride hard to catch up to you.” Egwene sniffed loudly in the background. “Hardly wise for a young lord leading his men.”
Mat’s lip curled. “I’m no lord; I’ve more respect for myself than that.”
“But very brave,” Moiraine said as if he had not spoken. “Andoran supply wagons burned, outposts destroyed. And three battles. Three battles, and three victories. With small loss to your own men, though outnumbered.” As she fingered a rip in the shoulder of his coat he sank back as far the chair would allow. “Are you drawn to the thick of battles, or are they drawn to you? I am almost surprised you came back. To hear the stories, you might have driven the Andorans back across the Erinin had you stayed.”
“Do you think this is funny?” Mat snarled. “If you have something to say, say it. You can play the cat all you want, but I’m no mouse.” For an instant his eyes flickered toward Egwene and Aviendha, watching with folded arms, and he fingered the silver foxhead again. He had to be wondering. It had stopped one woman’s channeling from touching him. Would it stop three?
Rand only watched. Watched his friend being softened for what he meant to do to him. Is there anything left to me but necessity? It was a quick thought, there and gone. He would do what he must.
The Aes Sedai’s voice gained a rime of crystal frost as she spoke, almost in an echo. “We all do as we must, as the Pattern decrees For some there is less freedom than for others. It does not matter whether we choose or are chosen. What must be, must be.”
Mat did not look softened at all. Wary, yes, and certainly angry, but not softened. He could have been a tomcat backed into a corner by three hounds. A tomcat who meant to go down hard. He seemed to have forgotten anyone was in the room except for himself and the three women. “You always have to push a man where you want him, don’t you? Kick him there, if he won’t go led by the nose. Blood and bloody ashes! Don’t glare at me, Egwene, I’ll speak the way I want. Burn me! All it needs is for Nynaeve to be here, yanking her braid out of her head, and Elayne staring down her nose. Well, I’m glad she isn’t, to hear the news, but even if you had Nynaeve, I’d not be shoved —”
“What news?” Rand said sharply. “News Elayne shouldn’t hear?”
Mat looked up at Moiraine. “You mean there’s something you haven’t ferreted out?”
“What news, Mat?” Rand demanded. “Morgase is dead.”
Egwene gasped, clasping both hands to her mouth below eyes like huge circles. Moiraine whispered something that might have been a prayer. Asmodean’s fingers never faltered on the harp.
Rand felt as if his belly had been ripped out. Elayne, forgive me. And a faint echo, altered. Ilyena, forgive me. “Are you certain?”
“As certain as I can be without seeing the body. It seems Gaebril has been named King of Andor. And Cairhien, too, for that matter. Supposedly Morgase did it. Something about the times needing a strong man’s hand or some such, as if anybody could have a stronger than Morgase herself. Only, those Andorans down south have heard rumors that she hasn’t been seen in weeks. More than rumors. You tell me what it adds up to. Andor’s never had a king, but now it has one, and the queen’s vanished. Gaebril’s the one wanted Elayne killed. I tried to tell her that, but you know how she always knows more than a mudfooted farmer. I don’t think he’d balk a second at slitting a queen’s throat.”
Rand discovered that he was sitting in one of the chairs across from Mat, though he did not remember moving. Aviendha laid a hand on his shoulder. Concern tightened her eyes. “I am all right,” he said roughly. “There’s no need to send for Somara.” Her face reddened, but he hardly noticed.
Elayne would never be able to forgive him. He had known that Rahvin — Gaebril — held Morgase prisoner, but he had ignored it because the Forsaken might expect him to help her. He had gone his own way, to do what they did not expect. And ended chasing Couladin instead of doing what he planned. He had known, and concentrated his attention on Sammael. Because the man taunted him. Morgase could wait while he smashed Sammael’s trap and Sammael with it. And so Morgase was dead. Elayne’s mother was dead. Elayne would curse him to her deathbed.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Mat was going on. “There are a lot of queen’s men down there. They are not so sure about fighting for a king. You find Elayne. Half of them will flock to you to put her on the —”
“Shut up!” Rand barked. He quivered so hard with fury that Egwene stepped back, and even Moiraine eyed him carefully. Aviendha’s hand tightened on his shoulder, but he shook it off as he stood. Morgase dead because he had done nothing. His own hand had been on the knife as surely as Rahvin’s. Elayne. “She will be avenged. Rahvin, Mat. Not Gaebril. Rahvin. I’ll lay him by the heels if I never do another thing!”
