Jordan, Robert - WoT8 - The Path of DaggersBook 8 of the Wheel of Time:
 
The Path of Daggers
 
by Robert Jordan
 
PROLOGUE
 
  Who would sup with the mighty must climb the path of daggers.
   --  Anonymous notation found inked in the margin 
  of a manuscript history (believed to date to the time
  of Arthur Hawkwing) of the last days of the Tovan Conclaves
   
  On the heights, all paths are paved with daggers. 
   --  Old Seanchan saying
 
Deceptive Appearances
Ethenielle had seen mountains lower than these misnamed Black Hills, great 
lopsided heaps of half-buried boulders, webbed with steep twisting passes. A 
number of those passes would have given a goat pause. You could travel three 
days through drought-withered forests and brown-grassed meadows without seeing a 
single sign of human habitation, then suddenly find yourself within half a day 
of seven or eight tiny villages, all ignorant of the world. The Black Hills were 
a rugged place for farmers, away from the trade routes, and harsher now than 
usual. A gaunt leopard that should have vanished at the sight of men watched 
from a steep slope, not forty paces away, as she rode past with her armored 
escort. Westward, vultures wheeled patient circles like an omen. Not a cloud 
marred the blood-red sun, yet there were clouds of a sort. When the warm wind 
blew, it raised walls of dust.
With fifty of her best men at her heels, Ethenielle rode unconcernedly, and 
unhurriedly. Unlike her near legendary ancestor Surasa, she had no illusion that 
the weather would heed her wishes just because she held the Throne of the 
Clouds, while as for haste . . . Their carefully coded, closely guarded letters 
had agreed on the order of march, and that had been determined by each person's 
need to travel without attracting notice. Not an easy task. Some had thought it 
impossible.
Frowning, she considered the luck that had let her come this far without having 
to kill anyone, avoiding those flyspeck villages even when it meant days added 
to the journey. The few Ogier stedding presented no problem  --  Ogier paid little 
heed to what happened among humans, most times, and less than usual of late, it 
seemed  --  but the villages . . . They were too small to hold eyes-and-ears for 
the White Tower, or for this fellow who claimed to be the Dragon Reborn  --  
perhaps he was; she could not decide which way would be worse  --  too small, yet 
peddlers did pass through, eventually. Peddlers carried as much gossip as trade 
goods, and they spoke to people who spoke to other people, rumor flowing like an 
ever-branching river, through the Black-Hills and into the world outside. With a 
few words, a single shepherd who had escaped notice could light a signal fire 
seen five hundred leagues off. The sort of signal fire that set woods and 
grasslands aflame. And cities, maybe. Nations.
"Did I make the right choice, Serailla?" Vexed at herself, Ethenielle grimaced. 
She might not be a girl any longer, but her few gray hairs hardly counted her 
old enough to let her mindless tongue flap in the breeze. The decision was made. 
It had been on her mind, though. Light's truth, she was not so unconcerned as 
she wanted to be.
Ethenielle's First Councilor heeled her dun mare closer to the Queen's sleek 
black gelding. Round face placid, dark eyes considering, Lady Serailla could 
have been a farmwife suddenly stuck into a noblewoman's riding dress, but the 
mind behind those plain, sweaty features was as sharp as any Aes Sedai's. "The 
other choices only carried different risks, not lesser," she said smoothly. 
Stout yet as graceful in her saddle as she was at dancing, Serailla was always 
smooth. Not oily, or false; just completely unflappable. "Whatever the truth, 
Majesty, the White Tower appears to be paralyzed as well as shattered. You could 
have sat watching the Blight while the world crumbled behind you. You could have 
if you were someone else."
The simple need to act. Was that what had brought her here? Well, if the White 
Tower would not or could not do what had to be done, then someone must. What 
good to guard the Blight if the world did crumble behind her?
Ethenielle looked to the slender man riding at her other side, white streaks at 
his temples giving him a supercilious air, the ornately sheathed Sword of 
Kirukan resting in the crook of one arm. It was called the Sword of Kirukan, at 
any rate, and the fabled warrior Queen of Aramaelle might have carried it. The 
blade was ancient, some said Power-wrought. The two-handed hilt lay toward her 
as tradition demanded, though she herself was not about to try using a sword 
like some fire-brained Saldaean. A queen was supposed to think, lead, and 
command, which no one could manage while trying to do what any soldier in her 
army could do better. "And you, Swordbearer?" she said. "Do you have any qualms 
at this late hour?"
Lord Baldhere twisted in his gold-worked saddle to glance back at the banners 
carried by horsemen behind them, cased in tooled leather and embroidered velvet. 
"I don't like hiding who I am, Majesty," he said fussily, straightening around. 
"The world will know us soon enough, and what we've done. Or tried to do. We'll 
end dead or in the histories or both, so they might as well know what names to 
write." Baldhere had a biting tongue, and he affected to care more for music and 
his clothes than anything else  --  that well-cut blue coat was the third he had 
worn already today  --  but as with Serailla, appearances deceived. The 
Sword-bearer to the Throne of the Clouds bore responsibilities much heavier than 
that sword in its jeweled scabbard. Since the death of her husband some twenty 
years ago, Baldhere had commanded the armies of Kandor for her in the field, and 
most of her soldiers would have followed him to Shayol Ghul itself. He was not 
counted among the great captains, but he knew when to fight and when not, as 
well as how to win.
"The meeting place must be just ahead," Serailla said suddenly, just as 
Ethenielle saw the scout Baldhere had sent forward, a sly fellow named Lomas who 
wore a foxhead crest on his helmet, rein in atop the peak of the pass ahead. 
With his lance slanted, he made the arm gesture for "assembly point in sight."
Baldhere swung his heavy-shouldered gelding and bellowed a command for the 
escort to halt  --  he could bellow, when he had a mind to  --  then spurred the bay 
to catch up to her and Serailla. It was to be a meeting between long-standing 
allies, but as they rode past Lomas, Baldhere gave the lean-faced man a curt 
order to "Watch and relay"; should anything go wrong, Lomas would signal the 
escort forward to bring their queen out.
Ethenielle sighed faintly when Serailla nodded approval at the command. Allies 
of long standing, yet the times bred suspicion like flies on a midden. What they 
were about stirred the heap and set the flies swirling. Too many rulers to the 
south had died or vanished in the last year for her to feel any comfort in 
wearing a crown. Too many lands had been smashed as thoroughly as an army of 
Trollocs could have achieved. Whoever he was, this al'Thor fellow had much to 
answer for. Much.
Beyond Lomas the pass opened into a shallow bowl almost too small to be named a 
valley, with trees too widely spaced to be called a thicket. Leatherleaf and 
blue fir and three-needle pine held to some green along with a few oaks, but the 
rest were sheathed in brown if not bare-branched. To the south, however, lay 
what had made this spot a good choice for meeting. A slender spire like a column 
of gleaming golden lace lay slanting and partly buried in the bare hillside, a 
good seventy paces of it showing above the treetops. Every child in the Black 
Hills old enough to run off leading strings knew of it, but there was not a 
village inside four days' travel, nor would anyone come within ten miles 
willingly. The stories of this place spoke of mad visions, of the dead walking, 
and death at touching the spire.
Ethenielle did not consider herself fanciful, yet she shivered slightly. Nianh 
said the spire was a fragment from the Age of Legends, and harmless. With luck, 
the Aes Sedai had no reason to recall that conversation of years ago. A pity the 
dead could not be made to walk, here. Legend said Kirukan had beheaded a false 
Dragon with her own hands, and borne two sons by another man who could channel. 
Or maybe the same one. She might have known how to go about their purpose and 
survive.
As expected, the first pair of those Ethenielle had come to meet was waiting, 
each with two attendants. Paitar Nachiman had many more creases in his long face 
than the stunningly handsome older man she had admired as a girl, not to mention 
too little hair and most of that gray. Fortunately he had relinquished the 
Arafellin fashion for braids and wore his hair cut short. But he sat his saddle 
straight-backed, his shoulders needed no padding in that embroidered green silk 
coat, and she knew he still could wield the sword at his hip with vigor and 
skill. Easar Togita, square-faced and his scalp shaved except for a white 
topknot, his plain coat the color of old bronze, was a head shorter than the 
King of Arafel, and slighter, yet he made Paitar look almost soft. Easar of 
Shienar did not scowl  --  if anything, a touch of sadness seemed permanent in his 
eyes  --  but he might have been made from the same metal as the long sword on his 
back. She trusted both men  --  and hoped their familial connections helped secure 
that trust. Alliances by marriage had always bound the Borderlands together as 
much as their war against the Blight did, and she had a daughter wed to Easar's 
third son and a son to Paitar's favorite granddaughter, as well as a brother and 
two sisters married into their Houses.
Their companions appeared as different as their kings. As always, Ishigari 
Terasian looked just risen from a stupor after a drunken feast, as fat a man as 
she had ever seen in a saddle; his fine red coat was rumpled, his eyes bleary, 
his cheeks unshaven. By contrast, Kyril Shianri, tall and lean, and nearly as 
elegant as Baldhere despite the dust and sweat on his face, with silver bells on 
his boot tops and gloves as well as fastened to his braids; he wore his usual 
expression of dissatisfaction and had a way of always peering coolly down his 
prominent nose at anyone but Paitar. Shianri really was a fool in many ways  --  
Arafellin kings rarely made much pretense of listening to councilors, relying 
instead on their queens  --  but he was more than he appeared at a glance. Agelmar 
Jagad could have been a larger version of Easar, a simple, plainly garbed man of 
steel and stone with more weapons hung about him than Baldhere carried, sudden 
death waiting to be unleashed, while Alesune Chulin was as slim as Serailla was 
stout, as pretty as Serailla was plain, and as fiery as Serailla was calm. 
Alesune seemed born to her fine, blue silks. It was well to remember that 
judging Serailla by her surface was a mistake, too. "Peace and the Light favor 
you, Ethenielle of Kandor," Easar said gruffly as Ethenielle reined in before 
them, and at the same time Paitar intoned, "The Light embrace you, Ethenielle of 
Kandor." Paitar still had a voice to make women's hearts beat raster. And a wife 
who knew he was hers to his bootsoles; Ethenielle doubted that Menuki had ever 
had a jealous moment in her life, or cause for one.
She made her own greetings just as short, ending with a direct "I hope you've 
come this far without detection."
Easar snorted and leaned on his cantle, eyeing her grimly. A hard man, but 
eleven years widowed and still mourning. He had written poetry for his wife. 
There was always more than the surface. "If we've been seen, Ethenielle," he 
grumbled, "then we might as well turn back now."
"You speak of turning back already?" Between his tone and a flip of his tasseled 
reins, Shianri managed to combine disdain with barely enough civility to 
forestall a challenge. Even so, Agelmar studied him coldly, shifting in his 
saddle slightly, a man recalling where each of his weapons was placed. Old 
allies in many battles along the Blight, but those new suspicions swirled.
Alesune made her mount dance, a gray mare as tall as a war-horse. The thin white 
streaks in her long black hair suddenly seemed crests on a helmet, and her eyes 
made it easy to forget that Shienaran women neither trained with weapons nor 
fought duels. Her title was simply shatayan of the royal household, yet whoever 
believed any shatayan's influence stopped at ordering the cooks and maids and 
victualers made a grave error. "Foolhardiness is not courage, Lord Shianri. We 
leave the Blight all but unguarded, and if we fail, maybe even if we succeed, 
some of us could find our heads on spikes. Perhaps all of us will. The White 
Tower may well see to it if this al'Thor does not."
"The Blight seems almost asleep," Terasian muttered, whiskers rasping as he 
rubbed his fleshy chin. "I've never seen it so quiet."
"The Shadow never sleeps," Jagad put in quietly, and Terasian nodded as if that, 
too, was something to consider. Agelmar was the best general of them all, one of 
the best to be found anywhere, but Terasian's place at Paitar's right hand had 
not come because he was a good drinking companion.
"What I've left behind can guard the Blight short of the Trolloc Wars coming 
again," Ethenielle said in a firm voice. "I trust you've all done as well. It 
hardly matters, though. Does anyone believe we truly can turn back now?" She 
made that last question dry, expecting no answer, but she received one.
"Turn back?" a young woman's high voice demanded behind her. Tenobia of Saldaea 
galloped into the gathering, drawing her white gelding up so that he reared 
flamboyantly. Thick lines of pearls marched down the dark gray sleeves of her 
narrow-skirted riding habit, while red-and-gold embroidery swirled thickly to 
emphasize the narrowness of her waist and the roundness of her bosom. Tall for a 
woman, she managed to be pretty if not beautiful despite a nose that was 
overbold at best. Large tilted eyes of a dark deep blue certainly helped, but so 
did a confidence in herself so strong that she seemed to glow with it. As 
expected, the Queen of Saldaea was accompanied only by Kalyan Ramsin, one of her 
numerous uncles, a scarred and grizzled man with the face of an eagle and thick 
mustaches that curved down around his mouth. Tenobia Kazadi tolerated the 
counsel of soldiers, but no one else. "I will not turn back," she went on 
fiercely, "whatever the rest of you do. I sent my dear Uncle Davram to bring me 
the head of the false Dragon Mazrim Taim, and now he and Taim both follow this 
al'Thor, if I can believe half what I hear. I have close to fifty thousand men 
behind me, and whatever you decide, I will not turn back until my uncle and 
al'Thor learn exactly who rules Saldaea."
Ethenielle exchanged glances with Serailla and Baldhere while Paitar and Easar 
began telling Tenobia that they also meant to keep on. Serailla gave her head 
the smallest shake, made the slightest shrug. Baldhere rolled his eyes openly. 
Ethenielle had not exactly hoped Tenobia might decide at the last to stay away, 
but the girl would surely make difficulties.
Saldaeans were a strange lot  --  Ethenielle had often wondered how her sister 
Einone managed so well married to yet another of Tenobia's uncles  --  yet Tenobia 
carried that strangeness to extremes. You expected showiness from any Saldaean, 
but Tenobia took delight in shocking Domani and making Altarans seem drab. 
Saldaean tempers were legendary; hers was wildfire in a high wind, and you could 
never tell what would provide the spark. Ethenielle did not even want to think 
of the difficulty in getting the woman to listen to reason when she did not want 
to; only Davram Bashere had ever been able to do that. And then there was the 
question of marriage.
Tenobia was still young, though years past the age she should have wed  --  
marriage was a duty for any member of a ruling House, the more so for a ruler; 
alliances had to be made, an heir provided  --  yet Ethenielle had never considered 
the girl for any of her own sons. Tenobia's requirements for a husband were on a 
level with everything else about her. He must be able to face and slay a dozen 
Myrddraal at once. While playing the harp and composing poetry. He must be able 
to confound scholars while riding a horse down a sheer cliff. Or perhaps up it. 
Of course he would have to defer to her  --  she was a queen, after all  --  except 
that sometimes Tenobia would expect him to ignore whatever she said and toss her 
over his shoulder. The girl wanted exactly that! And the Light help him if he 
chose to toss when she wanted deference, or to defer when she wanted the other. 
She never said any of this right out, but any woman with wits who had heard her 
talk about men could piece it together in short order. Tenobia would die a 
maiden. Which meant her uncle Davram would succeed, if she left him alive after 
this, or else Davram's heir.
A word caught Ethenielle's ear and jerked her upright in her saddle. She should 
have been paying attention; too much was at stake. "Aes Sedai?" she said 
sharply. "What about Aes Sedai?" Save for Paitar's, their White Tower advisors 
had all left at news of the troubles in the Tower, her own Nianh and Easar's 
Aisling vanishing without a trace. If Aes Sedai had gained a hint of their plans 
. . . Well, Aes Sedai always had plans of their own. Always. She would dislike 
discovering that she was putting her hands into two hornet nests, not just one.
Paitar shrugged, looking a trifle embarrassed. That was no small trick for him; 
he, like Serailla, let nothing upset him. "You hardly expected me to leave 
Coladara behind, Ethenielle," he said in soothing tones, "even if I could have 
kept the preparations from her." She had not; his favorite sister was Aes Sedai, 
and Kiruna had given him a deep fondness for the Tower. Ethenielle had not 
expected it, but she had hoped. "Coladara had visitors," he continued. "Seven of 
them. Bringing them along seemed prudent, under the circumstances. Fortunately, 
they require little convincing. None, in truth."
"The Light illumine and preserve our souls," Ethenielle breathed, and heard near 
echoes from Serailla and Baldhere. "Eight sisters, Paitar? Eight?" The White 
Tower surely knew every move they intended, now.
"And I have five more," Tenobia put in as if announcing she had a new pair of 
slippers. "They found me just before I left Saldaea. By chance, I'm sure; they 
appeared as surprised as I was. Once they learned what I was doing  --  I still 
don't know how they did, but they did  --  once they learned, I was sure they'd go 
scurrying to find Memara." Her brows furrowed in a momentary glare. Elaida had 
miscalculated badly in sending a sister to try bullying Tenobia. "Instead," she 
finished, "Illeisien and the rest were more intent on secrecy than I."
"Even so," Ethenielle insisted. "Thirteen sisters. All that is needed is for one 
of them to find some way to send a message. A few lines. A soldier or a maid 
intimidated. Does any of you think you can stop them?"
"The dice are out of the cup," Paitar said simply. What was done, was done. 
Arafellin were almost as odd as Saldaeans, in Ethenielle's book.
"Further south," Easar added, "it may be well to have thirteen Aes Sedai with 
us." That brought a silence while the implications hung in the air. No one 
wanted to voice them. This was far different from facing the Blight.
Tenobia gave a sudden, shocking laugh. Her gelding tried to dance, but she 
settled him. "I mean to press south as fast as I can, but I invite you all to 
dine with me in my camp tonight. You can speak with Illeisien and her friends, 
and see whether your judgment matches mine. Perhaps tomorrow night we can all 
gather in Paitar's camp and question his Coladara's friends." The suggestion was 
so sensible, so obviously necessary, that it brought instant agreement. And then 
Tenobia added, as if an afterthought, "My uncle Kalyan would be honored if you 
allowed him to sit beside you tonight, Ethenielle. He admires you greatly."
Ethenielle glanced toward Kalyan Ramsin  --  the fellow had sat his horse silently 
behind Tenobia, never speaking, hardly seeming to breathe  --  she merely glanced 
at him, and for an instant that grizzled eagle unhooded his eyes. For an 
instant, she saw something she had not seen since her Brys died, a man looking 
not at a queen, but at a woman. The shock of it was a blow taking her breath. 
Tenobia's eyes darted from her uncle to Ethenielle, her tiny smile quite 
satisfied.
Outrage flared in Ethenielle. That smile made it all clear as spring water, if 
Kalyan's eyes had not. This chit of a girl thought to marry off this fellow to 
her? This child presumed to . . .? Suddenly, ruefulness replaced fury. She 
herself had been younger when she arranged her widowed sister Nazelle's wedding. 
A matter of state, yet Nazelle had come to love Lord Ismic despite all her 
protests in the beginning. Ethenielle had been arranging others' marriages for 
so long that she had never considered that her own would make a very strong tie. 
She looked at Kalyan again, a longer look. His leathery face was all proper 
respect once more, yet she saw his eyes as they had been. Any consort she chose 
would have to be a hard man, but she had always demanded a chance of love for 
her children's marriages, if not her siblings', and she would do no less for 
herself.
"Instead of wasting daylight on chatter," she said, more breathless than she 
could have wished, "let us do what we came for." The Light sear her soul, she 
was a woman grown, not a girl meeting a prospective suitor for the first time. 
"Well?" she demanded. This time, her tone was suitably firm.
All of their agreements had been made in those careful letters, and all of their 
plans would have to be modified as they moved south and circumstances changed. 
This meeting had only one real purpose, a simple and ancient ceremony of the 
Borderlands that had been recorded only seven times in all the years since the 
Breaking. A simple ceremony that would commit them beyond anything words could 
do, however strong. The rulers moved their horses closer while the others drew 
back.
Ethenielle hissed as her belt knife slashed across her left palm. Tenobia 
laughed at cutting hers. Paitar and Easar might as well have been plucking 
splinters. Four hands reached out and met, gripped, heart's blood mingling, 
dripping to the ground, soaking into the stony dirt. "We are one, to the death," 
Easar said, and they all spoke with him. "We are one, to the death." By blood 
and soil, they were committed. Now they had to find Rand al'Thor. And do what 
needed to be done. Whatever the price.
 
Once she was sure that Turanna could sit up on the cushion unaided, Verin rose 
and left the slumped White sister sipping water. Trying to sip, anyway. 
Turanna's teeth chattered on the silver cup, which was no surprise. The tent's 
entryway stood low enough that Verin had to duck in order to put her head out. 
Weariness augered into her back when she bent. She had no fear of the woman 
shivering behind her in a coarse black woolen robe. Verin held the shield on her 
tight, and she doubted Turanna possessed enough strength in her legs at the 
moment to contemplate leaping on her from behind, even if such an incredible 
thought occurred to her. Whites just did not think that way. For that matter, in 
Turanna's condition, it was doubtful she would be able to channel a hair for 
several hours yet, even if she were not shielded.
The Aiel camp covered the hills that hid Cairhien, low earth-colored tents 
filling the space between the few trees left standing this close to the city. 
Faint clouds of dust hung in the air, but neither dust nor heat nor the glare of 
an angry sun bothered the Aiel at all. Bustle and purpose filled the camp to 
equal any city. Within her sight were men butchering game and patching tents, 
sharpening knives and making the soft boots they all wore, women cooking over 
open fires, baking, working small looms, looking after some of the few children 
in the camp. Everywhere white-robed gai'shain darted about carrying burdens, or 
stood beating rugs, or tended packhorses and mules. No hawkers or shopkeepers. 
Or carts and carriages, of course. A city? It was more like a thousand villages 
gathered in one spot, though men greatly outnumbered women and, except for the 
blacksmiths making their anvils ring, nearly every man not in white carried 
weapons. Most of the women did, as well.
The numbers certainly equaled one of the great cities', more than enough to 
envelope a few Aes Sedai prisoners completely, yet Verin saw a black-robed woman 
plodding away not fifty paces off, struggling to pull a waist-high pile of rocks 
behind her on a cowhide. The deep cowl hid her face, but no one in the camp 
except the captive sisters wore those black robes. A Wise One strolled along 
close to the hide, glowing with the Power as she shielded the prisoner, while a 
pair of Maidens flanked the sister, using switches to urge her on whenever she 
faltered. Verin wondered whether she had been meant to see. That very morning 
she had passed a wild-eyed Coiren Saeldain, sweat streaming down her face, with 
a Wise One and two tall Aielmen for escort and a large basket heaped with sand 
bending her back as she staggered up a slope. Yesterday it had been Sarene 
Nemdahl. They had set her moving handfuls of water from one hide bucket to 
another beside it, switched her to move faster, then switched her for every drop 
spilled when the water spilled because they were switching her to move faster. 
Sarene had stolen a moment to ask Verin why, though not as if she expected any 
answer. Verin certainly had not been able to supply one before the Maidens drove 
Sarene back to her useless labor.
She suppressed a sigh. For one thing, she could not truly like seeing sisters 
treated so, whatever the reasons or need, and for another, it was obvious that a 
fair number of the Wise Ones wanted . . . What? For her to know that being Aes 
Sedai counted for nothing here? Ridiculous. That had been made abundantly clear 
days ago. Perhaps that she could be put into a black robe, too? For the time she 
thought she was safe from that, at least, but the Wise Ones hid a number of 
secrets she had yet to puzzle out, the smallest of them how their hierarchy 
worked. Very much the smallest, yet life and a whole skin lay wrapped inside 
that one. Women who gave commands sometimes took them from the very women they 
had been commanding earlier, and then later it was turned about again, all 
without rhyme or reason that she could see. No one ever ordered Sorilea, though, 
and in that might lie safety. Of a sort.
She could not help a surge of satisfaction. Early this morning in the Sun 
Palace, Sorilea had demanded to know what shamed wetlanders most. Kiruna and the 
other sisters did not understand; they made no real efforts to see what was 
happening out here, perhaps fearing what they might learn, fearing the strains 
knowledge might put on their oaths. They still struggled to justify taking the 
path fate had pushed them down, but Verin already had reasons for the path she 
followed, and purpose. She also had a list in her pouch, ready to hand to 
Sorilea when they were alone. No need to let the others know. Some of the 
captives she had never met, but she thought that for most women, that list 
summed up the weaknesses Sorilea was seeking. Life was going to grow much more 
difficult for the women in black. And her own efforts would be aided no end, 
with luck.
Two great hulking Aielmen, each an axe handle wide across the shoulders, sat 
right outside the tent, seemingly absorbed in a game of cat's cradle, but they 
had looked around immediately when her head appeared through the tentflaps. 
Coram had risen like a serpent uncoiling for all of his size, and Mendan waited 
only to tuck the string away. Had she been standing straight, her head barely 
would have reached the chest of either. She could have turned them both upside 
down and paddled them, of course. Had she dared. She had been tempted from time 
to time. They were her assigned guides, her protection against misunderstandings 
in the camp. And doubtless they reported everything she said or did. In some 
ways she would have preferred to have Tomas with her, but only some. Keeping 
secrets from your Warder was far more difficult than keeping them from 
strangers.
"Please tell Colinda that I'm done with Turanna Norill," she told Coram, "and 
ask her to send Katerine Alruddin to me." She wanted to deal first with the 
sisters who had no Warders. He nodded once before trotting off without speaking. 
These Aielmen were not much for civility.
Mendan settled into a crouch, watching her with startlingly blue eyes. One of 
them stayed with her no matter what she said. A strip of red cloth was tied 
around Mendan's temples and marked with the ancient symbol of Aes Sedai. Like 
the other men who wore that, like the Maidens, he seemed to be waiting for her 
to make a mistake. Well, they were not the first, and a great way from the most 
dangerous. Seventy-one years had passed since she had last made a serious 
mistake.
She gave Mendan a deliberately vague smile and started to pull back into the 
tent, when suddenly something caught her eye and held her like a vise. If the 
Aielman had tried to cut her throat right then, she might not have noticed.
Not far from where she stood stooped over in the mouth of the tent, nine or ten 
women knelt in a row, rolling the grindstones on flat stone handmills much like 
those on any isolated farms. Other women brought grain in baskets and took away 
the coarse flour. The nine or ten women knelt in dark skirts and pale blouses, 
folded scarves holding their hair back. One, noticeably shorter than the rest, 
the only one with hair that did not hang to her waist or below, wore not even a 
single necklace or bracelet. She glanced up, the resentment on her sun-pinkened 
face sharpening as she met Venn's gaze. Only for an instant, though, before she 
cringed hurriedly to her task.
Verin jerked back into the tent, her stomach roiling queasily. Irgain was Green 
Ajah. Or rather, had been Green, before Rand al'Thor stilled her. Being shielded 
dulled and fuzzed the bond to your Warder, but being stilled snapped it as 
surely as death. One of Irgain's two apparently had fallen over dead from the 
shock, and the other had died trying to kill thousands of Aiel without making 
any effort to escape. Very likely Irgain wished she also were dead. Stilled. 
Verin pressed both hands to her middle. She would not sick up. She had seen 
worse than a stilled woman. Much worse.
"There's no hope, is there?" Turanna muttered in a thick voice. She wept 
silently, staring into the silver cup in her trembling hands at something 
distant and horrifying. "No hope." 
"There is always a way if you only look for it," Verin said, absently patting 
the woman's shoulder. "You must always look." Her thoughts raced, and none 
touched Turanna. Irgain's stilling made her belly feel full of rancid grease, 
the Light knew. But what was the woman doing grinding grain? And dressed like 
the Aiel women! Had she been put to work just there so Verin could see? Foolish 
question; even with a ta'veren as strong as Rand al'Thor only a few miles away, 
there was some limit to the number of coincidences she would accept. Had she 
miscalculated? At worst, it could not be a large error. Only, small mistakes 
sometimes proved as fatal as large. How long could she hold out if Sorilea 
decided to break her? A distressingly short time, she suspected. In some ways, 
Sorilea was as hard as anyone she had ever met. And not a thing she could say 
that would stop it. A worry for another day. There was no point getting ahead of 
herself.
Kneeling, she put a little effort into comforting Turanna, but not too much. 
Soothing words that sounded as hollow to her as they did to Turanna, judging by 
the bleakness in her eyes. Nothing could change Turanna's circumstances except 
Turanna, and that had to come from within herself. The White sister just wept 
harder, making no sound as her shoulders shook, tears streaming down her face. 
The entry of two Wise Ones and a pair of young Aielmen who could not straighten 
up inside the tent was something of a relief. For Verin, anyway. She rose and 
curtsied smoothly, but none of them had any interest in her.
Daviena was a green-eyed woman with yellow-red hair, Losaine gray-eyed with dark 
hair that only showed glints of red in the sun, both head-and-shoulders taller 
than she, both wearing the expressions of women given a grimy task they wished 
on someone else. Neither could channel strongly enough to have any certainty of 
holding Turanna by herself, but they linked as though they had been forming 
circles all their lives, the light of saidar around one seeming to blend with 
that around the other despite the fact that they stood apart. Verin forced her 
face into a smile to keep from frowning. Where bad they learned that? She would 
have wagered all she possessed that they had not known how only a few days ago.
Everything went quickly then, and smoothly. As the crouching men lifted Turanna 
to her feet by the arms, she let the silver cup fall. Empty, luckily for her. 
She did not struggle, which was just as well, considering that either could have 
carried her off under one arm like a sack of grain, but her mouth hung open, 
emitting a wordless keening. The Aiel paid no heed. Daviena, focusing the 
circle, assumed the shield, and Verin let go of the Source completely. None of 
them trusted her enough to let her hold saidar without a known reason, no matter 
what oaths she had sworn. Neither appeared to notice, but they surely would have 
had she held on. The men hauled Turanna away, her bare feet dragging across the 
layered carpets that floored the tent, and the Wise Ones followed them out. And 
that was that. What could be done with Turanna had been done.
Letting out a long breath, Verin sagged onto one of the bright, tasseled 
cushions. A fine golden ropework tray sat on the carpets next to her. Filling 
one of the mismatched silver cups from a pewter pitcher, she drank deeply. This 
was thirsty work, and tiring. Hours of daylight remained, yet she felt as if she 
had carried a heavy chest twenty miles. Over hills. The cup went back onto the 
tray, and she pulled the small, leather-bound notebook from behind her belt. It 
always took a little time for them to fetch those she asked for. A few moments 
to peruse her notes  --  and make some  --  would not be amiss.
There was no need for notes about the captives, but the sudden appearance of 
Cadsuane Melaidhrin, three days ago now, gave cause for concern. What was 
Cadsuane after? The woman's companions could be dismissed, but Cadsuane herself 
was a legend, and even the believable parts of the legend made her very 
dangerous indeed. Dangerous and unpredictable. She took a pen from the small 
wooden writing case she always carried, reached toward the stoppered inkbottle 
in its scabbard. And another Wise One entered the tent.
Verin scrambled to her feet so quickly that she dropped her notebook. Aeron 
could not channel at all, yet Verin made a much deeper curtsy for the graying 
woman than she had for Daviena and Losaine. At the bottom of her dip, she let go 
of her skirts to reach for her book, but Aeron's fingers reached it first. Verin 
straightened, calmly watching the taller woman thumb through the pages.
Sky blue eyes met hers. A winter sky. "Some pretty drawings and a great deal 
about plants and flowers," Aeron said coldly. "I see nothing concerning the 
questions you were sent to ask." She thrust the book at Verin more than handed 
it to her.
"Thank you, Wise One," Verin said meekly, tucking the book back safely behind 
her belt. She even added another curtsy for good measure, just as deep as the 
first. "I have the habit of noting down what I see." One day she would have to 
write out the cipher she used in her notebooks  --  a lifetime's worth of them 
filled cupboards and chests in her rooms above the White Tower library  --  one 
day, but she hoped not soon. "As for the . . . um . . . prisoners, so far they 
all say variations of the same thing. The Car'a'carn was to be housed in the 
Tower until the Last Battle. His . . . um . . . mistreatment . . . began because 
of an escape attempt. But you know that already, of course. Never fear, though; 
I'm sure I will learn more." All true, if not all of the truth; she had seen too 
many sisters die to risk sending others to the grave without a very good reason. 
The trouble was deciding what might cause that risk. The manner of young 
al'Thor's kidnapping, by an embassy supposedly treating with him, enraged the 
Aiel to the point of murder, yet what she called his "mistreatment" barely 
angered them at all as far as she could tell.
Gold and ivory bracelets clattered softly as Aeron adjusted her dark shawl. She 
peered down as though trying to read Verin's thoughts. Aeron seemed to stand 
high among the Wise Ones, and while Verin occasionally had seen a smile crease 
those dark-tanned cheeks, a warm and easy smile, it was never directed at an Aes 
Sedai. We never suspected that you would be the ones to fail, she had told Verin 
somewhat murkily. There had been nothing unclear in the rest of it, however. Aes 
Sedai have no honor. Give me one hair of suspicion, and I will strap you till 
you cannot stand, with my own hands. Give me two hairs, and I will stake you out 
for the vultures and the ants. Verin blinked up at her, trying to appear open. 
And meek; she must not forget meek. Docile, and compliant. She did not feel 
fear. In her time she had faced harder stares, from women  --  and men  --  without so 
much as Aeron's slim compunction about ending her life. But a good deal of 
effort had gone into being sent to ask those questions. She could not afford to 
waste it now. If only these Aiel let more show on their faces.
Abruptly she became aware that they were no longer alone in the tent. Two 
flaxen-haired Maidens had entered with a black-robed woman a hand shorter than 
either. They were half-holding her upright. At one side stood Tialin, a lanky 
redhead wearing a grim expression behind the light of saidar, shielding the 
black-robed prisoner. The sister's hair hung in sweat-soaked ringlets to her 
shoulders and strands that clung to her face, which bore so much dirt that Verin 
did not recognize her at first. High cheekbones, but not very high, a nose with 
just the hint of a hook to it, and the slightest tilt to the brown eyes . . . 
Beldeine. Beldeine Nyram. She had instructed the girl in a few novice classes.
"If I may ask," she said carefully, "why was she brought? I asked for another." 
Beldeine had no Warder despite being Green  --  she had been raised to the shawl 
barely three years ago, and Greens were often especially choosy about their 
first  --  but if they started bringing whoever they selected, the next might have 
two or three Warders. She thought she could deal with two more today, but not if 
either had even one Warder. And she doubted they would give her a second chance 
at any of them.
"Katerine Alruddin escaped last night," Tialin nearly spat, and Verin gasped.
"You let her escape?' she burst out without thinking. Tiredness gave no excuse, 
but the words spilled from her tongue before she could stop them. "How could you 
be so foolish? She's Red! And neither a coward nor weak in the Power! The 
Car'a'carn could be in danger! Why were we not told of this when it happened?"
"It was not discovered until this morning," one of the Maidens growled. Her eyes 
could have been polished sapphires. "A Wise One and two Cor Darei were poisoned, 
and the gai'shain who brought them drink was found with his throat cut."
Aeron arched an eyebrow at the Maiden coldly. "Did she speak to you, Carahuin?" 
Both Maidens suddenly became engrossed in the task of keeping Beldeine on her 
feet. Aeron merely glanced at Tialin, but the red-haired Wise One lowered her 
gaze. Verin was the next recipient of those attentions. "Your concern for Rand 
al'Thor does you . . . honor," Aeron said grudgingly. "He will be guarded. You 
have no need to know more. Or so much." Abruptly her tone hardened. "But 
apprentices do not use that tone with Wise Ones, Verin Mathwin Aes Sedai" The 
last words were a sneer.
Smothering a sigh, Verin all but fell into another deep curtsy, a part of her 
wishing she were even as slim as she had been on arriving in the White Tower. 
She was not really constructed for all this bending and bobbing. "Forgive me, 
Wise One," she said humbly. Escaped! The circumstances made everything plain, to 
her if not to the Aiel. "Apprehension must have loosened my wits." A pity she 
had no way to make sure Katerine met with a fatal accident. "I will do my best 
to remember in the future." Not so much as the flicker of an eyelash told 
whether Aeron accepted that. "May I assume her shield, Wise One?"
Aeron nodded without looking at Tialin, and Verin quickly embraced the Source, 
taking up the shield Tialin released. It never ceased to amaze her that women 
who could not channel gave orders so freely to women who could. Tialin was not 
much weaker in the Power than Verin, yet she watched Aeron nearly as warily as 
the Maidens did, and when the Maidens hurried out of the tent at a gesture of 
Aeron's hand, leaving Beldeine wavering where she stood, Tialin was only a step 
behind.
Aeron did not go, however, not immediately. "You will not speak of Katerine 
Alruddin to the Car'a'carn," she said. "He has enough to occupy his thoughts 
without giving him trifles to worry over."
"I will say nothing to him about her," Verin agreed quickly. Trifles? A Red with 
Katerine's strength was no trifle. Perhaps a note. It needed thought.
"Be certain to hold your tongue, Verin Mathwin, or you will use it to howl."
There seemed nothing to say to that, so Verin concentrated on meekness and 
docility, making yet another curtsy. Her knees wanted to groan.
Once Aeron departed, Verin allowed herself a sigh of relief. She had been afraid 
Aeron intended to remain. Gaining permission to be alone with the prisoners had 
required nearly as much effort as getting Sorilea and Amys to decide they needed 
to be questioned, and by someone intimate with the White Tower. If they ever 
learned they had been guided to that decision . . . It was a worry for another 
day. She seemed to be piling up a great many of those.
"There's enough water to wash your face and hands, at least," she told Beldeine 
mildly. "And if you wish, I will Heal you." Every sister she had interviewed had 
carried at least a few welts. The Aiel did not beat the prisoners except for 
spilling water or balking at a task  --  the haughtiest words of defiance earned 
only scornful laughter, if that  --  but the black-robed women were herded like 
animals, a tap of the switch for go or turn or stop, and a harder tap if they 
did not obey quickly enough. Healing made other things easier, too.
Filthy, sweaty, wavering like a reed in the wind, Beldeine curled her lip. "I 
would rather bleed to death than be Healed by you!" she spat. "Maybe I should 
have expected to see you groveling to these wilders, these savages, but I never 
thought you would stoop to revealing Tower secrets! That ranks with treason, 
Verin! With rebellion!" She grunted contemptuously. "I suppose if you didn't shy 
at that, you'll stop at nothing! What else have you and the others taught them 
besides linking?"
Verin clicked her tongue irritably, not bothering to set the young woman 
straight. Her neck ached from looking up at Aiel  --  for that matter, even 
Beldeine stood a hand or more taller than she  --  her knees ached from curtsying, 
and entirely too many women who should know better had flung blind contempt and 
foolish pride at her today. Who should know better than an Aes Sedai that a 
sister had to wear many faces in the world? You could not always overawe people, 
or bludgeon them, either. Besides, far better to behave as a novice than be 
punished like one, especially when it earned you only pain and humiliation. Even 
Kiruna had to see the sense of that eventually.
"Sit down before you fall down," she said, suiting her own words. "Let me guess 
what you've been doing today. By all that dirt, I'd say digging a hole. With 
your bare hands, or did they let you use a spoon? When they decide it's 
finished, they will just make you fill it again, you know. Now, let me see. 
Every part I can see of you is grubby, but that robe is clean, so I expect they 
had you digging in your skin. Are you sure you don't want Healing? Sunburn can 
be painful." She filled another cup with water and wafted it across the tent on 
a flow of Air to hover in front of Beldeine. "Your throat must be parched."
The young Green stared unsteadily at the cup for a moment; then suddenly her 
legs gave way and she collapsed onto a cushion with a bitter laugh. "They . . . 
water me frequently." She laughed again, though Verin could not see the joke. 
"As much as I want, so long as I swallow it all." Studying Verin angrily, she 
paused, then went on in a tight voice. "That dress looks very nice on you. They 
burned mine; I saw them. They stole everything except this." She touched the 
golden Great Serpent around her left forefinger, a bright golden gleam among the 
dirt. "I suppose they couldn't find quite enough nerve for that. I know what 
they're trying to do, Verin, and it won't work. Not with me, not with any of 
us!"
She was still on her guard. Verin set the cup down on the flowered carpet beside 
Beldeine, then took up her own and sipped before speaking. "Oh? What are they 
trying to do?"
This time, the other woman's laugh was brittle as well as harsh. "Break us, and 
you know it! Make us swear oaths to al'Thor, the way you did. Oh, Verin, how 
could you? Swearing fealty! And worse, to a man, to him! Even if you could bring 
yourself to rebel against the Amyrlin Seat, against the White Tower . . . " She 
made the two sound much the same. " . . . how could you do that!"
For a moment Verin wondered whether things would be better if the women now held 
in the Aiel camp had been caught up as she had been, a woodchip in the millrace 
of Rand al'Thor's ta'veren swirl, words pouring from her mouth before they had 
time to form in her brain. Not words she could never have said on her own  --  that 
was not how ta'veren affected you  --  but words she might possibly have said one 
time in a thousand under those circumstances, one time in ten thousand. No, the 
arguments had been long and hot over whether oaths given in that way had to be 
kept; and the arguments over how to keep them still continued. Much better as it 
was. Absently she fingered a hard shape inside her belt pouch, a small brooch, a 
translucent stone carved into what appeared to be a lily with too many petals. 
She never wore it, but it had not been out of her reach in nearly fifty years.
"You are da'tsang, Beldeine. You must have heard that." She did not need 
Beldeine's curt nod; telling the despised one was part of Aiel law, like 
pronouncing sentence. That much she knew, if very little more. "Your clothes, 
and anything else that would burn, were put to the fire because no Aiel would 
own anything that once belonged to a da'tsang. The rest was hacked to pieces or 
hammered into scrap, even the jewelry you had with you, and buried under a pit 
dug for a jakes."
"My . . .? My horse?" Beldeine asked anxiously.
"They didn't kill the horses, but I don't know where yours is." Being ridden by 
someone in the city, probably, or perhaps given to an Asha'man. Telling her that 
might do more harm than good. Verin seemed to recall that Beldeine was one of 
those young women who had very deep feelings for horses. "They let you keep the 
ring to remind you of who you were, and increase your shame. I don't know 
whether they would let you swear to Master al'Thor if you begged. It would take 
something incredible on your part, I think."
"I won't! Never!" The words rang hollow, though, and Beldeine's shoulders 
slumped. She was shaken, but not sufficiently.
Verin put on a warm smile. A fellow had once told her that her smile made him 
think of his dear mother. She hoped he had not been lying about that, at least. 
He had tried to slide a dagger between her ribs a little later, and her smile 
had been the last thing he ever saw. "I can't think of the reason you would. No, 
I fear what you have to look forward to is useless labor. That's shaming, to 
them. Bone shaming. Of course, if they realize you don't see it that way . . . 
Oh, my. I'll wager you didn't like digging without any clothes on, even with 
Maidens for guards, but think of, say, standing in a tent full of men that way?" 
Beldeine flinched. Verin prattled on; she had developed prattling to something 
of a Talent. "They'd only make you stand there, of course. Da'tsang aren't 
allowed to do anything useful unless there's great need, and an Aielman would as 
soon put his arm around a rotting carcass as . . . Well, that's not a pleasant 
thought, is it? In any case, that's what you have to look forward to. I know 
you'll resist as long as you can, though I'm not sure what there is to resist. 
They won't try to get information out of you, or anything that people usually do 
with prisoners. But they won't let you go, not ever, until they're sure the 
shame is so deep in you there's nothing else left. Not if it takes the rest of 
your life."
Beldeine's lips moved soundlessly, but she might as well have spoken the words. 
The rest of my life. Shifting uncomfortably on her cushion, she grimaced. 
Sunburn or welts or simply the ache of unaccustomed work. "We will be rescued," 
she said finally. "The Amyrlin won't leave us . . . We'll be rescued, or we'll  --  
We will be rescued!" Snatching up the silver cup from beside her, she tilted her 
head back to gulp until it was empty, then thrust it out for more. Verin floated 
the pewter pitcher over and set it down so the young woman could pour for 
herself.
"Or you'll escape?" Verin said, and Beldeine's dirty hands jerked, splashing 
water down the sides of the cup. "Really, now. You have as much chance of that 
as you do of rescue. You're surrounded by an army of Aiel. And apparently 
al'Thor can call up a few hundred of those Asha'man whenever he wants, to hunt 
you down." The other woman shivered at that, and Verin nearly did. That little 
mess should have been stopped as soon as it started. "No, I fear you must make 
your own way, somehow. Deal with things as they are. You are quite alone in 
this. I know they don't let you speak to the others. Quite alone," she sighed. 
Wide eyes stared at her as they might have at a red adder.
"There's no need to make it worse than it must be. Let me Heal you."
She barely waited for the other woman's pitiful nod before moving to kneel 
beside her and place hands on Beldeine's head. The young woman was almost as 
ready as she could be. Opening herself to more of saidar, Verin wove the flows 
of Healing, and the Green gasped and quivered. The half filled cup dropped from 
her hands, and a flailing arm knocked the pitcher onto its side. Now she was as 
ready as she could be.
In the moments of confusion that gripped anyone after being Healed, while 
Beldeine still blinked and tried to come back to herself, Verin opened herself 
further, opened herself through the carved-flower angreal in her pouch. Not a 
very powerful angreal, but enough, and she needed every bit of the extra Power 
it gave her for this. The flows she began weaving bore no resemblance to 
Healing. Spirit predominated by far, but there was Wind and Water, Fire and 
Earth, the last of some difficulty for her, and even the skeins of Spirit had to 
be divided again and again, placed with an intricacy to boggle a weaver of fine 
carpets. Even if a Wise One poked her head into the tent, with the smallest of 
luck she would not possess the rare Talent needed to realize what Verin was 
doing. There would still be difficulties, perhaps painful difficulties one way 
and another, but she could live with anything short of true discovery.
"What . . .?" Beldeine said drowsily. Her head would have lolled except for 
Verin's grip, and her eyelids were half-closed. "What are you . . .? What is 
happening?"
"Nothing that will harm you," Verin told her reassuringly. The woman might die 
inside the year, or in ten, as a result of this, but the weave itself would not 
harm her. "I promise you, this is safe enough to use on an infant." Of course, 
that depended on what you did with it.
She needed to lay the flows in place thread by thread, but talking seemed to 
help rather than hinder. And too long a silence might rouse suspicion, if her 
twin guardians were listening. Her eyes darted frequently to the dangling 
doorflaps. She wanted some answers she had no intention of sharing, answers none 
of the women she questioned were likely to give freely even if they knew them. 
One of the smaller effects of this weave was to loosen the tongue and open the 
mind as well as any herb ever could, an effect that came on quickly.
Dropping her voice almost to a whisper, she continued. "The al'Thor boy seems to 
think he has supporters of some kind inside the White Tower, Beldeine. In 
secret, of course; they must be." Even a man with his ear pressed to the fabric 
of the tent should be able to hear only that they were talking. "Tell me 
anything you know about them."
"Supporters?" Beldeine murmured, attempting a frown that seemed beyond her 
ability. She stirred, though it hardly deserved the word agitation, feeble and 
uncoordinated. "For him? Among the sisters? It can't be. Except for those of you 
who . . . How could you, Verin? Why didn't you fight it?"
Verin tsked vexedly. Not for the foolish suggestion that she should have fought 
a ta'veren. The boy seemed so certain. Why? She kept her voice low. "Do you have 
no suspicions, Beldeine? Did you hear no rumors before you left Tar Valon? No 
whispers? No one who hinted at approaching him differently? Tell me."
"No one. Who could . . .? No one would . . . I admired Kiruna so." There was a 
hint of loss in Beldeine's sleepy voice, and tears leaking from her eyes made 
tracks through the dirt. Only Verin's hands kept her sitting upright.
Verin continued to lay down the threads of her weaving, eyes flashing from her 
work to the doorflaps and back. She felt a little like sweating herself. Sorilea 
might decide she needed help with the questioning. She might bring out one of 
the sisters from the Sun Palace. Should any sister learn of this, stilling was a 
very real possibility. "So you were going to deliver him to Elaida neatly washed 
and well-behaved," she said in a slightly louder tone. The quiet had gone on too 
long. She did not want that pair outside reporting that she was whispering with 
the prisoners.
"I couldn't . . . speak out . . . against Galina's decision. She led . . . by 
the Amyrlin's command." Beldeine shifted again, weakly. Her voice was still 
dreamy, but it picked up an agitated edge. Her eyelids fluttered. "He had to . . 
. be made . . . to obey! He had to be! Shouldn't have been . . . treated so 
harshly. Like putting . . . him to . . . question. Wrong."
Verin snorted. Wrong? Disastrous was more like it. A disaster from the first. 
Now the man looked at any Aes Sedai almost the way Aeron did. And if they had 
succeeded in carrying him to Tar Valon? A ta'veren like Rand al'Thor actually 
inside the White Tower? A thought to make a stone tremble. However it had turned 
out, disaster would surely have been too mild a word. The price paid at Dumai's 
Wells was small enough, for avoiding that.
She went on asking questions in a tone that could be heard clearly by anyone 
listening outside. Asking questions she already had answers for, and avoiding 
those too dangerous to be answered. She paid little heed to the words coming out 
of her mouth or to Beldeine's replies. Mainly she concentrated on her weaving.
A great many things had captured her interest over the years, not all strictly 
approved of by the Tower. Almost every wilder who came to the White Tower for 
training  --  both true wilders, who really had begun teaching themselves, and 
girls who merely had started touching the Source because the spark born in them 
had quickened on its own; for some sisters, there was no real difference  --  
nearly every one of those wilders had created at least one trick for herself, 
and those tricks almost invariably fell under one of two headings. A way to 
listen in on other people's conversations or a way of making people do as they 
wanted.
The first, the Tower did not care much about. Even a wilder who had gained 
considerable control on her own quickly learned that as long as she wore novice 
white, she was not to so much as touch saidar without a sister or one of the 
Accepted standing over her. Which did tend to limit eavesdropping rather 
sharply. The other trick, however, smelled too akin to forbidden Compulsion. Oh, 
it was just a way to make Father give her dresses or trinkets he did not want to 
buy, or make Mother approve of young men she ordinarily ran off, things of that 
nature, but the Tower rooted the trick out most effectively. Many of the girls 
and women Verin had spoken to over the years could not make themselves form the 
weaves, much less use them, and a fair number could not even make themselves 
remember how. From bits and pieces and scraps of half-remembered weaves created 
by untrained girls for very limited purposes, Verin had reconstructed a thing 
forbidden by the Tower since its founding. In the beginning it had been simple 
curiosity on her part. Curiosity, she thought wryly, working at the weave on 
Beldeine, has made me climb into more than one pickling kettle. Usefulness came 
later. 