“Oh, blood and bloody ashes!” Mat groaned.
“This is madness.” Egwene flinched as if realizing what she had said, but she kept that firm, calm voice. “You have your hands full with Cairhien yet, not to mention the Shaido to the north and whatever it is you’re planning in Tear. Do you mean to start another war, with two on your plate already and a ruined land besides?”
“Not a war. Me. I can be in Caemlyn in an hour. A raid — right, Mat? — a raid, not a war. I’ll rip Rahvin’s heart out.” His voice was a hammer. He felt as if acid
filled his veins. “I could wish I had Elaida’s thirteen sisters to take with me, to smother him, and bring him to justice. Tried and hung for murder. That would be justice. But he’ll just have to die however I can kill him.”
“Tomorrow,” Moiraine said softly.
Rand glared at her. But she was right. Tomorrow would be better. A night to let his rage cool. He needed to be cold when he faced Rahvin. Now he wanted to seize saidin and lay about him, destroying. Asmodean’s music had changed again, to a tune that street musicians in the city had played during the civil war. You could still hear it sometimes when a Cairhienin noble passed. “The Fool Who Thought He Was King.” “Get out, Natael. Get out!”
Asmodean straightened smoothly, bowing, but his face could have done for snow, and he crossed the room quickly, as if uncertain what one second more might bring. He always pushed, but perhaps this time he had pushed too far. As he opened the door, Rand spoke again.
“I will see you tonight. Or I will see you dead.”
Asmodean’s bow was not so graceful this time. “As my Lord Dragon commands,” he said hoarsely, and hurriedly pulled the door shut with him on the other side.
The three women looked at Rand, expressionless, not blinking.
“The rest of you go, too” Mat practically bounded toward the door. “Not you. I have things to say to you yet.”
Mat stopped short, sighing loudly and fiddling with his medallion. He was the only one who had moved.
“You do not have thirteen Aes Sedai,” Aviendha said, “but you have two. And myself. I may not know as much as Moiraine Sedai, but I am as strong as Egwene, and I am no stranger to the dance.” She meant the dance of spears, what the Aiel called battle.
“Rahvin is mine,” he told her quietly. Maybe Elayne could forgive him a little if he at least avenged her mother. Probably not, but maybe he could forgive himself. A little. He forced his hands to stay at his sides, to not make fists.
“Will you draw a line on the ground for him to step over?” Egwene asked. “Put a chip on your shoulder? Have you considered that Rahvin might not be alone if he calls himself King of Andor now? Much good it will do when you appear if one of his guards puts an arrow through your heart.”
He could remember wishing she would not shout at him, but it had been so much easier then. “Did you think I meant to go alone?” He had; he had never thought of anyone to guard his back, though now he could hear a small whisper, He likes to come from behind, or at your flanks. He could hardly think clearly at all. His anger seemed to have a life of its own, stoking the fires that kept it boiling. “But not you. This is dangerous. Moiraine can come if she wishes.”
Egwene and Aviendha did not look at one another before stepping forward, but they moved as one, not stopping until they were so close even Aviendha had to tilt
her bead back to look up at him.
“Moiraine can come if she wishes,” Egwene said.
If her voice was smooth ice, Aviendha’s was molten stone. “But it is too dangerous for us.”
“Have you become my father? Is your name Bran al’Vere?”
“If you have three spears, do you put two aside because they are newer made?” “I do not want to risk you,” he said stiffly.
Egwene arched her eyebrows. “Oh?” That was all.
“I am not gai’shain to you.” Aviendha bared her teeth. “You will never choose what risks I take, Rand al’Thor. Never. Know it now.”