"I suppose Elaida meant to keep him down in the open cells," she said 
conversationally. The grill-walled cells were intended for men who could 
channel, as well as initiates of the Tower under close arrest, wilders who had 
claimed to be Aes Sedai, and anyone else who must be both confined and blocked 
off from the Source. "Not a comfortable place for the Dragon Reborn. No privacy. 
Do you believe he is the Dragon Reborn, Beldeine?" This time she paused to 
listen.
"Yes." The word was a long hiss, and Beldeine rolled frightened eyes toward 
Verin's face. "Yes . . . but he must . . . be kept . . . safe. The world . . . 
must be . . . safe . . . from him."
Interesting. They had all said the world had to be kept safe from him; what was 
interesting was those who thought he needed protection, too. Some who had said 
that, surprised her.
To Verin's eyes, the weave she had made resembled nothing so much as a haphazard 
tangle of faintly glowing transparent threads all bundled around Beldeine's 
head, with four threads of Spirit trailing out of the mess. Two of those, 
opposite one another, she pulled, and the tangle collapsed slightly, falling 
inward, into something on the edge of order. Beldeine's eyes shot open wide, 
staring into the far distance.
In a firm, low voice, Verin gave her instructions. More like suggestions, though 
she phrased them as commands. Beldeine would have to find reasons within herself 
to obey; if she did not, then all this had been so much wasted effort.
With the final words, Verin pulled the other two threads of Spirit, and the 
tangle collapsed further. This time, though, it fell into what seemed perfect 
order, a pattern more precise, more complicated than the most intricate lace, 
and complete, tied off by the same action that began its shrinking. This time, 
it continued to fall inward on itself, inward around Beldeine's head. Those 
faintly glowing threads sank into her, vanished. Her eyes rolled back in her 
head, and she began to thrash, limbs quivering. Verin held her as gently as she 
could, but Beldeine's head still whipped from side to side, and her bare heels 
drummed on the carpets. Soon, only the most careful Delving would tell that 
anything had been done, and not even that would identify the weave. Verin had 
tested that carefully, and if she did say so herself, none surpassed her at 
Delving.
Of course the thing was not truly Compulsion as ancient texts described it. The 
weaving went with painful slowness, cobbled together as it was, and there was 
that need for a reason. It helped a great deal if the object of the weave was 
emotionally vulnerable, but trust was absolutely essential. Even catching 
someone by surprise did no good if they were suspicious. That fact cut down its 
usefulness with men considerably; very few men lacked suspicion around Aes 
Sedai.
Distrust aside, men were very bad subjects, unfortunately. She could not 
understand why. Most of those girls' weaves had been intended for their fathers 
or other men. Any strong personality might begin to question his own actions  --  
or even forget doing them, which led to another set of problems  --  but all things 
being equal, men were much more likely to. Much more likely. Perhaps it was the 
suspicion again. Why, once a man had even remembered the weaves being woven on 
him, if not the instructions she had given him. Such a lot of bother that 
caused! Not something she would risk again.
At last Beldeine's convulsions lessened, stopped. She raised a filthy hand to 
her head. "What  -- ? What happened?" she said, almost inaudibly. "Did I faint?" 
Forgetfulness was another good point about the weave, not unexpectedly. After 
all, Father must not remember that you somehow made him buy that expensive 
dress.
"The heat is very bad," Verin said, helping her to sit up again. "I have felt 
light-headed myself once or twice today." From weariness, not heat. Handling 
that much of saidar took it out of you, especially when you had already done it 
four times today. The angreal did nothing to buffer the effects once you stopped 
using it. She could have used a steadying hand herself. "I think that's about 
enough. If you're fainting, perhaps they'll find something for you to do out of 
the sun." The prospect did not seem to cheer Beldeine at all.
Rubbing the small of her back, Verin stuck her head out of the tent. Coram and 
Mendan stopped their game of cat's cradle once more; there was no sign that 
either had listened, but she would not wager her life on it. She told them that 
she was finished with Beldeine and, after a moment's thought, added that she 
needed another pitcher of water since Beldeine had overturned hers. Both men's 
faces darkened beneath their tans. That would be passed along to the Wise One 
who came for Beldeine. It would serve as something more to help her reach her 
decision.
The sun still had a long way to fall to the horizon, but the ache in her back 
told her it was time to stop for the day. She could still do one more sister, 
but if she did, by morning she would feel it in every muscle. Her eyes fell on 
Irgain, now with the women carrying baskets to the handmills. How would her life 
have gone if she had not been so curious, Verin wondered. For one thing, she 
would have married Eadwin and remained in Far Madding instead of going to the 
White Tower. She would be long dead, for another, and the children she had never 
had, and her grandchildren, too.
With a sigh, she turned back to Coram. "When Mendan returns, would you go tell 
Colinda that I would like to see Irgain Fatamed?" The pain in her muscles 
tomorrow would be a small penance for Beldeine's suffering over that spilled 
water, but that was not why she did it, or even her curiosity, really. She still 
had a task. Somehow, she had to keep young Rand alive until it was time for him 
to die.
 
The room might have been in a grand palace, except that it had neither windows 
nor doors. The fire on a golden marble hearth gave no heat, and the flames did 
not consume the logs. The man seated at a table with gilded legs, centered on a 
silk carpet woven with glittering threads of gold and silver, cared little for 
the trappings of this Age. They were necessary to impress; no more. Not that he 
really needed more than himself to overawe the stiffest pride. He called himself 
Moridin, and surely no one had ever had more right to name himself Death.
From time to time he idly stroked one of the two mindtraps that hung on plain 
silken cords around his neck. At his touch, the blood-red crystal of the 
cour'souvra pulsed, swirls moving in endless depths like the beating of a heart. 
His real attention was on the game laid out before him on the table, 
thirty-three red pieces and thirty-three green arrayed across a playing surface 
of thirteen squares by thirteen. A re-creation of the early stages of a famous 
game. The most important piece, the Fisher, black-and-white like 
the playing surface, still waited in its starting place on the central square. A 
complex game, sha'rah, ancient long before the War of power. Sha'rah, tcheran, 
and no'ri, the game now called simply "stones," each had adherents who claimed 
it encompassed all the subtleties of life, but Moridin had always favored 
sha'rah. Only nine people living even remembered the game. He had been a master 
of it. Much more complex than tcheran or no'ri. The first object was capture of 
the Fisher. Only then did the game truly begin.
A servant approached, a slim graceful young man clad all in white, impossibly 
handsome, bowing as he presented a crystal goblet on a silver tray. He smiled, 
but it did not touch his black eyes, eyes more lifeless than simply dead. Most 
men would have felt uncomfortable having that gaze on them. Moridin merely took 
the goblet and motioned the servant away. The vintners of this time produced 
some excellent wines. He did not drink, though.
The Fisher held his attention, baiting him. Several pieces had varying moves, 
but only the Fisher's attributes altered according to where it stood; on a white 
square, weak in attack yet agile and far-ranging in escape; on black, strong in 
attack but slow and vulnerable. When masters played, the Fisher changed sides 
many times before the end. The green-and-red goal-row that surrounded the 
playing surface could be threatened by any piece, but only the Fisher could move 
onto it. Not that he was safe, even there; the Fisher was never safe. When the 
Fisher was yours, you tried to move him to a square of your color behind your 
opponent's end of the board. That was victory, the easiest way, but not the only 
one. When your opponent held the Fisher, you attempted to leave him no choice 
for the Fisher but to move onto your color. Anywhere at all along the goal-row 
would do; holding the Fisher could be more dangerous than not. Of course, there 
was a third path to victory in sha'rah, if you took it before letting yourself 
be trapped. The game always degenerated in a bloody melee, then, victory coming 
only with complete annihilation of your enemy. He had tried that, once, in 
desperation, but the attempt had failed. Painfully.
Fury boiled suddenly in Moridin's head, and black flecks swam across his eyes as 
he seized the True Power. Ecstasy that amounted to pain thundered through him. 
His hand closed around the two mindtraps, and the True Power closed around the 
Fisher, snatching it into the air, a hair from crushing it to powder, crushing 
the powder out of existence. The goblet shattered in his hand. His grip bordered 
on crushing the cour'souvra. The saa were a blizzard of black, but they did not 
hinder his sight. The Fisher was always worked as a man, a bandage blinding his 
eyes and one hand pressed to his side, a few drops of blood dripping through his 
fingers. The reasons, like the source of the name, were lost in the mist of 
time. That troubled him sometimes, enraged him, what knowledge might be lost in 
the turnings of the Wheel, knowledge he needed, knowledge he had a right to. A 
right!
Slowly he set the Fisher back on the board. Slowly his fingers uncurled from 
around the cour'souvra. There was no need for destruction. Yet. Icy calm 
replaced rage in the blink of an eye. Blood and wine dripped from his gashed 
hand, unnoticed. Perhaps the Fisher did come from some dim remnant of a memory 
of Rand al'Thor, the shadow of a shadow. It did not matter. He realized he was 
laughing, and made no effort to stop. On the board, the Fisher stood waiting, 
but in the greater game, al'Thor moved already to his wishes. And soon, now . . 
. It was very hard to lose a game when you played both sides of the board. 
Moridin laughed so hard that tears rolled down his face, but he was not aware of 
them.
Chapter 1
To Keep the Bargain
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become 
legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that 
gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet 
to come, an Age long past, a wind rose above the great mountainous island of 
Tremalking. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor 
endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
East the wind blew across Tremalking, where the fair-skinned Amayar farmed their 
fields, and made fine glass and porcelain, and followed the peace of the Water 
Way. The Amayar ignored the world beyond their scattered islands, for the Water 
Way taught that this world was only illusion, a mirrored reflection of belief, 
yet some watched the wind carry dust and deep summer heat where cold winter 
rains should be falling, and they remembered tales heard from the Atha'an Miere. 
Tales of the world beyond, and what prophecy said was to come. Some looked to a 
hill where a massive stone hand rose from the earth, holding a clear crystal 
sphere larger than many houses. The Amayar had their own prophecies, and some of 
those spoke of the hand and the sphere. And the end of illusions.
Onward the wind blew into the Sea of Storms, eastward beneath a searing sun in a 
sky abandoned by clouds, whipping the tops of green sea swells, battling winds 
from the south and westward winds, shearing and swirling as the waters below 
heaved. Not yet the storms of winter's heart, though winter should have been 
half gone, much less the greater storms of a dying summer, but winds and 
currents that could be used by ocean-faring folk to coast around the continent 
from World's End to Mayene and beyond, then back again. Eastward the wind 
howled, over rolling ocean where the great whales rose and sounded, and flying 
fish soared on outstretched fins two paces and more across, eastward, now 
whirling north, east and north, over small fleets of fishing ships dragging 
their nets in the shallower seas. Some of those fishermen stood gaping, hands 
idle on the lines, staring at a huge array of tall vessels and smaller that 
purposefully rode the wind's hard breath, shattering swells with bluff bows, 
slicing swells with narrow, their banner a golden hawk with talons clutching 
lightning, a multitude of streaming banners like portents of storm. East and 
north and on, and the wind reached the broad, ship-filled harbor of Ebou Dar, 
where hundreds of Sea Folk vessels rode as they did in many ports, awaiting word 
of the Coramoor, the Chosen One.
Across the harbor the wind roared, tossing small ships and large, across the 
city itself, gleaming white beneath the unfettered sun, spires and walls and 
color-ringed domes, streets and canals bustling with the storied southern 
industry. Around the shining domes and slender towers of the Tarasin Palace the 
wind swirled, carrying the tang of salt, lifting the flag of Altara, two golden 
leopards on a field of red and blue, and the banners of ruling House Mitsobar, 
the Sword and Anchor, green on white. Not yet the storm, but a harbinger of 
storms.
Skin prickled between Aviendha's shoulder blades as she strode ahead of her 
companions through palace hallways tiled in dozens of pleasing bright hues. A 
sense of being watched that she had last felt while still wed to the spear. 
Imagination, she told herself. Imagination and knowing there are enemies about I 
cannot face! Not so long ago that crawling sensation had meant someone might be 
intending to kill her. Death was nothing to fear  --  everyone died, today or on 
another  --  but she did not want to die like a rabbit kicking in a snare. She had 
toh to meet.
Servants scurried by close along the walls, bobbing bows and curtsies, dropping 
their eyes almost as if they understood the shame of the lives they lived, yet 
surely it could not be them that made her want to twist her shoulders. She had 
tried schooling herself to see servants, but even now, with the skin creeping on 
her back, her gaze slid around them. It had to be imagination, and nerves. This 
was a day for imagination and nerves.
Unlike the servants, rich silk tapestries snagged at her eye, and the gilded 
stand-lamps and ceiling lamps lining the corridors. Paper-thin porcelain in reds 
and yellows and greens and blues stood in wall niches and tall openwork cabinets 
alongside ornaments of gold and silver, ivory and crystal, scores upon scores of 
bowls and vases and caskets and statuettes. Only the most beautiful truly caught 
her gaze; whatever wetlanders thought, beauty held more worth than gold. There 
was much beauty here. She would not have minded taking her share of the fifth 
from this place.
Vexed with herself, she frowned. That was not an honorable thought beneath a 
roof that had offered her shade and water freely. Without ceremony, true, but 
also without debt or blood, steel or need. Yet better that than thinking about a 
small boy alone somewhere out in this corrupt city. Any city was corrupt  --  of 
that much she was certain, now, having seen some part of four  --  but Ebou Dar was 
the last where she would have let a child run loose. What she could not 
understand was why thoughts of Olver came unless she worked to avoid them. He 
was no part of the toh she had to Elayne, and to Rand al'Thor. A Shaido spear 
had taken his father, starvation and hardship his mother, yet had it been her 
own spear that took both, the boy was still a treekiller, Cairhienin. Why should 
she fret over a child from that blood? Why? She attempted to concentrate on the 
weave she was to make, but although she had practiced under Elayne's eye until 
she could have formed it sleeping, Olver's wide-mouthed face intruded. Birgitte 
worried about him even more than she, but Birgitte's breast held a strangely 
soft heart for small boys, especially ugly ones.
Sighing, Aviendha gave up trying to ignore her companions' conversation behind 
her, though irritation crackled through it like heat lightning. Even that was 
better than upsetting herself over a son of treekillers. Oathbreakers. A 
despised blood the world would be better off without. No concern or worry of 
hers. None. Mat Cauthon would find the boy in any case. He could find anything, 
it seemed. And listening settled her, somehow. The prickling faded away.
"I don't like it one bit!" Nynaeve was muttering, continuing an argument begun 
back in their rooms. "Not a bit, Lan, do you hear me?" She had announced her 
dislike at least twenty times already, but Nynaeve never surrendered just 
because she had lost. Short and dark-eyed, she strode fiercely, kicking her 
divided blue skirts, one hand rising to hover near her thick, waist-long braid, 
then thrust down firmly before rising again. Nynaeve kept a tight hold on anger 
and irritation when Lan was around. Or tried to. An inordinate pride filled her 
about marrying him. The close-fitting embroidered blue coat over her 
yellow-slashed silk riding dress hung open, showing far too much bosom in the 
wetlander way, just so she could display his heavy gold finger ring on a fine 
chain around her neck. "You have no right to promise to take care of me like 
that, Lan Mandragoran," she went on firmly. "I am not a porcelain figurine!"
He paced at her side, a man of proper size, towering head and shoulders and more 
above her, the eye-wrenching cloak of a Warder hanging down his back. His face 
seemed hacked from stone, and his gaze weighed .the threat in every servant who 
passed, examined every crossing corridor and wall niche for hidden attackers. 
Readiness radiated from him, a lion on the brink of his charge. Aviendha had 
grown up around dangerous men, but never one to match Aan'allein. Had death been 
a man, she would have been him.
"You are Aes Sedai, and I am a Warder," he said in a deep, level voice. "Taking 
care of you is my duty." His tone softened, conflicting sharply with his angular 
face and bleak, never-changing eyes. "Besides, caring for you is my heart's 
desire, Nynaeve. You can ask or demand anything of me, but never to let you die 
without trying to save you. The day you die, I die."
That last he had not said before, not in Aviendha's hearing, and it hit Nynaeve 
like a blow to the stomach; her eyes started half out of her head, and her mouth 
worked soundlessly. She appeared to recover quickly, though, as always. 
Pretending to resettle her blue-plumed hat, a ridiculous thing like a strange 
bird roosting atop her head, she shot a glance at him from beneath the wide 
brim.
Aviendha had begun to suspect that the other woman often used silence and 
supposedly significant looks to cover ignorance. She suspected Nynaeve knew 
little more about men, about dealing with one man, than she did herself. Facing 
them with knives and spears was much easier than loving one. Much easier. How 
did women manage being married to them? Aviendha had a desperate need to learn, 
and no idea how. Married to Aan'allein only a day, Nynaeve had changed much more 
than simply in trying to control her temper. She seemed to flit from startlement 
to shock, however much she attempted to hide it. She fell into dreaminess at odd 
moments, blushed at innocuous questions, and  --  she denied this fiercely, even 
when Aviendha had seen her  --  she giggled over nothing at all. There was no point 
in trying to learn anything from Nynaeve.
"I suppose you're going to tell me about Warders and Aes Sedai again, as well," 
Elayne said coolly to Birgitte. "Well, you and I aren't married. I expect you to 
guard my back, but I will not have you making promises about me behind it." 
Elayne wore garments as inappropriate as Nynaeve's, a gold-embroidered Ebou Dari 
riding dress of green silk, suitably high-necked but with an oval opening that 
bared the inner slopes of her breasts. Wetlanders spluttered at the mention of a 
sweat tent or being unclothed in front of gai'shain, then walked about 
half-exposed where any stranger could see. Aviendha did not really mind for 
Nynaeve, but Elayne was her near-sister. And would be more, she hoped.
The raised heels of Birgitte's boots made her almost a hand taller than Nynaeve, 
if still shorter than Elayne or Aviendha. In dark blue coat and wide green 
trousers, she carried herself with much of the same warily confident readiness 
as Lan, though it seemed more casual in her. A leopard lying on a rock, and not 
nearly so lazy as she appeared. There was no arrow nocked in the bow Birgitte 
carried, but for all her stroll and smiles, she could have a shaft out of the 
quiver at her waist before anyone could blink, and be loosing her third before 
anybody else could have fitted a second to bowstring.
She gave Elayne a wry grin and a shake of her head that swung a golden braid as 
long and thick as Nynaeve's dark one. "I promised to your face, not behind your 
back," she said dryly. "When you've learned a little more, I won't have to tell 
you about Warders and Aes Sedai." Elayne sniffed and lifted her chin haughtily, 
busying herself with the ribbons of her hat, which was covered with long green 
plumes and worse than Nynaeve's. "Perhaps a great deal more," Birgitte added. 
"You're tying another knot in that bow."
Had Elayne not been her near-sister, Aviendha would have laughed at the crimson 
that flooded her cheeks. Tripping someone who tried to walk too high was always 
fun, or watching it done, and even a short fall was worth a laugh. As it was, 
she leveled a firm stare at Birgitte, a promise that more might bring 
retribution. She liked the woman despite all her secrets, but the difference 
between a friend and a near-sister was a thing these wetlanders seemed unable to 
comprehend. Birgitte only smiled, glancing from her to Elayne, and murmured 
under her breath. Aviendha caught the word "kittens." Worse, it sounded fond. 
Everyone must have heard. Everyone!
"What's gotten into you, Aviendha?" Nynaeve demanded, prodding her shoulder with 
a stiff finger. "Do you intend to stand there blushing all day? We are in a 
hurry."
Only then did Aviendha realize by the heat in her face that she must be as red 
as Elayne. And standing still as stone besides, when they had need for haste. 
Cut by a word, like a girl newly wedded to the spear and unused to the banter 
among Maidens. She had almost twenty years, and she was behaving like a child 
playing with her first bow. That added flames to her cheeks. Which was why she 
all but leaped around the next turning and very nearly ran headlong into Teslyn 
Baradon.
Skidding awkwardly on red-and-green floor tiles, Aviendha half-fell backward, 
catching herself against Elayne and Nynaeve. This time she managed not to blush 
herself to fire, but she wanted to. She was shaming her near-sister as much as 
herself. Elayne always held her composure, no matter what. Luckily, Teslyn 
Baradon took the encounter little better.
The sharp-faced woman recoiled in surprise, gaping before she could stop 
herself, then shifting her narrow shoulders irritably. Gaunt cheeks and a narrow 
nose hid the ageless quality of the Red sister's features, and her red dress, 
brocaded in a blue that was nearly black, only made her appear bonier, yet she 
quickly gathered a clan roofmistress's self-possession, dark brown eyes as cool 
as deep shadows. They slid past Aviendha dismissively, ignoring Lan like a tool 
she had no use for, burned a brief moment at Birgitte. Most Aes Sedai 
disapproved of Birgitte being a Warder, though none could give a reason beyond 
sour mutters about tradition. Elayne and Nynaeve, however, the woman fixed by 
turns. Aviendha could have tracked yesterday's wind before reading anything on 
Teslyn Baradon's face now.
"I did already tell Merilille," she said in a thick Illianer accent, "but I may 
as well put your minds at rest, also. Whatever . . . mischief . . . you do be 
about, Joline and I will no interfere. I did see to that. Elaida may never learn 
of it, if you do have some care. Stop gaping at me like carp, children," she 
added with a grimace of distaste. "I be neither blind nor deaf. I do know of Sea 
Folk Windfinders in the palace, and secret meetings with Queen Tylin. And other 
things." That thin mouth tightened, and though her tone remained serene, her 
dark gaze flared with anger. "You will pay dearly yet for those other things, 
you and those who do allow you to play at being Aes Sedai, but I will look aside 
for now. Atonement can wait."
Nynaeve took a tight grip on her braid, back straight, head high, and her own 
eyes blazed. Under different circumstances Aviendha might have found some 
sympathy for the target of the tongue-lashing plainly about to erupt. Nynaeve's 
tongue carried more spines than a hair-needle segade, and sharper ones. Coldly, 
Aviendha considered this woman who thought she could look fight through her. A 
Wise One did not stoop to thrashing someone with her fists, but she was still 
only an apprentice; perhaps it would not cost her ji if she just bruised this 
Teslyn Baradon a little. She opened her mouth to give the Red sister a chance to 
defend herself at the same instant Nynaeve opened hers, yet Elayne spoke first.
"What we are about, Teslyn," she said in a chill voice, "is none of your 
business." She, too, stood straight, her eyes blue ice; a chance ray of light 
from a high window caught her golden-red curls, seeming to set them afire. Right 
then, Elayne could have made a roofmistress seem a goatherd with too much 
oosquai in her belly. It was a skill she honed well. She delivered each word 
with cold crystal dignity. "You have no right to interfere in anything we do, in 
anything that any sister does. No right whatsoever. So pull your nose out of our 
coats, you summer ham, and be glad we do not choose to take issue with you 
supporting a usurper on the Amyrlin Seat."
Perplexed, Aviendha glanced sideways at her near-sister. Pull her nose out of 
their coats? She and Elayne, at least, were not wearing coats. A summer ham? 
What did that mean? Wetlanders often said peculiar things, but the other women 
all looked as puzzled as she. Only Lan, staring at Elayne askance, appeared to 
understand, and he seemed . . . startled. And perhaps amused. It was difficult 
to tell; Aan'allein controlled his features well.
Teslyn Baradon sniffed, pinching her face even tighter. Aviendha was trying hard 
to call these people by only part of their names the way they themselves did  --  
when she used a whole name, they thought she was upset!  --  but she could not 
begin to imagine being so intimate with Teslyn Baradon. "I will leave you 
foolish children to your business," the woman growled. "Be sure you do no get 
your noses caught in a worse crack than they already do be."
As she turned to go, gathering her skirts grandly, Nynaeve caught her arm. 
Wetlanders usually let emotion gild their faces, and Nynaeve's was the image of 
conflict, anger struggling to break through fixed determination. "Wait, Teslyn," 
she said reluctantly. "You and Joline may be in danger. I told Tylin, but I 
think she may be afraid to tell anyone else. Unwilling, anyway. It's nothing 
anybody really wants to talk about." She drew a long, deep breath, and if she 
was thinking of her own fears in the matter, she had cause. There was no shame 
in feeling fear, only in giving way to it, or letting it show. Aviendha felt a 
flutter in her own belly as Nynaeve went on. "Moghedien has been here in Ebou 
Dar. She might still be. And maybe another of the Forsaken, too. With a gholam, 
a kind of Shadowspawn the Power won't touch. It looks like a man, but it was 
made, and made to kill Aes Sedai. Steel doesn't seem to hurt it either, and it 
can squeeze through a mousehole. The Black Ajah is here, as well. And there's a 
storm coming, a bad storm. Only it isn't a storm, not weather. I can feel it; 
that's a skill I have, a Talent, maybe. There's danger headed for Ebou Dar, and 
trouble worse than any wind or rain or lightning."
"The Forsaken, a storm that is no a storm, and some Shadow-spawn I did never 
hear of before," Teslyn Baradon said wryly. "Not to mention the Black Ajah. 
Light! The Black Ajah! And the Dark One himself, perhaps?" Her twisted smile was 
razor thin. She plucked Nynaeve's hand from her sleeve contemptuously. "When you 
do be back in the White Tower where you belong, in white as you all truly 
belong, you will learn no to waste your hours with wild fancies. Or to carry 
your tales to sisters." Running her eyes over them, and once more skipping past 
Aviendha, she gave a loud sniff and marched off down the hallway so quickly that 
servants had to leap from her path.
"That woman has the nerve to . . .!" Nynaeve spluttered, glaring after the 
retreating woman and strangling her braid with both hands. "After I made myself 
. . .!" She almost choked on her spleen. "Well, I tried." And now regretted the 
attempt, by the sound.
"You did," Elayne agreed with a sharp nod, "and more than she deserves. Denying 
that we're Aes Sedai! I won't put up with that anymore! I won't!" Her voice had 
only seemed cold before; now it was cold, and grim.
"Can one like that be trusted?" Aviendha muttered. "Maybe we should be sure she 
cannot interfere." She examined her fist; Teslyn Baradon would see that. The 
woman deserved to be caught by the Shadowsouled, by Moghedien or another. Fools 
deserved whatever their foolishness brought.
Nynaeve appeared to consider the suggestion, but what she said was "If I didn't 
know better, I'd think she was ready to turn on Elaida." She clicked her tongue 
in exasperation.
You can dizzy yourself trying to read the currents in Aes Sedai politics." 
Elayne did not say Nynaeve should know that by now, but her tone did. "Even a 
Red might be turning against Elaida, for some reason we can't begin to imagine. 
Or she could be trying to make us lower our guard, so she can somehow trick us 
into putting ourselves into Elaida's hands. Or  --  "
Lan coughed. "If any of the Forsaken are coming," he said in a voice like 
polished stone, "they could be here any moment. Or that gholam could. In either 
case, it would be best to be elsewhere."
"With Aes Sedai, always a little patience," Birgitte murmured as though quoting. 
"But the Windfinders don't seem to have any," she continued, "so you might do 
well to forget Teslyn and remember Renaile."
Elayne and Nynaeve turned stares on the Warders cold enough to give ten Stone 
Dogs pause. Neither liked running from the Shadowsouled and this gholam, for all 
they were the ones who had decided there was no choice. Certainly neither liked 
being reminded that they needed to run to meet the Windfinders almost as much as 
to escape the Forsaken. Aviendha would have studied those looks  --  Wise Ones did 
with a glance or a few words what she had always needed the threat of spear or 
fist for, only they usually did it faster and with more success  --  she would have 
studied Elayne and Nynaeve, except that their glares had no visible effect on 
the pair at all. Birgitte grinned and cut her eyes toward Lan, who shrugged back 
at her with obvious forbearance. Elayne and Nynaeve gave over. Unhurriedly, and 
unnecessarily, straightening their skirts, they each took one of Aviendha's arms 
before setting off again without so much as a glance to see that the Warders 
followed. Not that Elayne needed to, with the Warder bond. Or Nynaeve, if not 
for the same reason; Aan'allein's bond might belong to another, but his heart 
hung alongside his ring on that chain around her neck. They made a great show of 
strolling casually, unwilling to let Birgitte and Lan think they had been 
brought to hurry, yet the truth was, they did walk faster than before.
As if to make up for that, they chatted with deliberate idleness, choosing the 
most frivolous subjects. Elayne regretted not having a chance to truly see the 
Festival of Birds, two days before, and never gave a blush for the scant 
garments many people had worn. Nynaeve did not blush either, but she quickly 
began talking about the Feast of Embers, to be held that night. Some of the 
servants claimed there would be fireworks, supposedly made by a refugee 
Illuminator. Several traveling shows had come to the city with their strange 
animals and acrobats, which interested both Elayne and Nynaeve, since they had 
spent some time with such a show. They talked of seamstresses, and the varieties 
of lace available in Ebou Dar, and the different qualities of silk and linen 
that could be bought, and Aviendha found herself responding with pleasure to 
comments on how well her gray silk riding dress looked on her, and the other 
garments given to her by Tylin Quintara, fine woolens and silks, and the 
stockings and shifts to go with them, and jewelry. Elayne and Nynaeve also had 
received extravagant gifts. All together their presents filled a number of 
chests and bundles that had been carried down to the stables by servants, along 
with their saddlebags.
"Why are you scowling, Aviendha?" Elayne asked, giving her a pat on the arm and 
a smile. "Don't worry. You know the weave; you will do just fine."
Nynaeve leaned her head close and whispered, "I'll fix you a tea when I have a 
chance. I know several that will soothe your stomach. Or any woman's troubles." 
She patted Aviendha's arm, too.
They did not understand. No comforting words or teas would cure what ailed her. 
She was enjoying talk of lace and embroidery! She did not know whether to growl 
in disgust or wail in despair. She was growing soft. Never before in her life 
had she looked at a woman's dress except to think where it might be hiding a 
weapon, never to notice the color and cut, or think how it would look on her. It 
was past time to be away from this city, away from wetlander palaces. Soon she 
would start simpering. She had not seen Elayne or Nynaeve do that, but everyone 
knew wetlander women simpered, and it was obvious she had become as weak as any 
milk-water wetlander. Strolling arm-in-arm, chatting about lace! How was she to 
reach her belt knife if someone attacked them? A knife might be useless against 
the likeliest assailants, but she had had faith in steel long before she knew 
she could channel. Should anyone try to harm Elayne or Nynaeve  --  especially, but 
she had promised Mat Cauthon to protect them both surely as Birgitte and 
Aan'allein had  --  should anyone try, she would plant steel in their hearts. Lace! 
As they walked, she wept at how soft she had become.
Huge, paired stable doors fronted three sides of the palace's largest 
stableyard, the doorways crowded by servants in green-and-white livery. Behind 
them in the white stone stables waited horses, saddled or loaded with wicker 
panniers. Seabirds wheeled and cried overhead, an unpleasant reminder of how 
much water lay nearby. Heat shimmered up from pale paving stones, but it was 
tension that thickened the air. Aviendha had seen blood spilled where there was 
less strain.
Renaile din Calon, in red and yellow silks, arms crossed arrogantly beneath her 
breasts, stood before nineteen more barefoot women with tattooed hands and 
brightly colored blouses, most in trousers and long sashes just as brilliant. 
Sweat glistening on dark faces did not lessen their grave dignity. Some sniffed 
at lacy gold boxes, filled with heavy scent, that hung about their necks. Five 
fat gold rings pierced each of Renaile din Calon's ears, a chain from one 
dripping medallions as it ran across her left cheek to a ring in her nose. The 
three women close behind her each wore eight earrings and slightly fewer bits of 
dangling gold. That was how the Sea Folk marked rank among themselves, with the 
women at least. All deferred to Renaile din Calon, Windfinder to the Mistress of 
the Ships to the Atha'an Miere, but even the two apprentices at the rear, in 
dark trousers and linen blouses instead of silk, added their own golden shimmers 
to the air. When Aviendha and the others appeared, Renaile din Calon 
ostentatiously looked to the sun, past its noon peak. Her eyebrows climbed as 
she directed her gaze back to them, eyes black as her white-winged hair, a 
demanding stare of impatience so loud she might as well have shouted.
Elayne and Nynaeve stopped short, dragging Aviendha to an abrupt halt. They 
exchanged worried glances past her, and deep sighs. She did not see how they 
were to escape. Obligation bound her near-sister and Nynaeve hand and foot, and 
they themselves had tied the knots tight.
"I'll see to the Knitting Circle," Nynaeve muttered under her breath, and Elayne 
said, a little more stoutly, "I'll make sure the sisters are ready."
Releasing her arms, they went in opposite directions, holding their skirts up to 
step quickly and followed by Birgitte and Lan. That left her facing Renaile din 
Calon's gaze alone, the eagle stare of a woman who knew she held the high ground 
and could not be dislodged. Fortunately, the Windfinder to the Mistress of the 
Ships quickly turned to her companions, so quickly that the ends of her long 
yellow sash swung wide. The other Windfinders gathered around her, intent on her 
quiet words. Hitting her even once would surely ruin everything. Aviendha tried 
not to glare at them, but as much she attempted to look elsewhere, her eyes 
returned. No one had the right to catch her near-sister in a cleft stick. Nose 
rings! A good grip on that chain, and Renaile din Calon Blue Star would wear a 
very different expression.
Clustered together at one end of the stableyard, tiny Merilille Ceandevin and 
four more Aes Sedai also regarded the Windfinders, most with annoyance 
ill-concealed behind cool serenity. Even slender white-haired Vandene Namelle 
and her mirror-image first-sister Adeleas, who usually looked the most 
imperturbable of them all. Now and then one or another adjusted a thin linen 
dust-cloak or brushed at divided silk skirts. Sudden gusts did raise a little 
dust and stir the color-shifting cloaks of the five Warders just at their backs, 
yet clearly annoyance moved their hands. Only Sareitha, standing guard over a 
large white disc-shaped bundle, did not twitch, but she frowned. Merilille's . . 
. maid . . . Pol, scowled from behind them. The Aes Sedai heatedly disapproved 
of the bargain that had brought the Atha'an Miere from their ships and given 
them a right to stare at Aes Sedai with demanding impatience, but that bargain 
tied the sisters' tongues and choked them on their own irritation. Which they 
tried to hide; they might have succeeded with the wetlanders. The third group of 
women, in a tight knot at the opposite end of the yard, earned almost as much of 
their study.
Reanne Corly and the other ten survivors of the Kin's Knitting Circle stirred 
uneasily under that disapproving scrutiny, dabbing their sweaty faces with 
embroidered handkerchiefs, adjusting their broad, colorful straw hats, smoothing 
sober woolen skirts sewn up on one side to expose layers of petticoats as bright 
as the Sea Folk's garb. In part it was the stares of the Aes Sedai that had them 
shifting from foot to foot; fear of the Forsaken and the gholam added to it, and 
so did other things. The narrow, plunging necklines of those dresses should have 
been enough. Most of these women showed at least a few lines on their cheeks, 
yet they looked like girls caught with their hands full of stolen nutbread. All 
but stout Sumeko, fists planted on broad hips, who met the Aes Sedai stare for 
stare. A bright glow of saidar surrounded one of their number, Kirstian, who 
kept glancing over her shoulder. With a pale face perhaps ten years older than 
Nynaeve's, she appeared out of place among the others. That face grew whiter 
every time her black eyes met those of an Aes Sedai.
Nynaeve hurried to the women who led the Kin, her face beaming encouragement, 
and Reanne and the others smiled with visible relief. Marred a little, true, by 
the sidelong glances they directed at Lan; him they regarded as the wolf he 
resembled. Nynaeve, however, was the reason Sumeko did not wilt like the rest 
whenever an Aes Sedai glanced in her direction. She had vowed to teach those 
women that they possessed backbones, though Aviendha did not completely 
understand why. Nynaeve was Aes Sedai herself; no Wise One would ever tell 
anyone to stand up to Wise Ones.
However well that might be working with respect to the other Aes Sedai, even 
Sumeko wore a slightly fawning air for Nynaeve. The Knitting Circle found it 
strange, to say the least, that women as young as Elayne and Nynaeve gave orders 
to the other Aes Sedai and were obeyed. Aviendha herself found it peculiar; how 
could strength in the Power, something you were born with as surely as your 
eyes, weigh more heavily than the honor that years could bring? Yet the older 
Aes Sedai did obey, and for the Kinswomen, that was enough. Leine, nearly as 
tall as Aviendha herself and almost as dark as the Sea Folk, returned Nynaeve's 
every glance with an obsequious smile, while Dimana, white streaking her bright 
red hair, ducked her head constantly under Nynaeve's eyes, and yellow-haired 
Sibella hid nervous giggles behind a hand. Despite their Ebou Dari garments, 
only Tamarla, lean and olive-skinned, was Altaran, and not even from the city.
They parted as soon as Nynaeve came close, revealing a woman on her knees, 
wrists bound behind her, a leather sack covering her head, and her fine clothes 
torn and dusty. She was as much the reason for their uneasiness as Merilille's 
frowns or the Forsaken. Perhaps more.
Tamarla dragged the hood off, leaving the woman's thin, bead-studded braids 
tangled; Ispan Shefar tried to rise, and managed to reach an awkward crouch 
before she staggered and sank back down, blinking and giggling foolishly. Sweat 
ran down her cheeks, and a few bruises from her capture marred her ageless 
features. She had been treated too gently for her crimes, to Aviendha's mind.
The herbs Nynaeve had forced down the woman's throat still fogged her wits as 
well as weakening her knees, but Kirstian held a shield on her with every shred 
of the Power she could summon. There was no chance the Shadowrunner might escape 
 --  even had she not been dosed, Kirstian was as strong in the Power as Reanne, 
stronger than most Aes Sedai Aviendha had met  --  yet even Sumeko plucked her 
skirts nervously and avoided looking at the kneeling woman.
"Surely the sisters should have her, now." Reanne's high-pitched voice carried, 
unsteady enough to belong to the Black sister Kirstian shielded. "Nynaeve Sedai, 
we . . . we should not be guar  --  uh  --  in charge of . . . an Aes Sedai."
"That's right," Sumeko put in quickly. And anxiously. "The Aes Sedai should have 
her, now." Sibella echoed her, and nods and murmurs of agreement rippled through 
the Kinswomen. They believed in their bones that they stood far below Aes Sedai; 
very likely they would have chosen guarding Trollocs over holding an Aes Sedai.
The disapproving stares from Merilille and the other sisters changed once Ispan 
Shefar's face was revealed. Sareitha Tomares, who had worn her brown-fringed 
shawl only a few years and still did not have the ageless appearance, glared 
with a disgust that should have flayed the Shadowrunner at fifty paces. Adeleas 
and Vandene, hands tightening on their skirts, appeared to struggle with hatred 
for the woman who had been their sister and betrayed them. Yet the stares they 
gave the Knitting Circle were not that much better. They, too, knew in their 
hearts that the Kin stood a very long way below them. There was much more to it 
than that, but the betrayer had been one of their own, and no one but they had 
the right to her. Aviendha agreed. A Maiden who betrayed her spear-sisters did 
not die quickly or unshamed.
Nynaeve pulled the sack back down over Ispan Shefar's head with some force. 
"You've done well so far, and you'll continue to do well," she told the 
Kinswomen firmly. "If she shows signs of coming round, pour some more of that 
mixture down her. It'll keep her giddy as a goat full of ale. Hold her nose, if 
she tries not to swallow. Even an Aes Sedai will swallow if you hold her nose 
and threaten to box her ears."
Reanne's jaw dropped and her eyes sprang wide, like most of her companions'. 
Sumeko nodded, but slowly, and goggled nearly as much as the others. When 
Kinswomen said Aes Sedai, they might have been naming the Creator. The thought 
of holding an Aes Sedai's nose, even a Shadowrunner's, painted their faces with 
horror.
By the popping eyes among the Aes Sedai, they liked the notion even less. 
Merilille opened her mouth, staring at Nynaeve, but just then Elayne reached 
her, and the Gray sister rounded on her instead, sparing barely a single 
disapproving frown for Brigitte. It was a measure of her agitation that her 
voice rose rather than dropping; normally Merilille was very discreet. "Elayne, 
you must speak to Nynaeve. Those women are confused and frightened out of their 
wits already. It won't help if she upsets them even more. If the Amyrlin Seat 
really does intend to allow them to go to the Tower," she shook her head slowly, 
trying to deny that, and perhaps a great deal else, "if she does mean to, they 
must have a clear picture of their places, and  --  "
"The Amyrlin does," Elayne cut her off. From Nynaeve, a firm tone was a fist 
shaken under your nose; from Elayne, it was calm certainty. "They will have 
their chance to try again, and if they fail, they still will not be sent away. 
No woman who can channel will be cut off from the Tower again. They will all be 
a part of the White Tower."
Fingering her belt knife idly, Aviendha wondered about that. Egwene, Elayne's 
Amyrlin Seat, said much the same. She was a friend, too, but she had wrapped her 
heart around being Aes Sedai. Aviendha herself did not want to be part of the 
White Tower. She very much doubted that Sorilea or any other Wise One did, 
either.
Merilille sighed and folded her hands, yet for all her outward acceptance, she 
still forgot to lower her voice. "As you say, Elayne. But about Ispan. We simply 
cannot allow  --  "
Elayne raised a hand sharply. Command replaced mere certainty. "Cease, 
Merilille. You have the Bowl of the Winds to watch. That is enough for anyone. 
It will be enough for you."
Merilille opened her mouth, then closed it again and bowed her head slightly in 
acquiescence. Under Elayne's steady gaze, the other Aes Sedai bent theirs, too. 
If some displayed reluctance, however small, not all did. Sareitha hurriedly 
picked up the disc-shaped bundle, wrapped in layers of white silk, that had been 
lying by her feet. Her arms barely went all the way around as she held the Bowl 
of the Winds to her bosom, smiling anxiously at Elayne as if to show that she 
really was keeping a close eye on it.
The Sea Folk women stared hungrily at the bundle, almost leaning forward. 
Aviendha would not have been surprised to see them leap across the stones to 
seize the Bowl. The Aes Sedai saw the same, plainly. Sareitha clutched the white 
parcel more tightly, and Merilille actually stepped between her and the Atha'an 
Miere. Smooth Aes Sedai faces tightened with the effort of remaining 
expressionless. They believed the Bowl should belong to them; all things that 
used or manipulated the One Power belonged to the White Tower in their eyes, no 
matter who happened to possess them at the moment. But there was the bargain.
"The sun moves, Aes Sedai," Renaile din Calon announced loudly, "and danger 
threatens. So you maintain. If you think to worm free in some fashion by 
delaying, think twice and again. Try to break the bargain, and by my father's 
heart, I will return to the ships at once. And claim the Bowl for redress. It 
was ours from the Breaking."
"You watch your tongue with Aes Sedai," Reanne barked, scandalized indignation 
from her blue straw hat to the stout shoes peeking from beneath her 
green-and-white petticoats.
Renaile din Calon's mouth curled into a sneer. "The jellyfish I have tongues, it 
seems. A surprise they can use them, though, when no Aes Sedai gave permission."
In an instant the stableyard was full of shouted insults flying between Kin and 
Atha'an Miere, "wilder" and "spineless" and growing worse, strident cries that 
buried Merilille's attempts to hush Reanne and her companions on one hand and 
soothe the Sea Folk on the other. Several Windfinders stopped fingering the 
daggers thrust behind their sashes and gripped hilts instead. The glow of saidar 
sprang up around first one then another of the brightly clad women. The 
Kinswomen looked startled, though it did not slow their tirade, but Sumeko 
embraced the Source, then Tamarla, then willowy, doe-eyed Chilares, and soon 
every one of them and every one of the Windfinders shone while words flew and 
tempers boiled.
Aviendha wanted to groan. Any moment blood would begin to flow. She would follow 
Elayne's lead, but her near-sister was glaring cold fury at Windfinders and 
Knitting Circle alike. Elayne had small patience with stupidity, in herself or 
others, and shouting insults when an enemy might be coming was the worst sort. 
Aviendha took a firm grip on her belt knife, then after a moment embraced 
saidar; life and joy filled her to near weeping. Wise Ones only used the Power 
when words had failed, but neither words nor steel would do here. She wished she 
had some idea of who to kill first.
"Enough!" Nynaeve's piercing shriek sliced the words short on every tongue. 
Astonished faces swiveled toward her. Her head swung dangerously, and she 
stabbed a finger at the Knitting Circle. "Stop behaving like children!" Although 
she had moderated her tone, it was by hairs. "Or do you mean to squabble until 
the Forsaken come to scoop up the Bowl and us? And you," that finger thrust at 
the Windfinders, "stop trying to wriggle out of your agreement! You won't get 
the Bowl until you've met every last word! Don't think you will!" Nynaeve swung 
round on the Aes Sedai. "And you . . .!" Met by cool surprise, her flow of words 
tapered off into a sour grunt. The Aes Sedai had not joined in the shouting 
except to try quieting it. None shone with the light of saidar.
That was not enough to calm Nynaeve completely, of course. She tugged fiercely 
at her hat, plainly still full of anger she wanted to loose. But the Kinswomen 
were staring at the paving stones in red-faced chagrin, and even the Windfinders 
appeared a little abashed  --  a little  --  muttering to themselves yet refusing 
quite to meet Nynaeve's glare. The glow winked out around one woman after 
another, until only Aviendha still held to the Source.
She gave a start as Elayne touched her arm. She was getting soft. Letting people 
sneak up on her, jumping at a touch.
"This crisis seems to be weathered," Elayne murmured. "Perhaps it's time to go 
before the next breaks out." A touch of color in her cheeks was the only sign 
that she had ever been angry. And a bit in Birgitte's; the two reflected one 
another in some ways since the bonding.
"Past time," Aviendha agreed. Much longer, and she would be a milk-hearted 
wetlander.
Every eye followed as she walked out into the open space in the center of the 
stableyard, to the spot she had studied and felt until she knew it with her 
eyelids closed. There was a joy in holding the Power, a joy in working saidar, 
that she could not have put into words. To contain saidar, to be contained by 
it, was to seem alive beyond any other time. A delusion, the Wise Ones said, as 
false and dangerous as a mirage of water in the Termool, yet it seemed more real 
than the paving stones beneath her feet. She fought the urge to draw more; 
already she held nearly as much as she could. Everyone crowded close as she 
began to weave the flows.
That there were things many Aes Sedai could not do still startled Aviendha, 
after all she had seen. Several of the Knitting Circle were strong enough, but 
only Sumeko and, surprisingly, Reanne openly studied what she was doing. Sumeko 
went so far as to shrug off the encouraging pats Nynaeve tried to give her  --  
which earned a look of startled indignation from Nynaeve that Sumeko, her gaze 
fixed on Aviendha, never saw. All of the Wind-finders had sufficient strength. 
They watched as hungrily as they had stared at the Bowl. The bargain gave them 
every right.
Aviendha focused, and the flows wove together, creating identity between this 
place and the place she and Elayne and Nynaeve had chosen on a map. She gestured 
as though opening tentflaps. That was no part of the weave Elayne had taught 
her, but it was almost all she could recall of what she herself had done, long 
before Egwene made her first gateway. The flows coalesced into a silvery, 
vertical slash that rotated and became an opening in the air, taller than a man 
and just as wide. Beyond lay a large clearing surrounded by trees twenty or 
thirty feet high, miles north of the City, on the far side of the river. 
Knee-high brown grass came right up to the gateway, swaying through in a small 
breeze; it had not truly turned, only seemed to. Some of those blades were 
sliced cleanly, though, some lengthwise. The edges of an opening gateway made a 
razor seem dull.
The gateway filled her with dissatisfaction. Elayne could make this weave with 
only a part of her strength, yet for some reason it required all but a fraction 
of Aviendha's. She was sure she could have woven a larger, as large as Elayne 
could, using the weaves she had made without thought while trying to escape Rand 
al'Thor what seemed a very long time ago, but no matter how often she tried, 
only scraps came back to her. She felt no envy  --  rather, she took pride in her 
near-sister's accomplishments  --  but her own failure made shame surge in her 
heart. Sorilea or Amys would be hard on her, if they knew that. About the shame. 
Too much pride, they would call it. Amys should understand; she had been a 
Maiden. There was shame in failing at what you should be able to do. If she had 
not had to hold the weave, she would have run away so no one could see her.
The departure had been carefully planned, and the whole stableyard sprang into 
motion as soon as the gateway opened fully. Two of the Knitting Circle pulled 
the hooded Shadowrunner to her feet, and the Windfinders hurriedly formed a line 
behind Renaile din Calon. The servants began bringing horses out of the stables. 
Lan, Birgitte, and one of Careane's Warders, a lanky man called Cieryl Arjuna, 
immediately darted through the gateway, one behind the other. Like Far Dareis 
Mai, Warders always claimed the right to scout ahead. Aviendha's feet itched to 
run after them, but there was no point. Unlike Elayne, she could not move more 
than five or six steps without this weave beginning to weaken, and the same if 
she tried to tie it off. It was very frustrating.
This time there was no real expectation of danger, so the Aes Sedai followed 
immediately, Elayne and Nynaeve as well. Farms dotted that treed area thickly, 
and a wandering shepherd or a young couple seeking privacy might need guidance 
away from seeing too much, but no Shadowsouled or Shadowrunner could know that 
clearing; only she, Elayne, and Nynaeve did, and they had not spoken in the 
choosing, for fear of eavesdroppers. Standing in the opening, Elayne gave 
Aviendha a questioning look, but Aviendha motioned her to go on. Plans were 
meant to be followed unless there was reason to change them.
The Windfinders began filing slowly through to the clearing, each suddenly 
irresolute as she approached this thing she had never dreamed of, taking a 
breath before she entered. And abruptly, the prickling returned.
Aviendha's eyes rose to the windows overlooking the stable-yard. Anyone might be 
hidden behind the white screens of intricate wrought iron and piercework 
carving. Tylin had ordered the servants to stay away from those windows, but who 
would stop Teslyn, or Joline, or . . . Something made her look higher, to the 
domes and towers. Narrow walks ringed some of those slim spires, and on one, 
very high, was a black shape haloed by a sharp nimbus from the sun behind. A 
man.
Her breath caught. Nothing in his stance, hands on the stone railing, spoke of 
danger, yet she knew he was the one who put that crawling between her shoulder 
blades. One of the Shadowsouled would not stand there simply watching, but that 
creature, that gholam . . . Ice formed in her belly. He could be just a palace 
servant. He could be, but she did not believe it. No shame in knowing fear.