He could… What? Wrap them in saidin and leave them? He still could not shield them. So they might well snare him in return. A fine mess, all because they wanted to be stubborn.
“You have thought of guards,” Moiraine said, “but what if who is with Rahvin is Semirhage, or Graendal? Or Lanfear? These two might overwhelm one such, but could you face her and Rahvin together alone?”
There had been something in her voice when she said Lanfear’s name. Was she afraid that if Lanfear was there, he might finally join her? What would he do if she was there? What could he do? “They can come,” he said through clenched teeth. “Now will you go?”
“As you command,” Moiraine said, but they were in no hurry about it. Aviendha and Egwene took ostentatious care in rearranging their shawls before they started for the door. Lords and ladies might dart at his word, but never them.
“You did not try to talk me out of it,” he said abruptly.
He meant it for Moiraine, but Egwene spoke first, though to Aviendha, and with a smile. “Stopping a man from what he wants to do is like taking a sweet from a child. Sometimes you have to do it, but sometimes it just isn’t worth the trouble.” Aviendha nodded.
“The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills,” was Moiraine’s reply. She stood in the doorway looking more Aes Sedai than he ever remembered her, ageless, with dark eyes that seemed ready to swallow him, slight and slender yet so regal she could have commanded a roomful of queens if she could not channel a spark. That blue stone on her forehead was catching the light again. “You will do well, Rand.”
He stared at the door long after it closed behind them.
It was a scuff of boots that recalled him to Mat’s presence. Mat was trying to slide toward the door, moving slowly so as not to be seen.
“I need to talk to you, Mat.”
Mat grimaced. Touching the foxhead like a talisman, he spun to face Rand. “If you think I’m going to put my head on the block just because those fool women did, you can forget it now. I’m no bloody hero, and I don’t want to be one. Morgase was a pretty woman — I even liked her; as much as you can like a queen — but Rahvin is Rahvin, burn you, and I —”
“Shut up and listen. You have to stop running.”
“Burn me if I will! This is no game I chose, and I won’t —”
“I said, shut up!” Rand drove the foxhead against Mat’s chest with a hard finger. “I know where you got this. I was there, remember? I cut the rope you were hanging from. I don’t know exactly what got shoved into your head, but whatever it is, I need it. The clan chiefs know war, but somehow you know it too, and maybe better. I need that! So this is what you’re going to do, you and the Band of the Red Hand… ”
“Be careful tomorrow,” Moiraine said.
Egwene paused at the door to her room. “Of course we’ll be careful.” Her stomach was turning backflips, but she kept her voice steady. “We know how dangerous facing one of the Forsaken will be.” By Aviendha’s expression, they might have been talking about what was for supper. But then, she was never afraid of anything.
“Do you, now,” Moiraine murmured. “Be very careful anyway, whether you think one of the Forsaken is near or not. Rand will need both of you in the days to come. You handle his temper well — though I may say your methods are unusual. He will need people who cannot be driven away or quelled by his rages, who will tell him what he must hear instead of what they think he wants to.”
“You do that, Moiraine,” Egwene told her.
“Of course. But he will still need you. Rest well. Tomorrow will be… difficult for us all.” She glided away down the corridor, passing from dimness to pool of lamplight to dimness. Night was already coming to these shadowed halls, and oil was in short supply.
“Will you stay with me awhile, Aviendha?” Egwene asked. “I feel more like talking than eating.”
“I must tell Amys what I have promised to do tomorrow. And I must be in Rand al’Thor’s sleeping chamber when he comes.”
“Elayne can never complain that you haven’t watched Rand closely for her. Did you really drag the Lady Berwyn down the hall by her hair?”
Aviendha’s cheeks colored faintly. “Do you think these Aes Sedai in — Salidar?
— will help him?”
“Be careful of that name, Aviendha. Rand cannot be allowed to find them without preparation.” The way he was now, they would be more likely to gentle him, or at least send thirteen sisters of their own, than help him. She would have to stand between them in Tel’aran’rhiod, she and Nynaeve and Elayne, and hope those Aes Sedai had committed themselves too far to back out before they discovered how near the brink he was.