Anxiously she glanced at the women still edging though the gateway with 
agonizing slowness. Half the Sea Folk were gone, and the Knitting Circle waited 
behind the rest with the Shadow-runner firmly in hand, their own unease at the 
passage warring with resentment that the Sea Folk women were allowed to go 
first. If she voiced her suspicions, the Kinswomen surely would run  --  mere 
mention of the Shadowsouled dried their mouths and turned their bowels to water 
 --  while the Windfinders might well try to claim the Bowl straightaway. With 
them, the Bowl stood above anything else. But only a blind fool stood scratching 
herself while a lion crept up on the herd she had been set to guard. She caught 
one of the Atha'an Miere by a red silk sleeve.
"Tell Elayne  --  " A face like smooth black stone turned to her; the woman somehow 
made full lips seem thin; her eyes were black pebbles, flat and hard. What 
message could she send that Would not bring down all the troubles she feared 
from them? Tell Elayne and Nynaeve to be wary. Tell them enemies always come 
when you least want them. You must say this to her, with out fail." The 
Windfinder nodded with barely concealed impatience, but surprisingly, she waited 
for Aviendha to release her before making her hesitant way through the gateway.
The walk up on the tower stood empty. Aviendha felt no relief. He could be 
anywhere. Making his way down to the stable-yard. Whoever he was, whatever he 
was, he was dangerous; this was not a dust-funnel dancing in her imagination. 
The last four Warders had formed a square around the gateway, a guard who would 
be last to leave, and much as she despised their swords, she was grateful that 
someone there besides herself knew the use of sharp metal. Not that they would 
have any more chance against a gholam, or worse, one of the Shadowsouled, than 
the servants waiting with the horses. Or than she herself.
Grimly she drew the Power, until the sweetness of saidar grew near to pain. A 
hair beyond, and pain would almost become blinding agony for the moments needed 
to die or lose the ability completely. Would those shuffling women quicken their 
feet! No shame in feeling fear, but she was very much afraid that hers was 
painted on her face. 
Chapter 2
Weavings
Elayne stepped to one side as soon as she was through the gateway, but Nynaeve 
trampled across the clearing, kicking up brown grasshoppers from the dead grass 
and peering this way and that for evidence of the Warders. Of one Warder, 
anyway. A bright red bird flashed across the clearing and was gone. Nothing else 
moved except the sisters; a squirrel barked somewhere in the mostly leafless 
trees, and then there was silence. To Elayne it seemed impossible those three 
could have passed this way without leaving paths as wide as that behind Nynaeve, 
yet she could not make out any sign that they had been there at all. She sensed 
Birgitte somewhere off to her left, roughly southwest she thought, and feeling 
quite content, clearly in no immediate danger. Careane, part of a protective 
circle gathered around Sareitha and the Bowl, cocked her head almost as if 
listening. Apparently her Cieryl was to the southeast. Which meant Lan was 
north. Oddly enough, north was the direction Nynaeve had settled down to watch, 
all the while muttering under her breath. Perhaps being married had created some 
sense of him in her. More likely, she had noticed a track that escaped Elayne. 
Nynaeve was as skilled at woodscraft as she was with herbs.
From where Elayne stood at first, Aviendha was clearly visible through the 
gateway, studying the palace rooftops as if she expected an ambush. By her 
stance, she could have been carrying spears, ready to leap into battle in her 
riding dress. She made Elayne smile, hiding how distressed she was about her 
problems with the gateway, so much braver than she herself. But at the same time 
she could not help worrying. Aviendha was brave, and no one Elayne knew was 
better able to keep her head. She also might decide that ji'e'toh required her 
to fight when there was no chance except in running. The light around her shone 
so brightly it was obvious she could not draw much more of saidar. If one of the 
Forsaken did appear . . . 
I should have stayed with her. Elayne rejected the thought immediately. Whatever 
excuse she gave, Aviendha would know the truth, and she was touchy as a man, 
sometimes. Most of the time. Especially when it bore upon her honor. With a 
sigh, Elayne let the Atha'an Miere crowd her further from the gateway as they 
filed through. She stayed close enough to hear any shout on the other side, 
though. Close enough to leap to Aviendha's aid in a heartbeat. And for another 
reason.
The Windfinders came through in order of rank, striving to keep their faces 
smooth, but even Renaile relaxed tight shoulders once her bare feet were beating 
down the tall brown grass. Some gave a little shiver, quickly suppressed, or 
glanced back with round eyes at the opening hanging in midair. One and all, they 
stared at Elayne suspiciously as they stepped by her, and two or three opened 
their mouths, perhaps to ask what she was doing, perhaps to ask  --  or tell  --  her 
to move. She was just as glad that they hurried on in obedience to Renaile's 
curt urgings. They would have their chance to tell Aes Sedai what to do soon 
enough; it did not have to start with her.
That thought made her stomach sink, and the number of them made her shake her 
head. They had the knowledge of weather to use the Bowl properly, yet even 
Renaile agreed  --  if reluctantly  --  that the more Power directed through the Bowl, 
the better the chances of being able to heal the weather. It must be directed 
with a precision impossible except for one woman alone or a circle, though. A 
full circle of thirteen it had to be. That thirteen certainly would include 
Nynaeve and Aviendha and Elayne herself, and probably a few of the Kin, but 
Renaile plainly intended to jump on the part of the bargain that said they would 
be allowed to learn any abilities the Aes Sedai could teach. The gateway had 
been the first, and forming a circle would be the second. A wonder she had not 
brought every Windfinder in the harbor. Imagine trying to deal with three or 
four hundred of these women! Elayne offered a small prayer of thanks that there 
were only twenty.
She was not standing there to count them, though. As each Windfinder passed, 
barely more than a pace away, she let herself feel the woman's strength in the 
Power. Earlier there had been time to get close enough to only a handful, what 
with all the trouble of convincing Renaile to come at all. Apparently achieving 
rank among the Windfinders had nothing to with either age or strength; Renaile 
was far from the strongest even in the first three or four, while one woman 
toward the rear, Senine, had weathered cheeks and thickly grayed hair. 
Strangely, by the marks in her ears it seemed that Senine might once have worn 
more than six earrings, and thicker ones than she did now.
Elayne sorted and stored away faces and the names she knew with a growing sense 
of complacency. The Windfinders might have secured an upper hand of sorts, and 
she and Nynaeve might be in deep trouble, very deep, with both Egwene and the 
Hall of the Tower once the terms of their bargain became known, but none of 
these women would stand particularly high among Aes Sedai. Certainly not low, 
but not high. She told herself not to feel smug  --  it changed nothing in what 
they had agreed  --  yet it was very hard not to. These were the best the Atha'an 
could produce, after all. Here in Ebou Dar, anyway. And if they had been Aes 
Sedai, every one of them, from Kurin, with her stony black stare, to Renaile 
herself, would have listened when she spoke and stood when she entered a room. 
If they were Aes Sedai and behaving as they should.
And then the end of the line appeared, and she gave a start as a young 
Windfinder off one of the smaller ships passed her, a round-cheeked woman called 
Rainyn, in plain blue silks, with barely a half-dozen ornaments hanging from her 
nose chain. The two apprentices, boyishly slim Talaan and big-eyed Metarra, 
scurried at the very tail with harried expressions. They had not earned the nose 
ring yet, much less the chain, and only a single thin gold earring in the left 
ear balanced the three in the right. Her eyes followed the three of them just 
short of staring. Perhaps not short of it, at that.
The Atha'an Miere clustered with Renaile again, most, like her, glaring hungrily 
at the Aes Sedai and the Bowl. The last three women stood at the rear, the 
apprentices with the air of those uncertain whether they had a right to be there 
at all, Rainyn folding her arms in imitation of Renaile, yet doing little better 
than the other two. The Windfinder on a darter, the least of the Sea Folk 
vessels, likely seldom found herself in company with the Windfinder to her clan 
Wavemistress, not to mention the Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships. Rainyn 
was easily as strong as Lelaine or Romanda, and Metarra on a level with Elayne 
herself, while Talaan . . . Talaan, so meek in her red linen blouse, with eyes 
that seemed permanently downcast, came very close to Nynaeve. Very close. More, 
Elayne knew she herself had not yet reached her full potential, and neither had 
Nynaeve. How close were Metarra and Talaan? She had grown accustomed to knowing 
that only Nynaeve and the Forsaken were stronger than she. Well, Egwene, but she 
had been forced, and her own potential, and Aviendha's, matched Egwene's. So 
much for complacency, she told herself ruefully. Lini would have said it was 
what she deserved for taking things for granted.
Laughing softly at herself, Elayne turned back to check on Aviendha, but the 
Knitting Circle stood rooted to one spot in front of the gateway, twitching at 
cold stares from Careane and Sareitha. All but Sumeko, and she did not move away 
either for all that she had met the sisters' gazes. Kirstian appeared ready to 
burst into tears.
Suppressing a sigh, Elayne herded the Kinswomen out of the way of the stable 
folk waiting to bring the horses through. The Knitting Circle went along like 
sheep  --  she was the shepherd, Merilille and the rest the wolves  --  and they would 
have moved faster if not for Ispan.
Famelle, one of only four among the Knitting Circle without a touch of gray or 
white in her hair, and Eldase, a fierce-eyed woman when she was not looking at 
an Aes Sedai, held Ispan by the arms. They could not seem to decide between 
holding her firmly enough to keep her upright and not clutching her too tightly, 
with the result that the Black sister moved in a bobbing fashion, sagging 
halfway to her knees when they loosened their grips, then pulled back up just 
before she fell completely.
"Forgive me, Aes Sedai," Famelle kept murmuring to Ispan with a faint Taraboner 
accent. "Oh, I am sorry, Aes Sedai." Eldase winced and gave a little moan every 
time Ispan stumbled. Just as if Ispan had not helped murder two of their number 
and the Light alone knew how many others. They were fussing over a woman who was 
going to die. The killings in the White Tower that Ispan had conspired at were 
enough to condemn her by themselves.
"Take her over there somewhere," Elayne told them, waving away from the gateway 
into the clearing. They obeyed, bobbing curtsies and nearly dropping Ispan, 
murmuring apologies to Elayne and to the hooded prisoner. Reanne and the rest 
scurried along, anxiously eyeing the sisters around Merilille.
Almost immediately the war of glares started up again, the Aes Sedai at the 
Kinswomen, the Knitting Circle at the Wind-finders, and the Atha'an Miere at 
anybody their eyes fell on. Elayne clamped her teeth shut. She was not going to 
shout at them. Nynaeve always got better results with yells, anyway. But she did 
want to shake some sense into every one of them, shake them until their teeth 
rattled. Including Nynaeve, who was supposed to be getting everyone organized 
instead of staring into the trees. But what if it had been Rand who was going to 
die unless she could find a way to save him?
Suddenly tears trembled on the edge of falling, stinging her eyes. Rand was 
going to die, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Peel the apple in 
your hand, girl, not the one on the tree, Lini's thin voice seemed to whisper in 
her ear. Tears are for after; they just waste time before.
"Thank you, Lini," Elayne murmured. Her old nurse was an irritating woman 
sometimes, never admitting that any of her charges had really grown up, but her 
advice was always good. Just because Nynaeve was slacking her duties was no 
reason for Elayne to slack hers.
Servants had started trotting horses through right on the heels of the Knitting 
Circle, beginning with the packhorses. None of those first animals carried 
anything so frivolous as clothes. They could walk if the riding horses needed to 
be abandoned on the other side of the gateway, and wear what they stood up in if 
the rest of the pack animals had to be left behind, but what was on those first 
horses could not be left for the Forsaken. Elayne motioned the leather-cheeked 
woman leading the very first to follow her aside, out of the way of the others.
Untying and tossing back the stiff canvas cover on one of the wide wicker 
panniers revealed a great heap of what appeared to be rubbish stuffed in every 
which way, right up to the top, some of it wrapped in cloth that was falling to 
pieces. The greater part of it probably was rubbish. Embracing saidar, Elayne 
began sorting. A rusted breastplate quickly went onto the ground, along with a 
broken table leg, a cracked platter, a badly dented pewter pitcher, and a bolt 
of rotted, unidentifiable cloth that almost broke apart in her hands.
The storeroom where they found the Bowl of the Winds had been stuffed full, 
things that should have been on a refuse heap jumbled in with more objects of 
the Power than just the Bowl, some in beetle-riddled casks or chests, some 
carelessly stacked. For hundreds and hundreds of years the Kin had hidden away 
all things they found that were connected to the Power, fearful of using them 
and fearful of delivering them to Aes Sedai. Until that very morning. This was 
the first chance Elayne had had to see what was worth keeping. The Light send 
that the Darkfriends had not gotten away with anything important; they had taken 
some, but certainly less than a quarter of what the room had held, rubbish 
included. The Light send she found something they could use. People had died to 
bring these things out of the Rahad.
She did not channel, just held the Power as she lifted each item. A chipped clay 
cup, three broken plates, a child's moth-eaten dress, and an old boot with a 
hole worn through the side all fell to the ground. A stone carving a little 
larger than her hand  --  it felt like stone; it might have been a carving, though 
it did not exactly look carved, for some reason  --  all deep blue curves vaguely 
like roots. It seemed to warm faintly at her touch; it held a . . . resonance . 
. . to saidar. That was the closest word she could think of. What it was meant 
to do, she had no idea, but it was a ter'angreal without any doubt. It went on 
the other side of her, away from the pile of rubbish. The heap of refuse 
continued to grow, but so did the other, if more slowly, things that had nothing 
in common except the faint warmth and the sense of echoing the Power. A small 
box that felt like ivory, covered in wavering red and green stripes; she set it 
down carefully without opening the hinged lid. You could never tell what might 
trigger a ter'angreal. A black rod no thicker than her little finger, a pace in 
length, stiff yet so flexible she thought she could have doubled it into a 
circle. A tiny stoppered vial that might have been crystal, with a dark red 
liquid inside. The figure of a stout, bearded man with a jolly smile, holding a 
book; two feet tall, it appeared to be age-darkened bronze and took both of her 
hands to move. Other things. Most was trash, though. And none was what she truly 
wanted. Not yet.
"Is this the time to be doing that?" Nynaeve asked. She straightened hastily 
from the small cluster of ter'angreal, grimacing and rubbing her hand on her 
skirt. "That rod feels like . . . pain," she muttered. The hard-faced woman 
holding the packhorse's head blinked at the rod and edged away.
Elayne eyed the rod  --  Nynaeve's occasional impressions about objects she touched 
could be useful  --  but she did not stop sorting. There had been too much pain 
lately to need any more, surely. Not that what Nynaeve sensed was always that 
straightforward. The rod might have been present when a great deal of pain was 
caused without being the cause in itself. The pannier was almost empty; some of 
what was on the other side of the horse would have to be shifted to balance the 
weight. "If there's an angreal in this somewhere, Nynaeve, I would like to find 
it before Moghedien taps one of us on the shoulder."
Nynaeve grunted sourly, but she peered into the wicker basket.
Dropping another table leg  --  that made three, none of which matched  --  Elayne 
spared a glance for the clearing. All of the packhorses were out, and the mounts 
were coming through the gateway, now, filling the open space between the trees 
with bustle and confusion. Merilille and the other Aes Sedai already sat their 
saddles, barely concealing their impatience to be off, while Pol fussed 
hurriedly with her mistress's saddlebags, but the Wind-finders . . . Graceful 
afoot, graceful on their ships, they were unused to horses. Renaile was trying 
to mount from the wrong side, and the gentle bay mare chosen for her danced slow 
circles around the liveried man who was gripping the bridle with one hand while 
tugging his hair in frustration with the other and vainly trying to correct the 
Windfinder. Two of the stablewomen were attempting to hoist Dorile, who served 
the Wavemistress of Clan Somarin, into her saddle, while a third, holding the 
gray's head, wore the tight face of someone trying not to laugh. Rainyn was on 
the back of a leggy brown gelding, but somehow without either foot in the 
stirrups or the reins in her hands and having considerable trouble finding any 
of them. And those three seemed to be having the easiest time of it. Horses 
whinnied and danced and rolled their eyes, and Windfinders shouted curses in 
voices that could have been heard over a gale. One of them knocked a serving man 
flat with her fist, and three more stable folk were trying to catch mounts that 
had gotten free.
There was also what she had expected to see, if Nynaeve was no longer keeping 
her private watch. Lan stood by his black war-horse, Mandarb, dividing his gaze 
between the treeline, the gateway, and Nynaeve. Birgitte came striding out of 
the woods shaking her head, and a moment later, Cieryl, trotted from the trees, 
but with no sense of urgency. There was nothing out there to threaten or 
inconvenience them.
Nynaeve was watching her, eyebrows raised high. "I didn't say anything," Elayne 
said. Her hand closed on something small, wrapped in rotting cloth that might 
have been white once. Or brown. She knew immediately what was inside.
"A good thing for you," Nynaeve grumbled, not quite far enough under her breath. 
"I can't abide women who poke their noses into other people's business." Elayne 
let it pass without so much as a start; she was proud that she did not have to 
bite her tongue.
Stripping away the decayed cloth revealed a small amber brooch in the shape of a 
turtle. It looked like amber, anyway, and it might been amber once, but when she 
opened herself to the Source through it, saidar rushed into her, a torrent 
compared to what she could draw safely on her own. Not a strong angreal, but far 
better than nothing. With it, she could handle twice as much of the Power as 
Nynaeve, and Nynaeve herself would do better still. Releasing the extra flow of 
saidar, she slipped the brooch into her belt pouch with a smile of delight and 
went back to searching. Where there was one, there might be more. And now that 
she had one to study, she might be able to reason out how to make an angreal. 
That was something she had wished for. It was all she could do not to take the 
brooch out again and begin probing it right there.
Vandene had been eyeing Nynaeve and her for some time, and now she heeled her 
slab-sided gelding over to them and dismounted. The groom at the packhorse's 
head managed a decent if awkward curtsy, more than she had for Elayne or 
Nynaeve. "You're being careful," Vandene said to Elayne, "and that's very good. 
But it might be better to leave these things alone until they're in the Tower."
Elayne's mouth tightened. In the Tower? Until they could be examined by someone 
else, was what she meant. Someone older and supposedly more experienced. "I do 
know what I'm doing, Vandene. I have made ter'angreal, after all. Nobody else 
living has done that." She had taught the basics to some sisters, but no one had 
managed the trick of it by the time she left for Ebou Dar.
The older Green nodded, flipping her reins idly against the palm of her riding 
glove. "Martine Janata also knew what she was doing, so I understand," she said 
casually. "She was the last sister to really make a business of studying 
ter'angreal. She did it for over forty years, almost from the time she reached 
the shawl. She was careful, too, so I was told. Then one day, Martine's maid 
found her unconscious on the floor of her sitting room. Burned out." Even in a 
conversational tone, those words were a sharp slap. Vandene's voice did not 
alter a hair, though. "Her Warder was dead from the shock. Not unusual in cases 
like that. When Martine came to, three days later, she couldn't recall what she 
had been working with. She couldn't remember the preceding week at all. That was 
more than twenty-five years ago, and no one since has had the nerve to touch any 
of the ter'angreal that were in her rooms. Her notes mentioned every last one, 
and everything she had discovered was innocuous, innocent, even frivolous, but . 
. . " Vandene shrugged. "She found something she wasn't expecting."
Elayne peeked at Birgitte, and found Birgitte looking back at her. She did not 
need to see the worried frown on the other woman's face; it was mirrored in her 
mind, in the small patch of her mind that was Birgitte and in the rest. Birgitte 
felt her worry, and she felt Birgitte's, until sometimes it was hard to say 
which was which. She risked more than herself. But she did know what she was 
doing. More than anyone else there, at least. And even if none of the Forsaken 
appeared, they needed all the angreal she could find.
"What happened to Martine?" Nynaeve asked quietly. "Afterward, I mean." She 
could seldom hear of anyone being hurt without wanting to Heal them; she wanted 
to Heal everything.
Vandene grimaced. She might have been the one to bring up Martine, but Aes Sedai 
did not like talking about women who had been burned out or stilled. They did 
not like remembering them. "She vanished once she was well enough to slip out of 
the Tower," she said hurriedly. "The important thing to remember is that she was 
cautious. I never met her, but I've been told she treated every ter'angreal as 
if she had no idea what it might do next, even the one that makes the cloth for 
Warders' cloaks, and nobody has ever been able to make that do anything else. 
She was careful, and it did her no good."
Nynaeve laid an arm across the nearly empty pannier. "Maybe you really should," 
she began. "No-o-o-o!" Merilille shrieked.
Elayne spun, instinctively opening herself through the angreal again, only half 
conscious of saidar flooding into Nynaeve and Vandene. The glow of the Power 
sprang up around every woman in the clearing who could embrace the Source. 
Merilille was straining forward in her saddle, eyes bulging, one hand reaching 
toward the gateway. Elayne frowned. There was nothing there except Aviendha, and 
the last four Warders, startled in the middle of walking away, searching for the 
threat with swords half-drawn. Then she realized what Aviendha was doing and 
nearly lost saidar in her shock.
The gateway trembled as Aviendha carefully picked apart the weave that had made 
it. It shivered and flexed, the edges wavering. The last flows came loose, and 
instead of winking out, the opening shimmered, the view through it of the 
courtyard fading away until it evaporated like mist in the sun. 
"That is impossible!" Renaile said incredulously. An astonished murmur of 
agreement broke out among the Windfinders. The Kinswomen gaped at Aviendha, 
mouths working soundlessly.
Elayne nodded slowly in spite of herself. Clearly it was possible, but one of 
the first things she had been told as a novice was that never, ever, under any 
circumstances was she to try what Aviendha had just done. Picking apart a weave, 
any weave, rather than simply letting it dissipate, could not be done, she had 
been told, not without inevitable disaster. Inevitable.
"You fool girl!" Vandene snapped, her face a thunderhead. She strode toward 
Aviendha dragging her gelding behind. "Do you realize what you almost did? One 
slip  --  one!  --  and there's no saying what the weave will snap into, or what it 
will do! You could have completely destroyed everything for a hundred paces! 
Five hundred! Everything! You could have burned yourself out and  --  "
"It was necessary," Aviendha cut in. A babble erupted from the mounted Aes Sedai 
crowding around her and Vandene, but she glared at them and raised her voice 
over theirs. "I know the dangers, Vandene Namelle, but it was necessary. Is this 
another thing you Aes Sedai cannot do? The Wise Ones say any woman can learn, if 
she is taught, some women more and some less, but any woman, if she can pick out 
embroidery." She did not quite sneer. Not quite.
"This is not embroidery, girl!" Merilille's voice was deep winter ice. "Whatever 
so-called training you received among your people, you cannot possibly know what 
you are playing with! You will promise me  --  swear to me!  --  that you will never 
do this again!"
"Her name should be in the novice book," Sareitha said firmly, glaring across 
the Bowl still held firmly to her bosom. I've always said it. She should be 
entered in the book." Careane nodded, her stern gaze measuring Aviendha for a 
novice dress.
"That might not be necessary for the moment," Adeleas told Aviendha, leaning 
forward in her saddle, "but you must let yourself be guided by us." The Brown 
sister's tone was much milder than the others', yet she was not making a 
suggestion.
A month or so earlier, Aviendha might have begun to wilt under all that Aes 
Sedai disapproval, but not now. Elayne hurriedly pushed in among the horses 
before her friend decided to draw the knife she was fondling. Or to do something 
worse. "Maybe somebody should ask why she thought it was necessary," she said, 
slipping an arm around Aviendha's shoulders as much to keep her arms at her 
sides as for comfort.
Aviendha did not quite include her in the exasperated look she gave the other 
sisters. "This leaves no residue," she said patiently. Too patiently. "The 
residues of a weave this large might be read two days from now,"
Merilille snorted, a very strong sound to come from that slight body. "That is a 
rare Talent, girl. Neither Teslyn nor Joline has it. Or do you Aiel wilders all 
learn that as well?"
"Few can do it," Aviendha admitted calmly. "But I can." That produced a 
different sort of stare, from Elayne as well; it was a very rare Talent. She did 
not seem to notice. "Do you claim that none of the Shadowsouled can?" she went 
on. The tightness of her shoulder under Elayne's hand said she was not so cool 
as she pretended. "Are you such fools that you leave tracks for your enemies to 
follow? Any who could read the residues could make a gateway to this spot."
That would have taken great dexterity, very great dexterity, but the suggestion 
was enough to leave Merilille blinking. Adeleas opened her mouth, then closed it 
without speaking, and Vandene frowned thoughtfully. Sareitha simply looked 
worried. Who could say what Talents the Forsaken had, what skill?
Strangely, all the fierceness drained out of Aviendha. Her eyes fell, her 
shoulders loosened. "Perhaps I should not have taken the risk," she muttered. 
"With that man watching me, I could not think clearly, and when he disappeared . 
. . " A little of her spirit returned, but not a great deal. "I do not think a 
man could read my weaves," she said to Elayne, "but if he was one of the 
Shadowsouled, or even the gholam . . . The Shadowsouled know more than any of 
us. If I was wrong, I have great toh. But I do not think I was. I do not think 
it."
"What man?" Nynaeve demanded. Her hat had been knocked askew in pushing among 
the horses, and that, with the tight frown she directed at everyone impartially, 
made her look ready for a fight. Perhaps she was. Careane's gelding accidentally 
nudged her with a shoulder, and she swatted the blue dun's nose. "A servant," 
Merilille said dismissively. "Whatever orders Tylin gave, Altaran servants are 
an independent lot. Or perhaps her son; that boy is too curious by half."
The sisters around her nodded, and Careane said, "One of the Forsaken would 
hardly have stood and watched. You said so yourself." She was patting her 
gelding's neck and frowning accusingly at Nynaeve  --  Careane was one of those who 
gave her horse the sort of affection most people reserved for infants  --  she was 
frowning at Nynaeve, and Nynaeve took the words for her, too.
"Maybe it was a servant, and maybe it was Beslan. Maybe." Nynaeve's sniff said 
she did not believe it. Or that she wanted them to believe she did not; she 
could tell you to your face that you were a blind idiot, yet let anyone else say 
it, and she would defend you until she went hoarse. Of course, she did not seem 
ready to decide whether she liked Aviendha, but she definitely did not like the 
older Aes Sedai. She tugged her hat almost straight, and her frown swept across 
them, then started over. "Whether it was Beslan or the Dark One, there's no call 
to stand here all day. We need to get ready and move on to the farm. Well? 
Move!" She clapped her hands sharply, and even Vandene gave a little start.
There was little preparation left to do when the sisters moved their horses 
away. Lan and the other Warders had not sat on their heels once they realized 
there was no danger. Some of the servants had gone back through the gateway 
before Aviendha disposed of it, but the rest stood with the three dozen or so 
packhorses, occasionally glancing at the Aes Sedai, clearly wondering what 
marvel they might produce next. The Windfinders were all mounted, if awkwardly, 
and holding their reins as though expecting their horses to bolt any moment, or 
perhaps sprout wings and take flight. So were the Knitting Circle, with a good 
deal more grace, unconcerned that their skirts and petticoats were pushed up 
past their knees, and with Ispan still hooded and tied across a saddle like a 
sack. She could not possibly have sat upright on a horse, yet even Sumeko's eyes 
popped whenever they touched her. Glaring about her, Nynaeve looked ready to 
tongue-lash everybody into doing what they had already done, but only until Lan 
handed her the reins of her plump brown mare. She had adamantly refused the gift 
of a better horse from Tylin. Her hand trembled a little when it touched Lan's, 
and her face changed color as she swallowed the anger she had been about to 
unleash. When he offered a hand for her foot, she stared at him for a moment as 
if wondering what he was about, then colored again when he boosted her to her 
saddle. Elayne could only shake her head. She hoped she did not turn into an 
idiot when she married. 
If she married.
Birgitte brought her silvery-gray mare and the yellow dun Aviendha rode, but she 
seemed to understand that Elayne wanted a private word with Aviendha. She nodded 
almost as if Elayne had spoken, swung up onto her mouse-colored gelding, and 
rode to where the other Warders were waiting. They greeted her with nods and 
began discussing something in low voices. By the glances directed at the 
sisters, the "something" had to do with taking care of Aes Sedai whether Aes 
Sedai wanted care taken or not. Including herself, Elayne noted grimly. There 
was no time now for that, though. Aviendha stood fiddling with her horse's 
reins, staring at the animal like a novice staring at a kitchen full of greasy 
pots. Very likely, Aviendha saw small difference between having to scrub pots 
and having to ride.
Snugging her green riding gloves, Elayne casually shifted Lioness to block them 
from the others' view, then touched Aviendha's arm. "Talking to Adeleas or 
Vandene might help," she said gently. She had to be very careful here, as 
careful as with any ter'angreal. "They're old enough to know more than you might 
suspect. There has to be a reason you've been . . . having trouble . . . with 
Traveling." That was a mild way of putting it. Aviendha almost had failed to 
make the weave work at all, in the beginning. Careful. Aviendha was far more 
important than any ter'angreal ever could be. "They might be able to help."
"How can they?" Aviendha stared stiffly at the saddle on her gelding. "They 
cannot Travel. How could any of them know how to help?" Abruptly her shoulders 
slumped, and she turned her head to Elayne. Shockingly, unshed tears glistened 
in her green eyes. "That isn't the truth, Elayne. Not the whole truth. They 
cannot help, but . . . You are my near-sister; you have the right to know. They 
think I panicked at a servant. If I ask for help, it must all come out. That I 
Traveled once to run from a man, a man I hoped in my soul would catch me. To run 
like a rabbit. To run, wanting to be caught. How could I let them know such 
shame? Even if they really could help, how could I?"
Elayne wished she did not know. About the catching part, at least. About the 
fact that Rand had caught her. Snatching the flecks of jealousy that suddenly 
were floating through her, she pushed them into a sack and stuffed it into the 
back of her head. Then she jumped up and down on it for good measure. When a 
woman plays the fool, look for the man. That was one of Lini's favorites. 
Another was, Kittens tangle your yarn, men tangle your wits, and it's simple as 
breathing for both. She drew a deep breath. "No one will know from me, Aviendha. 
I'll help you as much as I can. If I can figure out how." Not that there was 
much she could think to do. Aviendha was remarkably quick at seeing how weaves 
were formed, much quicker than she herself.
Aviendha merely nodded and scrambled clumsily into her saddle, showing a bit 
more grace than the Sea Folk. "There was a man watching, Elayne, and he was no 
servant." Looking Elayne right in the eye, she added, "He frightened me." An 
admission she likely would have made to no one else in the world.
"We're safe from him now, whoever he was," Elayne said, turning Lioness to 
follow Nynaeve and Lan from the clearing. In truth, it very likely had been a 
servant, but she would never tell that to anyone, Aviendha least of all. "We're 
safe, and in a few more hours, we will reach the Kin's farm, we'll use the Bowl, 
and the world will be right again." Well, somewhat. The sun seemed lower than it 
had in the stableyard, but she knew that was only imagination. For once, they 
had gained a clear jump on the Shadow.
 
From behind a screen of white wrought iron, Moridin watched the last of the 
horses vanish through the gateway, and then the tall young woman and the four 
Warders. It was possible they were carrying away some item he could use  --  an 
angreal attuned to men, perhaps  --  but the chances were small. For the rest, the 
ter'angreal, the greatest likelihood was that they would kill themselves trying 
to puzzle out how to use them. Sammael was a fool to have risked so much to 
seize a collection of no one knew what, then, Sammael had never been half as 
clever as he thought.
He himself would not disrupt his own plans merely on the off chance, to see what 
scraps of civilization he could find. Only idle curiosity had brought him here. 
He liked to know what others thought important. But it was dross.
He was about to turn away when the outlines of the gateway suddenly began to 
flex and tremble. Transfixed, he watched until the opening simply  --  melted. He 
had never been a man to give way to obscenities, but several rose in his mind. 
What had the woman done? These barbarous rustics offered too many surprises. A 
way to Heal being severed, however imperfectly. That was impossible! Except that 
they had done it. Involuntary rings. Those Warders and the bond they shared with 
their Aes Sedai. He had known of that for a long, long time, but whenever he 
thought he had the measure of them, these primitives revealed some new skill, 
did something that no one in his own Age had dreamed of. Something the pinnacle 
of civilization had not known! What had the girl done?
"Great Master?"
Moridin barely turned his head from the window. "Yes, Madic?" Her soul be 
damned, what had the girl done?
The balding man in green-and-white who had slipped into the small room bowed 
deeply before falling to his knees. One of the upper servants in the palace, 
Madic, with his long face, possessed a pompous dignity that he tried to maintain 
even now. Moridin had seen men who stood far higher do far worse. "Great Master, 
I have learned what the Aes Sedai brought to the palace this morning. It is said 
they found a great treasure hidden in ancient days, gold and jewels and 
heartstone, artifacts from Shiota and Eharon and even the Age of Legends. There 
are said to be things among them that use the One Power. It is said that one can 
control the weather. No one knows where they are going, Great Master. The palace 
is aquiver with talk, but ten tongues name ten different destinations."
Moridin went back to studying the stableyard below as soon as Madic spoke. 
Ridiculous tales of gold and cuendillar held no interest. Nothing would make a 
gateway behave that way. Unless . . . Could she actually have unraveled the web? 
Death held no fear for him. Coldly he considered the possibility that he had 
been within sight of an unraveling web. One that had been unmade successfully. 
Another impossibility casually offered up by these . . . 
Something Madic had said caught his ear. "The weather, Madic?" The shadows of 
the palace spires had barely lengthened from their bases, but there was not a 
cloud to shield the baking city.
"Yes, Great Master. It is called the Bowl of the Winds." The name meant nothing 
to him. But . . . a ter'angreal to control the weather . . . In his own Age, 
weather had been carefully regulated with the use of ter'angreal. One of the 
surprises of this Age  --  one of the smaller, it had seemed  --  was that there were 
those who could manipulate weather to a degree that should have required one of 
those ter'angreal. One such device should not be enough to affect even a large 
part of a single continent. But what could these women do with it? What? If they 
used a ring?
He seized the True Power without thought, the saa billowing black across his 
sight. His fingers tightened in the wrought-iron grille across the window; the 
metal groaned, twisting, not from his grip but from the tendrils of the True 
Power, drawn from the Great Lord himself, that wreathed around the grillework, 
flexing as he flexed his hand in anger. The Great Lord would not be pleased. He 
had strained from his prison to touch the world enough to fix the seasons in 
place. He was impatient to touch the world more, to shatter the void that 
contained him, and he would not be pleased. Rage enveloped Moridin, blood 
pounding in his ears. A moment past, he had not cared where those women went, 
but now . . . Somewhere far from here. People fleeing ran as far and as fast as 
they could. Somewhere they felt safe. No use sending Madic to ask questions, no 
use squeezing anyone here; they would not have been fool enough to leave anyone 
behind alive who knew their destination. Not to Tar Valon. To al'Thor? To that 
band of rebel Aes Sedai? In all three places he had eyes, some that did not know 
they served him. All would serve him, before the end. He would not allow chance 
slips to spoil his plans now. Abruptly he heard something other than the 
thundering drumbeat of his own fury. A bubbling sound. He looked at Madic 
curiously, and stepped back from the spreading puddle on the floor. It seemed 
that in his anger he had seized at more than the wrought-iron screen with the 
True Power. Remarkable how much blood could be squeezed from a human body.
He let what remained of the man fall without regret; indeed, thinking only that 
when Madic was found, the Aes Sedai would surely be blamed. A small addition to 
the chaos growing in the world. Ripping a hole in the fabric of the Pattern, he 
Traveled with the True Power. He had to find those women before they used this 
Bowl of the Winds. And failing that . . . He disliked people meddling with his 
carefully laid plans. Those who did so and lived, lived to pay.
The gholam stepped into the room cautiously, nostrils already twitching with the 
scent of still hot blood. The livid burn on its cheek seemed like a live coal. 
The gholam appeared to be merely a slender man, a little taller than average in 
this time, yet it had never encountered anything that could harm it. Until that 
man with the medallion. What might have been smile or snarl bared its teeth. 
Curious, it peered around the room, but there was nothing beyond the crushed 
corpse on the floor tiles. And a . . . feel . . . of something. Not the One 
Power, but something that made it . . . itch, if not quite in the same way. 
Curiosity had brought it here. Parts of the grill over the window were crushed, 
pulling the whole thing loose at the sides. The gholam seemed to remember 
something that made it itch in that manner, yet so much of what it recalled was 
fogged and dim. The world had changed, as it seemed, in the blink of an eye. 
There had been a world of war and killing on a huge scale, with weapons that 
reached across miles, across thousands of miles, and then there was . . . this. 
But the gholam had not changed. It was still the most dangerous weapon of all.
Its nostrils flared again, though it was not by scent that it tracked those who 
could channel. The One Power had been used below, and miles to the north. To 
follow, or not? The man who had wounded it was not with them; it had made sure 
of that before leaving the high vantage place. The one who commanded it wanted 
the man who had wounded it dead perhaps as much as he did the women, but the 
women were an easier target. The women had been named, too, and for the time 
being, it was constrained. For its entire existence it had been compelled to 
obey one or another human, but its mind held the concept of not being 
constrained. It must follow the women. It wanted to follow. The moment of death, 
when it felt the ability to channel vanish along with life, produced ecstasy. 
Rapture. But it was hungry, too, and there was time. Where they could run, it 
could follow. Settling fluidly beside the mangled body, it began to feed. Fresh 
blood, hot blood, was a necessity, but human blood always held the sweetest 
savor. 
Chapter 3
A Pleasant Ride
Farms and pastures and olive groves covered most of the land around Ebou Dar, 
but many small forests stretched a few miles across as well, and while the 
ground was much flatter than the Rhannon Hills to the south, it rolled and 
sometimes rose in a prominence of a hundred feet or higher, sufficient to cast 
deep shadows in the afternoon sun. All in all, the country provided more than 
enough cover to keep unwanted eyes from what might have passed as some odd 
merchant's pack train, nearly fifty people mounted and almost as many afoot, 
especially when it had Warders to find unfrequented paths through the 
undergrowth. Elayne did not sight a mark of human habitation beyond a few goats 
cropping on some of the hills.
Even plants and trees used to heat were beginning to wither and die, yet at any 
other time she might have enjoyed merely seeing the countryside. It could have 
been a thousand leagues from the land she had seen riding down the other bank of 
the Eldar. The hills were strange, knobby shapes, as though squeezed together by 
huge, careless hands. Flocks of brilliantly hued birds soared up at their 
passing, and a dozen sorts of hummingbirds flitted away from the horses, 
hovering jewels on blurred wings.
Thick vines hung like ropes in some places, and there were trees with bundles of 
narrow fronds at the top for foliage, and things that looked like green feather 
dusters as tall as a man. A handful of plants, fooled by the heat, struggled to 
put out blossoms, bright reds and vivid yellows, some twice as wide as her two 
hands. Their perfume was lush and  --  "sultry" came to mind. She saw some boulders 
she would have wagered had once been toes on a statue, though why anyone would 
make a statue that large with bare feet she could not imagine, and another time 
the way led through a forest of thick fluted stones among the trees, the 
weathered stumps of columns, many toppled and all long since mined almost to the 
ground for their stone by local farmers. A pleasant ride despite the dust the 
horses' hooves raised from parched soil. The heat did not touch her, of course, 
and there were not very many flies. All the dangers lay behind them; they had 
outrun the Forsaken, and no chance any of them or their servants could catch up 
now. It could have been a pleasant ride, except . . . 
For one thing, Aviendha learned that the message she had sent about enemies 
coming when least expected had not been delivered. At first Elayne felt relief 
at anything to change the topic from Rand. It was not the jealousy come back; 
rather, more and more she found herself wanting what Aviendha had shared with 
him. Not jealousy. Envy. She would almost have preferred the other. Then she 
began really hearing what her friend was saying in a low monotone, and the hair 
on the back of her neck tried to stand.
"You can't do that," she protested, reining her horse closer to Aviendha's. 
Actually, she supposed Aviendha would not have much trouble drubbing Kurin, or 
tying her up, or any of the rest. If the other Sea Folk women stood still for 
it, anyway. "We can't start a war with them, certainly not before we use the 
Bowl. And not over this," she added hastily. "Not at all." They certainly were 
not going to start a war before or after the Bowl was used. Not just because the 
Windfinders were behaving more highhandedly by the hour. Not just because . . . 
Drawing breath, she hurried on. "If she had told me, I would not have known what 
you meant. I understand why you couldn't speak more clearly, but you do see, 
don't you?"
Aviendha glared ahead at nothing, absently brushing flies away from her face. 
"Without fail, I told her," she grumbled. "Without fail! What if he had been one 
of the Shadowsouled? What if he had managed to get by me through the gateway, 
and you with no warning? What if . . .?" She turned a suddenly forlorn gaze on 
Elayne. "I will bite my knife," she said sadly, "but my liver may burst for it."
Elayne was about to say that swallowing her anger was the right thing to do and 
she could pitch as large a fit as she wanted so long as she did not hurl it at 
the Atha'an Miere  --  that was what all that about knives and livers meant  --  but 
before she could open her mouth, Adeleas brought her rangy gray up on her other 
side. The white-haired sister had acquired a new saddle in Ebou Dar, a gaudy 
thing worked with silver on pommel and cantle. The flies seemed to avoid her, 
for some reason, though she wore a scent as strong as any of the flowers.
"Pardon me. I could not help overhearing that last." Adeleas did not sound at 
all apologetic, and Elayne wondered just how much she had overheard. She felt 
her cheeks coloring. Some of what Aviendha had said about Rand had been 
remarkably frank and straightforward. Some of what she had said had been, too. 
It was one thing to talk that way with your nearest friend, quite another to 
suspect someone else had been listening. Aviendha seemed to feel the same way; 
she did not blush, but the sour look she shot at the Brown would have done 
Nynaeve proud.
Adeleas merely smiled, a vague smile as bland as water soup. "It might be best 
if you gave your friend there free rein with the Atha'an Miere." She peered past 
Elayne at Aviendha, blinking. "Well, a loose rein. Putting the fear of the Light 
into them ought to be sufficient. They're almost there already, in case you 
haven't noticed. They're much more wary of the 'savage' Aiel  --  forgive me, 
Aviendha  --  than they are of Aes Sedai. Merilille would have suggested it, but 
her ears are still burning."
Aviendha's face rarely gave much away, but right then she looked as puzzled as 
Elayne felt. Elayne twisted in her saddle to frown behind her. Merilille rode 
abreast with Vandene, Careane, and Sareitha not far back, all very studiously 
looking at anything except Elayne. Beyond the sisters were the Sea Folk, still 
in single file, and then would come the Knitting Circle, keeping themselves out 
of sight for the moment just ahead of the packhorses. They were threading their 
way through the glades of truncated columns. Fifty or a hundred long-tailed 
red-and-green birds winged over their heads, filling the air with chattering 
cries.
"Why?" Elayne asked curtly. It seemed foolish to add to the turmoil already 
bubbling just below the surface  --  and sometimes on the surface  --  but she had 
seen no hint of the fool in Adeleas. The Brown sister's eyebrows rose in 
apparent surprise. Maybe she was surprised; Adeleas usually thought anyone 
should see what she saw. Maybe.
"Why? To restore a little balance, that is why. If the Atha'an Miere feel they 
need us to protect them from an Aiel, it might be a useful balance against . . . 
" Adeleas paused slightly, suddenly absorbed in adjusting her pale gray skirts. 
" . . . other things."
Elayne's face tightened. Other things. The bargain with the Sea Folk was what 
Adeleas meant. "You may ride with the others," she said coolly.
Adeleas made no protest, no attempts to press her argument. She just inclined 
her head and let her horse fall back. Her small smile never altered a whit. The 
older Aes Sedai accepted that Nynaeve and Elayne stood above them and spoke with 
Egwene's authority at their backs, but the truth was, that changed little beyond 
the surface. Perhaps nothing. They were outwardly respectful, they obeyed, and 
yet . . . 
After all was said and done, Elayne, at least, was Aes Sedai at an age when most 
initiates of the Tower still wore novice white and very few had reached the 
Accepted. And she and Nynaeve had agreed to that bargain, hardly a display of 
wisdom and acumen. Not just the Sea Folk getting the Bowl, but twenty sisters 
going to the Atha'an Miere, subject to their laws, required to teach anything 
the Windfinders wanted to learn and unable to leave until others came to replace 
them. Windfinders allowed to enter the Tower as guests, allowed to learn 
whatever they wished, leave whenever they wished. Those alone would make the 
Wall scream, and probably Egwene as well, yet the rest . . . Every last one of 
the older sisters thought she would have found a way around making that bargain. 
Perhaps they really could have. Elayne did not believe it, but she was not sure.
She did not say anything to Aviendha, but after a few moments, the other woman 
spoke. "If I can serve honor and help you at the same time, I do not care 
whether it serves some Aes Sedai end." She never seemed to take it in that 
Elayne was also Aes Sedai, not completely.
Elayne hesitated, then nodded. Something had to be done to temper the Sea Folk. 
Merilille and the others had displayed a remarkable forbearance so far, but how 
long would that last? Nynaeve might explode, once she actually turned her 
attentions to the Windfinders. Matters had to be kept as smooth as possible for 
as long as possible, but if the Atha'an Miere went on believing they could stare 
down any Aes Sedai, there would be trouble. Life was more complex than she had 
imagined back in Caemlyn, no matter how many lessons she had received as 
Daughter-Heir. So much more complicated since she entered the Tower.
"Just don't be too . . . emphatic," she said softly. "And please have a care. 
There are twenty of them, after all, and only one of you. I wouldn't want 
anything to happen before I could help you." Aviendha gave her a grin with a 
good bit of wolf in it and drew her dun mare off at the edge of the stones to 
wait for the Atha'an Miere.
From time to time Elayne glanced back, but all she saw through the trees was 
Aviendha riding next to Kurin, speaking quite calmly and not even looking at the 
Sea Folk woman. Certainly not glaring, though Kurin seemed to stare at her with 
considerable astonishment. When Aviendha thumped her horse back up to join 
Elayne, flapping her reins  --  she would never be a horsewoman  --  Kurin rode 
forward to speak with Renaile, and a short time later Renaile angrily sent 
Rainyn to the head of the column. The most junior of the Windfinders sat her 
horse even more awkwardly than Aviendha, whom she pretended to ignore on 
Elayne's other side just as she ignored the small green flies buzzing around her 
dark face. "Renaile din Calon Blue Star," she said stiffly, "demands that you 
snub in the Aiel woman, Elayne Aes Sedai." Aviendha grinned toothily at her, and 
Rainyn must have been watching at least a little, because her cheeks reddened 
beneath the sheen of sweat.
"Tell Renaile that Aviendha is not Aes Sedai," Elayne replied. "I will ask her 
to be careful," no lie there; she had, and would again, "but I can't make her do 
anything." On impulse, she added,
"You know how Aiel are." The Sea Folk had some very odd ideas of how the Aiel 
were. Rainyn stared wide-eyed at a still-grinning Aviendha, her face going gray, 
then jerked her horse around and galloped back to Renaile, bouncing in her 
saddle.
Aviendha gave a pleased chuckle, but Elayne wondered whether the whole notion 
had been a mistake. Even with a good thirty paces between them, she could see 
Renaile's face swell up at Rainyn's report, and the others began to buzz like 
bees. They did not look frightened, they looked angry, and the glares they 
directed at the Aes Sedai ahead of them grew baleful. Not at Aviendha, at the 
sisters. Adeleas nodded thoughtfully when she saw that, and Merilille just 
barely failed to hide a smile. At least they were pleased.
If that had been the only incident during the ride it would have taken the edge 
off any enjoyment of flowers and birds, but it was not even the first. Beginning 
shortly after leaving the clearing, the Knitting Circle had made their way 
forward to Elayne one by one, all but Kirstian, and no doubt she would have come 
too had she not been ordered to keep Ispan shielded. One by one they came, each 
hesitant, smiling timorously until Elayne wanted to tell them to act their ages. 
They certainly made no demands, and they were too smart to ask straight out for 
what already had been denied, but they found other paths.
"It occurred to me," Reanne said brightly, "that you must want to question Ispan 
Sedai quite urgently. Who can say what else she was up to in the city besides 
trying to find the storeroom?" She pretended to just be making conversation, but 
from time to time she darted quick looks at Elayne to see how she was taking it. 
"I'm sure we'll take over an hour to reach the farm, the way we're going, 
perhaps two, and you certainly don't want to waste two hours. The herbs Nynaeve 
Sedai gave her make her quite talkative, and I'm sure she would sit up for 
sisters."
The bright smile faded when Elayne said that questioning Ispan could wait and 
would. Light, did they really expect anyone to ask questions riding through 
forests on paths that barely deserved the name? Reanne rode back to the other 
Kinswomen, muttering to herself.
"Forgiveness, Elayne Sedai," Chilares murmured a short time later, the traces of 
Murandy clinging to her accent. Her green straw hat matched some of her layered 
petticoats exactly. "Your forgiveness, if I intrude." She did not wear the red 
belt of a Wise Woman; most of the Knitting Circle did not. Famelle was a 
goldsmith, and Eldase supplied lacquerware to the merchants for export; Chilares 
was a rug seller, while Reanne herself arranged shipping for small traders. Some 
worked at simple tasks  --  Kirstian ran a tiny weaver's shop, and Dimana was a 
seamstress, though a prosperous one  --  but then, in the course of their lives, 
they had all followed many crafts. And used many names. "Ispan Sedai appears to 
be unwell," Chilares said, shifting uneasily in her saddle. "Perhaps the herbs 
are affecting her more than Nynaeve Sedai thought. It would be terrible if 
anything happened to her. Before she can be questioned, I mean. Perhaps the 
sisters would look at her? Healing, you know . . . " She trailed off, blinking 
those big brown eyes nervously. As well she might, with Sumeko among her 
companions.
A glance back showed the stout woman standing in her stirrups to peer past the 
Windfinders, until she saw Elayne looking and sat back down hurriedly. Sumeko, 
who knew more of Healing than any sister except Nynaeve. Perhaps more than 
Nynaeve. Elayne simply pointed to the rear until Chilares colored and reined her 
mount around.
Merilille joined Elayne only moments after Reanne left, and the Gray sister made 
a much better pretense at simple chat than the Kinswoman had. In her manner of 
speaking, at least, she was poise itself. What she had to say was another 
matter. "I wonder how trustworthy those women are, Elayne." Her lips pursed in 
distaste as she brushed dust from her divided blue skirts with a gloved hand. 