“I will be careful. Rest well. And eat well tonight. In the morning, eat nothing.
It is not good to dance the spears with a full stomach.”
Egwene watched her stride away before pressing her hands to her stomach. She did not think she would eat tonight or in the morning. Rahvin. And maybe Lanfear,
or one of the others. Nynaeve had faced Moghedien and won. But Nynaeve was stronger than she or Aviendha, when she could channel at all. There might not be another. Rand said the Forsaken did not trust one another. She could almost wish he was wrong, or at least that he was not so certain. It was frightening when she thought she saw another man looking through his eyes, heard another man’s words come out of his mouth. It should not be so; everyone was reborn as the Wheel turned. But everyone was not the Dragon Reborn. Moiraine would not talk of it. What would Rand do if Lanfear was there? Lanfear had loved Lews Therin Telamon, but what had the Dragon felt for her? How much of Rand was still Rand?
“You will work yourself into a tizzy this way,” she said firmly. “You’re not a child. Act like a woman.”
When a serving woman brought her supper of snapbeans and potatoes and fresh baked bread, she made herself eat. It tasted like ashes.
Mat strode through the dimly lit corridors of the palace and flung open the door of the rooms that had been set aside for the young hero of the battle against the Shaido. Not that he had spent much time there; hardly any. Servants had lit two of the standlamps. Hero! He was no hero! What did a hero get? An Aes Sedai patting you on the head before she sent you out like a hound to do it again. A noblewoman condescending to favor you with a kiss, or laying a flower on your grave. He stalked back and forth in his anteroom, for once not pricing the flowered Illianer carpet or the chairs and chests and tables gilded and inlaid with ivory.
The stormy meeting with Rand had gone on till the sun set, him dodging, refusing, Rand following as doggedly as Hawkwing after the rout at Cole Pass. What was he to do? If he rode out again, Talmanes and Nalesean would surely follow with as many men as they could put in the saddle, expecting him to find another battle. And he probably would; that was what really put a chill on it. Much as he hated to admit it, the Aes Sedai was right. He was drawn to battle or it to him. Nobody could have tried harder to avoid one on the other side of the Alguenya. Even Talmanes had commented on it. Until the second time his careful creeping away from one lot of Andorans took them where there was no choice but to fight another. And every time he could feel the dice rolling in his head; it was almost like a warning that a fight was just over the next hill, now.
There was always a ship, or might be, down at the docks beside the grain barges. Hard to find yourself in a battle on a ship in the middle of a river. Except the Andorans held one bank of the Alguenya for half its length or more below the city. The way his luck was running, the ship would run aground on the west bank with half the Andoran army camped there.
That left doing what Rand wanted. He could just see it.
“Good morrow, High Lord Weiramon, and all you other High Lords and Ladies. I’m a gambler, a farmboy, and I’m here to take command of your bloody army! The bloody lord Dragon Reborn will be with us as soon as he flaming takes care of one bloody little matter!”
Snatching his blackhafted spear from the corner, he hurled it the length of the room. It struck a wall hanging — a hunting scene — and the stone wall behind with a loud clang, then dropped to the floor, leaving the hunters neatly sliced in two. Swearing, he hurried to pick it up. The twofoot swordblade was not chipped or marred. Of course not. Aes Sedai work.
He fingered the ravens on the blade. “Will I ever be free of Aes Sedai work?” “What was that?” Melindhra asked from the door.
He eyed her as he propped the spear against the wall, and for a change it was not spungold hair or clear blue eyes or a firm body that he thought of. It seemed that every Aiel went to the river sooner or later, to stare silently at so much water in one place, but Melindhra went every day, just about. “Has Kadere found ships yet?” Kadere would not be going to Tar Valon on grain barges.
“The peddler’s wagons are still there. I do not know about… ships.” She pronounced the unfamiliar word awkwardly. “Why do you wish to know?”