"They say they do not take in wilders, but Reanne herself may well be a wilder, 
whatever she claims about failing her test for Accepted. Sumeko, as well, and 
certainly Kirstian." A slight frown for Kirstian, a dismissive shake of her 
head. "You must have noticed how she leaps at any mention of the Tower. She 
knows no more than she might have picked up in conversation with someone who 
really was put out." Merilille sighed, regretting what she had to say; she 
really was very good. "Have you considered that they may be lying about other 
things? They could be Darkfriends, for all we know, or dupes of Darkfriends. 
Perhaps not, but they are hardly to be trusted very far. I believe there is a 
farm, whether they really use it for a retreat or not, or I would not have 
agreed to this, but I will not be surprised to find a few ramshackle buildings 
and a dozen or so wilders. Well, not ramshackle  --  they do seem to have coin  --  
but the principle is the same. No, they are simply not trustworthy."
Elayne began a slow burn as soon as she realized the direction Merilille was 
taking, and it grew hotter. As this slipping around, all this "may" and "could" 
so the woman could insinuate things she herself did not believe. Darkfriends? 
The Knitting Circle had fought Darkfriends. Two had died. And without Sumeko and 
Leine, Nynaeve might be dead instead of Ispan a prisoner. No, the reason they 
were not to be trusted was not because Merilille feared they were sworn to the 
Shadow, or she would have said so. They were not to be trusted because if they 
were not trusted, then they could not be allowed to hold Ispan.
She swatted a big green fly that had settled on Lioness's neck, punctuating 
Merilille's last word with a loud crack, and the Gray sister jerked in surprise. 
"How dare you?" Elayne breathed. "They faced Ispan and Falion in the Rahad, and 
the gholam, not to mention two dozen or more toughs with swords. You weren't 
there." That was hardly fair. Merilille and the rest had been left behind 
because Aes Sedai in the Rahad, obvious Aes Sedai, might as well be trumpets and 
drums for the attention they attracted. She did not care. Her anger grew by the 
moment, and her voice rose by the word. "You will never suggest such a thing to 
me again. Never! Not without hard evidence! Not without proof. If you do, I'll 
set you a penance that will make your eyes pop!" No matter how high she stood 
above the other woman, she had no authority to set her any penance at all, but 
she did not care about that, either. I'll make you walk the rest of the way to 
Tar Valon! Eating nothing but bread and water the entire way! I'll put you in 
their charge, and tell them to slap you down if you say boo to a goose!" It 
dawned on her that she was shouting. Some sort of gray-and-white birds went 
flittering past overhead in a broad band, and she was drowning out their cries. 
Drawing a deep breath, she tried to calm herself. She did not have a voice for 
shouting; it always came out as a shriek. Everyone was looking at her, most 
astonishment. Aviendha nodded approvingly. Of course, she have done the same had 
Elayne plunged a knife into Merilille's heart. Aviendha stood beside her friends 
no matter what. Merilille's Cairhienin paleness had become dead white.
"I mean what I say," Elayne told her, in a much cooler tone. It seemed to make 
even more blood leave Merilille's face. She did mean every word; they could not 
afford that sort of rumor floating among them. One way or another she would see 
it done, though the Knitting Circle very likely would faint.
She hoped that was the end of it. It should have been. But when Chilares left, 
Sareitha replaced her, and she too had a reason the Kinswomen were not to be 
trusted. Their ages. Even Kirstian claimed to be older than any living Aes 
Sedai, while Reanne was over a hundred years more than that and not even the 
oldest of the Kin. Her title of Eldest went to the oldest of them in Ebou Dar, 
and the rigid schedule they followed to avoid notice had a number of still older 
women off in other places. It was obviously impossible, Sareitha maintained.
Elayne did not shout; she very carefully did not shout. "We will learn the truth 
eventually," she told Sareitha. She did not doubt the Kinswomen's word, but 
there had to be a reason why the Kinswomen looked neither ageless nor anything 
near the ages they claimed. If she could only puzzle it out. Something told her 
it was obvious, but nothing leaped up said what. "Eventually," she added firmly 
when the Brown opened her mouth again. "That will be enough, Sareitha." Sareitha 
nodded uncertainly and fell back. Not ten minutes later, Sibella replaced her.
Every time one of the Kinswomen came to make her roundabout plea to be relieved 
of Ispan, one of the sisters came soon after to offer the same plea. All save 
Merilille, who still blinked whenever Elayne looked at her. Perhaps shouting did 
have its uses. Certainly no one else tried to be so straightforward in attacking 
the Kin.
For instance, Vandene began with discussing the Sea Folk and how to counter the 
effects of the bargain made with them, why it was necessary to counter them as 
much as possible. She was quite matter-of-fact, with never a word or gesture to 
lay any blame. Not that she needed any; the subject did that, however delicately 
handled. The White Tower, she said, maintained its influence in the world not by 
force of arms, or persuasion, or even by plotting or manipulation, though those 
two she brushed past lightly. Rather the White Tower controlled or influenced 
events to whatever extent they did because everyone saw the Tower as standing 
apart and above, as more even than kings or queens. That in turn depended on 
every Aes Sedai being seen that way, as mysterious and apart, different from 
everyone else. A different flesh. Historically, Aes Sedai who could not manage 
that  --  and there were a few  --  were kept out of public view as much as possible.
It took Elayne a little while to realize that the thrust of the conversation had 
shifted away from the Sea Folk, and to see where it was headed. A different 
flesh, mysterious and apart, could not have a sack thrust over its head and be 
tied across a saddle. Not where anyone who was not Aes Sedai could see, anyway. 
In truth, the sisters would be rougher on Ispan than the Knitting Circle could 
possibly make themselves be, just not in public. The argument might have borne 
more weight had it come first, but as it was, Elayne sent Vandene packing as 
quickly as she did anyone else. And saw her replaced by Adeleas, right after 
Sibella was told that if none of the Knitting Circle could understand what Ispan 
was mumbling, then none of the sisters was likely to either. Mumbling! Light! 
The Aes Sedai took their repeated turns, and even knowing what they were up to, 
sometimes it was hard to see the connection at first. By the time Careane began 
by telling her that those boulders really had been toes once, supposedly on a 
statue of some warrior queen nearly two hundred feet high . . . "Ispan stays 
where she is," she told Careane coolly without waiting for more. "Now, unless 
you really want to tell me why the Shiotans thought of putting up a statue like 
that . . . " The Green said ancient records claimed it had worn little more than 
armor, and not a great deal of that! A queen! "No? Then, if you don't mind, I'd 
like to talk with Aviendha alone. Thank you so much." Even being curt did not 
stop them, of course. She was surprised they did not send Merilille's maid to 
take a turn.
None of this would have happened had Nynaeve been where she was meant to be. At 
least, Elayne was sure that Nynaeve could have quelled the Knitting Circle and 
the sisters both, in short order. She was a great one for quelling. The problem 
was that Nynaeve had glued herself tight to Lan's side before they left "e first 
clearing. The Warders scouted ahead and to both sides of their path, and 
sometimes to the rear, only riding back to the column long enough to report what 
they had seen or give directions on how to avoid a farm or a shepherd. Birgitte 
ranged far, never spending more than moments with Elayne. Lan ranged farther. 
And where Lan went, Nynaeve went.
"No one's making any trouble, are they?" she demanded with a dark stare for the 
Sea Folk, the first time she followed Lan back. "Well, that's all right, then," 
she said before Elayne had a chance to open her mouth. Spinning her 
round-bellied mare like a racer, she nicked the reins and galloped after Lan 
holding her hat on with one hand, catching up to him just as he vanished around 
the flank of the hill ahead. Of course, then there really was nothing to 
complain about. Reanne had made her visit, and Merilille hers, and everything 
seemed settled.
By the next time Nynaeve appeared, Elayne had suffered through a number of 
disguised attempts to have Ispan turned over to the sisters, Aviendha had spoken 
to Kurin, and the Wind-finders were on a slow boil, but when Elayne explained, 
Nynaeve simply looked around, frowning. Of course, right at that moment everyone 
had to be where they belonged. The Atha'an Miere wore glares, true, but the 
Knitting Circle were all behind them, and as for the other sisters, no group of 
novices could have appeared more well-behaved and innocent. Elayne wanted to 
shriek!
"I'm sure you can handle everything, Elayne," Nynaeve said. "You have had all 
that training to be a queen. This can't be anywhere near so  --  Drat the man! He's 
going again! You can handle it." And off she went, galloping that poor mare as 
though it were a warhorse.
That was when Aviendha chose to discuss how Rand seemed to like kissing the 
sides of her neck. And incidentally how much she had liked it. Elayne had liked 
that when he did it to her, too, but however used to discussing this sort of 
thing she had become  --  uncomfortably used to it  --  she did not want to talk about 
it right then. She was angry with Rand. It was unfair, but if not for him, she 
could have told Nynaeve to stop treating Lan like a child who might trip over 
his own feet and attend to her own duties. She almost wanted to blame him for 
the way the Knitting Circle was behaving, too, and the other sisters, and the 
Windfinders. It's one of the things men are for, taking the blame, she 
remembered Lini saying once, and laughing while she did. They usually deserve 
it, even if you don't know exactly how. Not fair, yet she wished he were there 
long enough for her to box his ears, just once. Long enough to kiss him, to have 
him kiss the sides of her neck softly. Long enough to . . . 
"He will listen to advice, even when he doesn't like hearing it," she said 
abruptly, her face reddening. Light, for all her talk about shame, in some areas 
Aviendha had none. And it seemed that she herself no longer had any, either! 
"But if I tried to push him, he dug in his heels even when it was plain that I 
was right. Was he that way with you?"
Aviendha glanced at her and appeared to understand. Elayne was not sure whether 
she liked that or not. At least there was no more talk of Rand and kissing. For 
a while, anyway. Aviendha had some knowledge of men  --  she had traveled with them 
as a Maiden of the Spear, fought beside them  --  but she had never wanted to be 
anything but Far Dareis Mat, and there were . . . gaps. Even with her dolls as a 
child she had always played at the spears and raiding. She had never flirted, 
did not understand it, and she did not understand why she felt the way she did 
when Rand's eyes fell on her, or a hundred other things Elayne had begun 
learning the first time she noticed a boy looking at her differently than he did 
at the other boys. She expected Elayne to teach her all of it, and Elayne tried. 
She really could talk to Aviendha about anything. If only Rand had not been the 
example used quite so often. If he had been there, she would have boxed his 
ears. And kissed him. Then boxed his ears again. Not a pleasant ride at all. A 
miserable ride. Nynaeve made several more brief visits, before finally coming to 
announce that the Kin's farm lay just ahead, out of sight around a low rounded 
hill that appeared ready to fall on its side. Reanne had been pessimistic in her 
estimate; the sun had not fallen nearly two hours' worth.
We'll be there very quickly, now," Nynaeve told Elayne, not seeming to notice 
the sullen stare Elayne gave in return. "Lan, retch Reanne up here, please. Best 
if they see a familiar face right away. He whirled his horse away, and Nynaeve 
turned in her saddle briefly to fix the sisters with a firm eye. "I don't want 
you frightening them, now. You hold your tongues until we have a chance to 
explain what's what. And hide your faces. Pull up the hoods of your cloaks." 
Straightening without waiting for any reply, she gave a satisfied nod. "There. 
All settled, and all right. I vow, Elayne, I don't know what you were moaning so 
about. Everyone's doing exactly as they should, so far as I can see."
Elayne ground her teeth. She wished they were in Caemlyn already. That was where 
they were heading once this was done. She had duties long overdue in Caemlyn. 
All she had to deal with there was convincing the stronger Houses that the Lion 
Throne was hers despite her long absence, that and handling a rival claimant or 
two. There might not have been any had she been there when her mother vanished, 
when she died, but the history of Andor said there would be by now. Somehow, it 
seemed ever so much easier than this.
Chapter 4
A Quiet Place
The Kin's farm lay in a broad hollow surrounded by three low hills, a sprawling 
affair of more than a dozen large, white-plastered buildings with flat roofs, 
gleaming in the sun. Four great barns were built right into the slope of the 
highest hill, a flat-topped thing with one side that fell away in steep cliffs 
beyond the barns. A few tall trees that had not lost all of their leaves 
provided a modicum of shade in the farmyard. To the north and east, olive groves 
marched away and even up the sides of the hills. A sort of slow bustle enveloped 
the farm, with easily over a hundred people in evidence despite the afternoon 
heat, carrying on all the everyday tasks but none quickly.
It might almost have passed for a small village instead of a farm, except that 
there was not a man or a child to be seen. Wayne did not expect any. This was a 
waypoint for Kinswomen passing through Ebou Dar to elsewhere, so there would not 
be too many in the city itself at one time, but that was a secret matter, as 
secret as the Kin themselves. Publicly this farm was known for two hundred miles 
or more as a retreat for women, a place for contemplation and escape from the 
cares of the world for a time, a few days, a week, sometimes longer. Elayne 
could almost feel serenity in the air. She might have regretted bringing the 
world into this quiet place, except that she also brought new hope.
The first appearance of the horses coming around the leaning hill produced far 
less stir than she expected. A number of the women stopped to watch, but no more 
than that. Their clothing varied widely  --  Elayne even saw a sheen of silk here 
and there  --  but some carried baskets and others buckets, or great white bundles 
of what had to be wash. One held a pair of bound ducks by the feet in either 
hand. Noblewoman and craftswoman, farmer and beggar, all were equally welcome 
here, but everyone did a share of the work during her stay. Aviendha touched 
Elayne's arm, then pointed to the top of one of the hills, a thing like an 
inverted funnel skewed to one side. Elayne added a hand to the shade of her hat 
and after a moment saw movement. Small wonder no one was surprised. Lookouts up 
there could see anyone coming from a long way.
A middling woman walked out to meet them short of the farm buildings. Her dress 
was in the Ebou Dari style, with a deep narrow neckline, but her dark skirts and 
brightly colored petticoats were short enough that she did not need to hold them 
up out of the dust. She did not wear a marriage knife; the Kin's rules 
prohibited marriage. The Kin had too many secrets to keep. "That's Alise," 
Reanne murmured, reining in between Nynaeve and Elayne. "She runs the farm this 
turn. She's very intelligent." Almost like an afterthought, she added, even more 
quietly, "Alise does not suffer fools gladly." As Alise approached, Reanne drew 
herself up in her saddle, squaring her shoulders as though for an ordeal.
Middling was exactly how Elayne thought of Alise, not someone to give Reanne 
pause, certainly, even had she not been the Eldest of the Knitting Circle. 
Straight-backed, Alise appeared to be somewhere in her middle years, neither 
slender nor stout, tall nor short, a little gray flecking dark brown hair that 
was tied back with a piece of ribbon, but in a very practical manner. Her face 
was unremarkable, though pleasant enough, a mild face, perhaps a little long in 
the jaw. When she saw Reanne, she gave a fleeting look of surprise, then smiled. 
That smile transformed everything. It did not make her beautiful or even pretty, 
but Elayne felt warmed by it, comforted.
"I hardly expected to see you . . . Reanne," Alise said, barely hesitating over 
the name. Obviously she was unsure whether to use Reanne's rightful title in 
front of Nynaeve and Elayne and Aviendha. She studied them with quick glances as 
she spoke. There seemed to be a bit of Tarabon in her voice. "Berowin brought 
word of trouble in the city, of course, but I didn't think it was so bad you 
would have to leave. Who are all these . . . " Her words trailed off, and her 
eyes widened, staring beyond them.
Elayne glanced back, nearly loosing a few of the choice phrases she had picked 
up in various places, most recently from Mat Cauthon. She did not understand all 
of them, not most of them really  --  nobody ever wanted to explain what they meant 
exactly  --  but they did have a way of relieving emotion. The Warders had doffed 
their color-shifting cloaks, and the sisters had drawn up the hoods of their 
dust-cloaks as instructed, even Sareitha, who had no need to hide her youthful 
face, but Careane had not pulled hers forward far enough. It simply framed her 
ageless features. Not everyone would know what they were seeing, yet anyone who 
had been in the Tower surely would. Careane jerked the hood forward at Elayne's 
glare, but the damage was done.
Others at the farm beside Alise possessed sharp eyes. "Aes Sedai!" a woman 
howled in tones suitable for announcing the end of the world. Perhaps she was, 
for her world. Shrieks spread like dust blown on the wind, and that quickly, the 
farm became a kicked anthill. Here and there a woman simply fainted dead away, 
but most ran wildly, screaming, dropping what they carried, bumping into one 
another, falling down and scrambling up to run on. Flapping ducks and chickens 
and short-horned black goats darted wildly to avoid being trampled. In the midst 
of it au, some women stood gaping, plainly those who had come to the retreat 
with no knowledge of the Kin, though a few of them began to move hurriedly, too, 
caught up in the frenzy.
Light!" Nynaeve barked, yanking her braid. "Some of them are running into the 
olive groves! Stop them! The last thing we Want is a panic! Send the Warders! 
Quick, quick!" Lan raised a Questioning eyebrow, but she waved a peremptory hand 
at him. Quick! Before they all run away!" With a nod that seemed to begin as a 
shake of his head, he sent Mandarb galloping after the other men, curving to 
avoid the spreading pandemonium among the buildings.
Elayne shrugged at Birgitte, then motioned her to follow. She agreed with Lan. 
It seemed a bit late to try stopping a panic, and Warders on horseback 
attempting to herd frightened women probably was not the best way. But she could 
not see how to change matters now, and there was no point letting them run off 
into the countryside. They would all want to hear the news she and Nynaeve 
brought.
Alise gave no sign of running, or even fidgeting. Her face paled slightly, but 
she stared up at Reanne with a steady gaze. A firm gaze. "Why?" she breathed. 
"Why, Reanne? I could not have imagined you doing this! Did they give you 
bribes? Offer immunity? Will they let you walk free while we pay the price? They 
probably won't allow it, but I vow I'll ask them to let me call you down. Yes, 
you! The rules apply even to you, Eldest! If I can find a way to manage it, I 
vow you won't walk away from this smiling!" A very firm gaze. Steely, in fact.
"It isn't what you think," Reanne said hurriedly, dismounting and dropping her 
reins. She caught both of Alise's hands in hers despite the other woman's 
efforts to free them. "Oh, I did not want it to be like this. They know, Alise. 
About the Kin. The Tower has always known. Everything. Almost everything. But 
that isn't what is important." Alise's eyebrows tried to climb onto her scalp at 
that, but Reanne rushed on, beaming eagerly from under her large straw hat. "We 
can go back, Alise. We can try again. They said we can." The farm buildings 
seemed to be emptying as well, women rushing out to learn what the commotion 
was, then joining the flight without a pause for more than hiking skirts. Shouts 
from the olive groves said the Warders were at work, but not how much they were 
achieving. Perhaps not a great deal. Elayne sensed growing frustration from 
Birgitte, and irritation. Reanne eyed the turmoil and sighed. "We must gather 
them in, Alise. We can go back."
"That's all very well for you and some of the others," Alise said doubtfully. 
"If it's true. What about the rest of us? The Tower would not have let me stay 
as long as I did had I been quicker to learn." She darted a frown at the now 
well-hooded sisters, and the stare she returned to Reanne held no little anger. 
"What would we go back for? To be told again we aren't strong enough and be sent 
on our way? Or will they just keep us as novices the rest of our lives? Some 
might accept that, but I won't. What for, Reanne? What for?"
Nynaeve climbed down, tugging her mare forward at the end of her reins, and 
Elayne imitated her, though leading Lioness more easily. "To be part of the 
Tower, if that's what you wish," Nynaeve said impatiently before even reaching 
the two Kinswomen. "Maybe to be Aes Sedai. Myself, I don't know why you have to 
be a certain strength, if you can pass the fool tests. Or don't go back; run 
away, for all I care. Once I'm done here, anyway." Planting her feet, she pulled 
off her hat and planted her fists on her hips. "This is wasting time, Reanne, 
and we have work to do. Are you sure there's anybody here we can use? Speak up. 
If you're not sure, then we might as well get on with it. The hurry might be out 
of the way, but now we have the thing, I'd as soon it was over and done with."
When she and Elayne were introduced as Aes Sedai, the Aes Sedai who had given 
the promises, Alise made a choked sound and began smoothing her woolen skirts as 
though her hands wanted to latch on to Reanne's throat. Her mouth opened angrily 
 --  then snapped shut without a sound when Merilille joined them. That stern gaze 
did not fade completely, but it became mixed with a touch of wonder. And more 
than a touch of wariness.
"Nynaeve Sedai," Merilille said calmly, "the Atha'an Miere are . . . impatient . 
. . to be off their horses. I think some may ask for Healing." A brief smile 
flickered across her lips.
That settled that question, though Nynaeve grumbled extravagantly about what she 
was going to do to the next person who doubted her. Elayne might have said a few 
choice words herself, but the truth was, Nynaeve looked more than a little silly 
carrying on that way with Merilille and Reanne both waiting attentively for her 
to finish and Alise staring at all three. That settled it, or perhaps it was the 
Windfinders, afoot and pulling their horses behind them. Every shred of grace 
had vanished during the rde, worn away by hard saddles  --  their legs seemed as 
stiff as their faces  --  yet no one could mistake them for anything but who they 
were.
"If there are twenty Sea Folk this far from the sea," Alise muttered, "I'll 
believe anything." Nynaeve snorted but said nothing, for which Elayne was 
grateful. The woman seemed to be having a hard enough time accepting even with 
Merilille naming them Aes Sedai. Neither tirade nor tantrum would help.
"Then Heal them," Nynaeve told Merilille. Their eyes went to the hobbling women 
together, and Nynaeve added, "If they ask. Politely." Merilille smiled again, 
but Nynaeve had already abandoned the Sea Folk and gone back to frowning at the 
now all but empty farm. A few goats still trotted around a farmyard littered 
with dropped wash and rakes and brooms, spilled buckets and baskets, not to 
mention the crumpled forms of Kinswomen who had fainted, and a handful of 
chickens had gone back to scratching and pecking, but the only conscious women 
still in sight among the farm buildings were plainly not of the Kin. Some wore 
embroidered linen or silk and some rough country woolens, yet the fact that they 
had not run spoke that much of them. Reanne said that at any given time as many 
as half those at the farm might fall into that group. Most appeared stunned.
Despite her grumbling, Nynaeve wasted no time taking charge of Alise. Or perhaps 
Alise took charge of Nynaeve. It was difficult to tell, since the Kinswoman 
showed little of the deference toward Aes Sedai that the Knitting Circle did. 
Perhaps she was still just too numbed by the sudden turn of events. In any case, 
they moved off together, Nynaeve leading her mare and gesturing with the hat in 
her other hand, instructing Alise on how to bring in the scattered women and 
what to do with them once they were collected. Reanne had been sure that at 
least one woman strong enough to join the circle was there, Garenia Rosoinde, 
and possibly two more. In truth, Elayne was hoping they had all gone. Alise 
alternated between nodding and giving Nynaeve very level looks that Nynaeve 
seemed not to notice.
Now, in the wait while the gathering was done, seemed a good time to do a bit 
more searching through the panniers, but when Elayne turned toward the 
packhorses, which were just beginning to be lead toward the farm buildings, she 
noticed the Knitting Circle, Reanne and the whole lot of them, making their own 
way into the farm on foot, some hurrying toward women lying on the ground, 
others toward those standing about gaping. The whole lot of them, and no sign of 
Ispan. It took only a glance to find her, though. Between Adeleas and Vandene, 
each holding an arm as they half-dragged her along, their dust-cloaks streaming 
behind.
The white-haired sisters were linked, the glow of saidar somehow encompassing 
them both without including Ispan. There was no way to tell which led the small 
circle and held the shield on the Darkfriend, but not even one of the Forsaken 
could have broken it. They stopped to speak to a stout woman in plain brown 
wool, who gaped at the leather sack covering Ispan's head but still curtsied and 
pointed toward one of the white-plastered buildings. Elayne exchanged angry 
glances with Aviendha. Well, hers was angry, anyway. Sometimes Aviendha gave 
away no more than a stone. Handing their horses over to two of the palace 
stablemen, they hurried after the three. Some of the women who were not of the 
Kin tried to question them about what was happening, a few in rather overbearing 
fashion, but Elayne gave them short shrift, leaving behind a wake of indignant 
sniffs and snorts. Oh, what she would not give to have the ageless face already! 
That tweaked a thread in the back of her thoughts, but it vanished as soon as 
she tried to examine it.
When she pushed open the plain wooden door where the trio had vanished, Adeleas 
and Vandene had Ispan seated in a ladder-back chair with her head bare, the sack 
lying atop a narrow trestle table with their linen cloaks. The room possessed 
only one window, set in the ceiling, but with the sun still high it let in a 
good light. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with large copper pots and big 
white bowls. By the smell of bread baking, the only other door led into a 
kitchen.
Vandene looked around sharply at the sound of the door, but seeing them, she 
smoothed her face to a total lack of expression. Sumeko said the herbs Nynaeve 
gave her were wearing off," she said, "and it seemed best to question her a 
little before fuzzing her brain again. We do seem to have time, now. It would be 
good to know what the . . . the Black Ajah," her mouth twisted in distaste, "was 
up to in Ebou Dar. And what they know."
"I doubt they are aware of this farm, since we were not," Adeleas said, tapping 
a finger thoughtfully on her lips as she studied the woman in the chair, "but it 
is better to be sure than to weep later, as our father used to say." She might 
have been examining an animal she had never seen before, a creature she could 
not fathom existing.
Ispan's lip curled. Sweat rolled down her bruised face, and her dark, beaded 
braids were disheveled and her clothing all disarrayed, but despite bleary eyes, 
she was not nearly so woozy as she had been. "The Black Ajah, it is a fable, and 
a filthy one," she sneered, a trifle hoarsely. It must have been very hot inside 
that leather sack, and she had had no water since leaving the Tarasin Palace. 
"Me, I am surprised that you will give it voice. And to cast the charge on me! 
What I have done, I have done on the orders of the Amyrlin Seat."
"Elaida!" Elayne spat incredulously. "You have the nerve to claim that Elaida 
ordered you to murder sisters and steal from the Tower? Elaida ordered what you 
did in Tear and Tanchico? Or do you mean Siuan? Your lies are pathetic! You've 
forsaken the Three Oaths, somehow, and that names you Black Ajah."
"I do not have to answer the questions from you," Ispan said sullenly, hunching 
her shoulders. "You are rebels against the lawful Amyrlin Seat. You will be 
punished, perhaps stilled. Especially if you harm me. I serve the true Amyrlin 
Seat, and you will be punished severely if you harm me."
"You will answer any questions my near-sister asks." Aviendha tested her belt 
knife on a thumbnail, but her eyes were on Ispan's. "Wetlanders fear pain. They 
do not know how to embrace it, accept it. You will answer as you are asked." She 
did not glare or snarl, she just spoke, but Ispan shrank back in the chair. "I 
fear that is proscribed, even were she not an initiate of the Tower," Adeleas 
said. "We are forbidden to shed blood in questioning, or to allow others to do 
so in our name." She sounded reluctant, though whether over the prohibition or 
over admitting that Ispan was an initiate, Elayne could not say. She herself had 
not really considered that Ispan might still be considered one. There was a 
saying that no woman was finished with the Tower until it was finished with her, 
but truthfully, once the White Tower touched you, it never was finished.
Her brow furrowed as she studied the Black sister, so bedraggled and still so 
sure of herself. Ispan sat up a little straighter, and darted glances full of 
amused contempt at Aviendha  --  and Elayne. She had not been so poised earlier, 
when she thought it was Nynaeve and Elayne alone who had her; regained composure 
had come with remembering that there were older sisters present. Sisters who 
would hold White Tower law as part of themselves. That law forbade not only 
shedding blood, but breaking bones and a number of other things that any 
Whitecloak Questioner would be more than ready to do. Before any session began, 
Healing had to be given, and if the questioning started after sunrise, it had to 
end before sundown; if after sunset, then before sunrise. The law was even more 
restrictive when it came to initiates of the Tower, the sisters and Accepted and 
novices, banning the use of saidar in questioning, punishment, or penance. Oh, a 
sister might flick a novice's ear with the Power if she was exasperated, or even 
give her a swat on the bottom, but not very much more. Ispan smiled at her. 
Smiled! Elayne took a deep breath.
"Adeleas, Vandene, I want you to leave Aviendha and me alone with Ispan." Her 
stomach tried to tie itself into a knot. There had to be a way to press the 
woman sufficiently to learn what was needed without breaking Tower law. But how? 
People who were to be questioned by the Tower usually began talking before a 
finger was laid on them  --  everyone knew that no one held out against the Tower; 
no one!  --  but they were very seldom initiates. She could hear another voice, not 
Lini's this time, but her mother's. What you order done, you must be willing to 
do with your own hand. As a queen, what you order done, you have done. If she 
did break the law . . . Her mother's voice again. Even a queen cannot be above 
the law, or there is no law. And Lini's. 'You can do whatever you wish, child. 
So long as you're willing to pay the price.' She dragged her hat off without 
untying the ribbons. Keeping her voice steady took an effort. "When we are  --  
when we are done talking with her, you can take her back to the Knitting 
Circle." Afterward, she would submit herself to Merilille. Any five sisters 
could sit in judgment to set a penance, if they were asked.
Ispan's head swung, swollen eyes going from Elayne to Aviendha and back, slowly 
widening until the whites showed all the around. She was not so sure of herself 
now. Silent glances passed between Vandene and Adeleas, in the manner of people 
who had spent so much time together they hardly needed to speak aloud any 
longer; then Vandene took Elayne and Aviendha each by an arm. "If I may speak 
with you outside a moment," she murmured. It sounded a suggestion, but she was 
already urging them to the door.
Outside in the farmyard, perhaps two dozen or so Kinswomen were huddled together 
like sheep. Not all wore Ebou Dari clothes, but two had the red belts of Wise 
Women, and Elayne recognized Berowin, a stout little woman who normally showed a 
pride far greater than her strength in the Power. Not now. Like the rest, her 
face was frightened, her eyes darting, despite the entire Knitting Circle 
surrounding them and talking urgently. Down the way, Nynaeve and Alise were 
trying to herd perhaps twice as many women inside one of the larger buildings. 
"Trying" did seem to be the word.
" . . . don't care what estates you hold," Nynaeve was shouting at a 
proud-necked woman in pale green silk. "You get in there and stay in there, out 
of the way, or I'll kick you inside!"
Alise simply seized the green-clad woman by the scruff of the neck and ran her 
through the doorway despite voluble and heated protests. There was a loud squawk 
like a huge goose being stepped on, then Alise reappeared, dusting her hands. 
The others seemed to give no trouble after that.
Vandene released them, studying their eyes. The glow still enveloped her, yet 
Adeleas must have been focusing their combined flows. Vandene could have 
maintained the shield, once woven, without being able to see it, but had she 
been the one, it was much likelier that Adeleas would have brought them out. 
Vandene could have gone several hundred paces before the link began to attenuate 
 --  it would not break if she and Adeleas went to opposite corners of the earth, 
though it would have been useless long before that  --  but she remained close to 
the door. She seemed to sort words in her head.
"I've always thought it best if women with experience handle this sort of 
thing," she said finally. "The young can easily be caught up in hot blood. Then 
they do too much. Or sometimes, they realize they can't bring themselves to do 
enough. Because they haven't really seen enough, yet. Or worst of all, they find 
a . . . taste for it. Not that I believe either of you has that flaw."
She gave Aviendha a weighing glance without pausing; Aviendha hastily sheathed 
her belt knife. "Adeleas and I have seen enough to know why we must do what must 
be done, and we left hot blood behind long ago. Perhaps you will leave this to 
us. Much better that way, all around." Vandene seemed to take the recommendation 
as accepted. She nodded and turned back toward the door.
No sooner had she disappeared behind it, than Elayne felt the use of the Power 
within, a weave that must have blanketed the room inside. A ward against 
eavesdropping, certainly. They would not want stray ears to catch whatever Ispan 
said. Then another use hit her, and suddenly the silence from within was more 
ominous than any shrieks that ward would contain.
She crushed her hat back onto her head. The heat she could not feel, but the 
sun's glare suddenly made her queasy. "Maybe you'll help me look over what the 
packhorses are carrying," she said breathily. She had not ordered it done  --  
whatever it was  --  but that did not seem to change anything. Aviendha nodded with 
surprising quickness; she seemed to want to be away from that silence, too.
The Windfinders were waiting not far from where the servants had the pack 
animals, waiting impatiently and staring about imperiously, arms folded beneath 
their breasts, copying Renaile. Alise marched up to them, marking Renaile out as 
the leader after one sweeping glance. Elayne and Aviendha she ignored.
"Come with me," she said in brisk tones that brooked no argument. "The Aes Sedai 
say you will want to be out of the sun until matters are more settled." The 
words "Aes Sedai" held as much bitterness as they did the awe Elayne was used to 
from Kinswomen. Maybe more. Renaile stiffened, her dark face growing darker, but 
Alise plowed on. "You wilders can sit out here and sweat if that's what you 
want, for all of me. If you can sit." It was obvious none of the Atha'an Miere 
had received Healing for their saddle soreness; they stood like women who wanted 
to forget they existed below the waist. "What you will not do is keep me 
waiting."
'Do you know who I am?" Renaile demanded in a tight fury, but Alise was already 
walking away and not looking back. Struggling with herself visibly, Renaile 
dashed sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, then angrily ordered 
the other Wind-finders to leave the "shore-cursed" horses and follow her. They 
made a spraddle-legged line wobbling along after Alise, everyone but the two 
apprentices muttering to herself  --  Alise included.
Instinctively, Elayne began to plan how to smooth matters over, how to get the 
Atha'an Miere's pains Healed without them having to ask. Or a sister having to 
offer too strenuously; Nynaeve had to be appeased, too, and the other sisters. 
To her surprise, she suddenly realized that for once in her life she had no real 
desire to smooth anything. Watching the Windfinders limp toward one of the farm 
buildings, she decided that matters were fine just as they were. Aviendha wore a 
large, open grin as she watched the Atha'an Miere. Elayne snatched the much 
smaller smile from her own face and turned to the packhorses. They did deserve 
it, though. Not grinning was very hard.
With Aviendha's help, the searching went more quickly than before, though 
Aviendha did not recognize what they were after as quickly as she did. Not a 
great surprise. A few of the sisters Elayne had trained showed a greater skill 
in this than she did herself, but most came nowhere near. Still, two sets of 
hands found more than one, and there was a great deal to be found. Liveried 
stablemen and women carried away the rubbish, while a collection of ter'angreal 
grew on the broad stone lid of a square cistern.
Four more horses were unloaded quickly, and they accumulated a selection that 
would have caused a celebration, brought into the Tower. Even with no one 
studying ter'angreal. They took every form imaginable. Cups and bowls and vases, 
no two the same size or design or in the same material. A flat, worm-eaten box, 
half-falling apart and whatever had lined it long since gone to dust, held 
pieces of jewelry  --  a necklace and bracelets set with colored stones, a slim 
gem-studded belt, several finger rings  --  and there were spaces for more. Every 
single one was a ter'angreal, and they all matched, meant to be worn together, 
though Elayne could not imagine why any woman would want to carry so many about 
her at one time. Aviendha found a dagger with gold wire wrapped around a hilt of 
rough deerhorn; the blade was dull, and by all evidence, always had been. She 
kept turning that over and over in her fingers  --  her hands actually began to 
tremble  --  until Elayne took it away from her and put it with the others on the 
cistern's lid. Even then Aviendha stood for a time, looking at it and licking 
her lips as though they had gone dry. There were finger rings, earrings, 
necklaces, bracelets and buckles, many of very peculiar pattern indeed. There 
were statuettes and figures of birds and animals and people, several knives that 
did have edges, half a dozen large medallions in bronze or steel, most worked 
with strange patterns and not one carrying an image Elayne could really 
understand, a pair of peculiar hats seemingly made of metal, too ornate and too 
thin to be helmets, and any number of items she could not think what to call. A 
rod, as thick as her wrist, bright red and smooth and rounded, firm rather than 
hard for all that it seemed to be stone; it did not warm slightly in her hand, 
it almost felt hot! Not real heat any more than the warmth was real, but still! 
What about a set of metal basketwork balls, one inside the other? Any movement 
produced a faint musical chime, a different tone every time, and she had the 
feeling that no matter how hard she looked into it, there would always be a 
still smaller ball waiting to be discovered. A thing that looked like a 
blacksmith's puzzle made of glass? It was heavy enough that she dropped it, and 
it broke a chip off the edge of the cistern cover. A collection to stir 
amazement in any Aes Sedai. More important, they found two more angreal. Those 
Elayne set very carefully aside, within arm's reach.
One was an odd piece of jewelry, a golden bracelet attached by four flat chains 
to finger rings, every bit of it engraved in an intricate mazelike pattern. That 
was the stronger of the two, stronger than the turtle still in her pouch. It was 
made for a smaller hand than hers or Aviendha's. Strangely, the bracelet had a 
tiny lock, complete with a minuscule, tubular key dangling from a fine chain 
that was obviously made to be removed. Along with the key! The other was a 
seated woman in age-darkened ivory, her legs folded in front of her, her exposed 
knees bare, but with hair so long and luxuriant she could not have been more 
muffled in the heaviest cloak. It was not even as strong as the turtle, but she 
found it very appealing. One hand rested on a knee, palm up and fingers arranged 
so the thumb touched the tips of the middle two fingers, while the other hand 
was lifted, the first two fingers raised and the others folded. The whole figure 
carried an air of supreme dignity, yet the delicately worked face showed 
amusement and delight. Maybe it had been made for a particular woman? It seemed 
personal, somehow. Perhaps they had done that, in the Age of Legends. Some 
ter'angreal were immense, needing men and horses, or even the Power, to move, 
but most angreal were small enough to carry about your person; not all, but 
most.
They were tossing back the canvas covers on another set of wicker panniers when 
Nynaeve came striding up. The Atha'an Miere began filing out of one of the farm 
buildings, no longer limping. Merilille was talking with Renaile, or rather, the 
Wind-finder was talking and Merilille listening. Elayne wondered what had 
happened in there. The slim Gray did not look so satisfied anymore. The huddle 
of Kinswomen had grown larger, but even as Elayne looked up, three more came 
hesitantly into the farmyard, and another two stood at the edge of the olive 
trees, peering about indecisively. She could sense Birgitte, somewhere out among 
the groves and only a little less irritated than earlier.
Nynaeve glanced at the display of ter'angreal and gave her braid a tug. Her hat 
had gone missing somewhere. "That can wait," she said, sounding disgusted. "It's 
time."
Chapter 5
The Breaking Storm
The sun stood little more than halfway down toward the horizon by the time they 
clambered up the well-worn, snaking path to the top of the steep-sided hill 
above the barns. That was the spot Renaile had chosen. It did make sense from 
what Elayne knew of working weather, all learned from a Sea Folk Windfinder, to 
be sure. Changing anything beyond your immediate vicinity required working over 
long distances, which meant being able to see a long distance, much easier on 
the ocean than on land. Except from a mountain or hilltop. It also needed a deft 
hand to avoid causing torrential rains or whirlwinds or the Light alone knew 
what elsewhere. Whatever you did, the effects spread like ripples from a stone 
tossed into a pond. She had no desire whatsoever to lead the circle that would 
use the Bowl.
The top of the hill was clear of brush and flat, if far from level, a rough 
stone table, fifty paces long and broad, with plenty of room for everybody who 
needed to be there, and some who did not, strictly speaking. From at least fifty 
paces above the farm, the spectacular view stretched for miles over a patchwork 
quilt of forms and pastures, forests and olive groves. Far too many browns and 
sere yellows were mixed in with a hundred shades of green, crying the need for 
what they were to do, yet even so, the beauty of it struck Elayne. Despite dust 
in the air like a faint mist, she could see so far! The land really was quite 
flat here except for those few hills. Ebou Dar lay just out of sight to the 
south even if she embraced the Power, yet it seemed she should be able to see 
it, by straining just a little. Surely with a little effort she could see the 
River Eldar. A marvelous view. Not everyone was interested.
"An hour wasted," Nynaeve grumbled, glaring sideways at Reanne. And at just 
about everyone else. With Lan not there, it seemed she might take the 
opportunity to unleash her temper. "Almost an hour. Maybe more. Completely 
wasted. Alise is capable enough, I suppose, but you'd think Reanne would know 
who was there! Light! If that fool woman faints on me again . . .!" Elayne hoped 
she held on a little longer. It looked to be quite a storm once she let it 
break.
Reanne tried to keep a cheerful, eager face, yet her hands were never still on 
her skirts, constantly plucking and smoothing. Kirstian simply clutched hers and 
sweated, appearing ready to empty her stomach any minute; when anyone looked at 
her, anyone at all, she shivered. The third Kinswoman, Garenia, was a Saldaean 
merchant with a strong nose and a wide mouth, a short slim-hipped woman, 
stronger than the other two, who looked not that much older than Nynaeve. A 
greasy dampness glistened on her pale face, and her dark eyes grew wider 
whenever they fell on an Aes Sedai. Elayne thought she might soon discover 
whether someone's eyes actually could pop out of her head. At least Garenia had 
stopped moaning, which she had done all the way up the hill. There really had 
been another pair who might have been strong enough  --  possibly; the Kin did not 
pay much attention to that  --  but the last had gone on her way three days past. 
No one else at the farm even came close. Which was why Nynaeve was still 
disgusted. One reason. The other was that Garenia had been one of the very first 
found, passed out in the farmyard. For that matter, she fainted again the first 
two times she was roused, as soon as her eyes fell on one of the sisters. Of 
course, Nynaeve being Nynaeve, she was not about to admit that she should have 
done anything so simple as ask Alise who was still at the farm. Or even tell 
Alise what she was looking for before the woman inquired. Nynaeve never expected 
anyone to have sense to know up from down. Except herself.
"We could be done by now!" Nynaeve growled. "We could be shut of  -- !" She almost 
quivered with the effort of not scowling at the Sea Folk as they gathered near 
the east end of the stone table. Renaile, gesturing emphatically, appeared to be 
giving instructions. Elayne would have given a pretty to hear those.
Nynaeve's glares certainly took in Merilille and Careane and Sareitha, who still 
clutched the silk-wrapped Bowl tightly. Adeleas and Vandene had remained below, 
sequestered with Ispan. The three sisters stood chatting together, not paying 
any mind to Nynaeve unless she spoke to them directly, but Merilille's gaze 
sometimes slipped to the Windfinders, then jerked away; her mask of serenity 
faltered slightly, and she licked her lips with the tip of her tongue.
Had she made some mistake down below while Healing them? Merilille had 
negotiated treaties and mediated disputes between nations; few in the White 
Tower were better than she. But Elayne remembered hearing a story once, a joke 
of sorts, about a Domani merchant, a Sea Folk Cargomaster and an Aes Sedai. Not 
many people told jokes involving Aes Sedai; telling one might not be entirely 
safe. The merchant and the Cargomaster found an ordinary rock on the shore and 
proceeded to sell it back and forth between them, somehow making a profit each 
time. Then an Aes Sedai came along. The Domani convinced the Aes Sedai to buy 
the simple stone for twice what she herself had last paid. After which the 
Atha'an Miere convinced the Aes Sedai to buy the same rock from him for twice 
that again. Only a joke, but it showed what people believed. Maybe the older 
sisters would not have done any better bargaining with the Sea Folk.
Aviendha strode straight to the edge of the cliffs as soon as she reached the 
hilltop, and stood staring north, motionless as a statue. After a moment, Elayne 
realized that she was not admiring the view; Aviendha was simply staring. 
Gathering her skirts a bit awkwardly with the three angreal in hand, she joined 
her friend.
The cliff fell in fifty-foot steps to olive groves, steep swathes or ridged gray 
stone, bare except for a few small, dying bushes. The drop was not really 
bothersome, but it was hardly the same as looking at the ground from the top of 
a tree, either. Strangely, looking down made Elayne feel a trifle dizzy. 
Aviendha did not seem to notice that the edge was right at her toes.
"Is something troubling you?" Elayne asked quietly. Aviendha kept her gaze on 
the distance. "I have failed you," she said finally. Her voice was flat, empty. 
"I cannot form the gateway properly, and all saw me shame you. I thought a 
servant was one of the Shadowwrought, and behaved worse than foolishly. The 
Atha'an Miere ignore me and glare at the Aes Sedai, as if I am an Aes Sedai dog 
yapping at their command. I pretended I could make the Shadowrunner talk for 
you, but no Far Dareis Mai is allowed to question prisoners until she has been 
wed to the spear for twenty years, or even to watch until she has carried it 
ten. I am weak and soft, Elayne. I cannot bear to shame you further. If I fail 
you again, I will die."
Elayne's mouth went dry. That sounded too close to a promise. Gripping 
Aviendha's arm firmly, she drew her back from the edge. Aiel could be almost as 
peculiar as the Sea Folk thought they were. She did not really think Aviendha 
would jump off  --  not really  --  but she was not about to take any chances. At 
least the other woman did not try to resist.
Everyone else seemed to be engrossed in themselves, or in each other. Nynaeve 
had begun speaking to the Atha'an Miere, both hands tight on her braid and her 
face almost as dark as theirs from the strain of not shouting, while they 
listened with contemptuous arrogance. Merilille and Sareitha still guarded the 
Bowl, but Careane was attempting to talk with the Kinswomen, without much 
success. Reanne answered, if blinking uneasily and licking her lips, but 
Kirstian stood trembling and silent, while Garenia's eyes were squeezed shut. 
Elayne kept her voice low anyway; this was none of their business.
"You haven't failed anyone, least of all me, Aviendha. Nothing you've done has 
ever shamed me, and nothing you do ever could." Aviendha blinked at her 
doubtfully. "And you're about as weak and soft as a stone." That had to be the 
oddest compliment she had ever paid anyone, yet Aviendha actually looked 
gratified. "I'll bet the Sea Folk are scared silly of you, too." Another strange 
one; it made Aviendha smile, if only faintly. Elayne drew a breath. "As for 
Ispan . . . " She did not like even thinking about this. "I thought I could do 
what was necessary, too, but just letting my mind dwell on it makes my hands 
sweat and my stomach roil. I'd throw up if I even tried. So we share that."
Aviendha made the Maiden handtalk sign for "You startle me"; she had started 
teaching some of them to Elayne, though she said it was forbidden. Apparently, 
being near-sisters who were learning to be more changed that. Except that it did 
not, really. Aviendha seemed to think her explanation had been perfectly clear. 
"I did not mean I could not," she said aloud, "only that I do not know how. 
Likely I would have killed her, trying." Suddenly she smiled, much wider and 
warmer than before, and lightly touched Elayne's cheek. "We both have weakness 
in us," she whispered, "but it brings no shame so long as only we two know."
"Yes," Elayne said weakly. She just did not know how! "Of course it doesn't." 
This woman contained more surprises than any gleeman. "Here," she said, pressing 
the woman-wrapped-in-her-hair into Aviendha's hand. "Use this in the circle." 
Letting the angreal go was not easy. She had intended to use it herself, but 
smiles or no smiles, her friend's spirits  --  her near-sister's spirits  --  needed 
raising. Aviendha turned the small ivory figure over in her hands; Elayne could 
almost see her trying to decide how to give it back. "Aviendha, you know how it 
feels when you hold as much of saidar as you can? Think of holding almost twice 
as much. Really think of it. I want you to use it. Please?"
Perhaps Aiel did not show a great deal on their faces, but Aviendha's green eyes 
widened. They had discussed angreal, considering their search, but she probably 
never had thought what it would be like to use one before this. "Twice as much," 
she murmured. "To hold all that. I can barely make myself imagine. This is a 
very great gift, Elayne." She touched Elayne's cheek again, pressing her 
fingertips; that was the Aiel equivalent of a kiss and a hug.
Whatever Nynaeve had to say to the Sea Folk, it did not take long. She stalked 
away from them twitching at her skirts furiously. Approaching Elayne, she 
frowned equally at Aviendha and at the edge of the cliff. Usually she denied her 
poor head for heights, but she kept them between herself and the drop. "I have 
to talk to you," she muttered, guiding Elayne a little distance along the 
hilltop. And farther from the edge. A little way, but far enough from anyone to 
avoid being overheard. She drew several deep breaths before beginning, in a low 
voice, and she did not look at Elayne.
"I . . . I've been behaving like a fool. It's that bloody man's fault! When he's 
not right in front of me, I can hardly think of anything else, and when he is, I 
can hardly think at all! You . . . you have to tell me when I . . . when I'm 
acting the fool. I depend on you, Elayne." Her voice stayed low, but her tone 
became almost a wail. "I can't afford to lose my wits in a man, not now."
Elayne was so shocked, she could not speak for a moment. Nynaeve, admitting she 
had been a fool? She almost looked to see whether the sun had turned green! "It 
isn't Lan's fault, and you know it, Nynaeve," she said at last. She pushed away 
memories of her own recent thoughts about Rand. This was not the same. And the 
opportunity was a gift of the Light. Tomorrow, Nynaeve would likely try to box 
her ears if she said Nynaeve was being foolish. "Take hold of yourself, Nynaeve. 
Stop behaving like a giddy girl." Definitely not thoughts of Rand! She had not 
been mooning over him that badly! "You're an Aes Sedai, and you are supposed to 
be leading us. Lead! And think!"
Folding her hands at her waist, Nynaeve actually hung her head. "I'll try," she 
mumbled. "I will, truly. You don't know what it's like, though. I . . . I'm 
sorry."
Elayne nearly swallowed her tongue. Nynaeve, apologizing on top of the other? 
Nynaeve, abashed? Maybe she was ill.
It did not last, of course. Abruptly frowning at the angreal, Nynaeve cleared 
her throat. "You gave one to Aviendha, did you?" she said briskly. "Well, I 
suppose she's all right. A pity we have to let the Sea Folk use one. I'll wager 
they try to hang on to it! Well, just let them try! Which one is mine?"
With a sigh, Elayne handed her the bracelet-and-rings, and she stalked away, 
fumbling the piece of jewelry onto her left hand and calling loudly for everyone 
to take their places. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell Nynaeve leading from 
Nynaeve bullying. As long as she did lead, though.
The Bowl of the Winds sat atop its unfolded white wrappings in the center of the 
hilltop, a shallow, heavy disc of clear crystal two feet across, worked inside 
with thick swirling clouds. An ornate piece, yet simple when you thought of what 
it could do. What they hoped it could do. Nynaeve took up her place nearby, the 
angreal finally clicking shut on her wrist. She worked her hand, looking 
surprised that the chains did not seem to inconvenience her; it fit as if made 
for her hand. The three Kinswomen were already there, Kirstian and Garenia 
huddling at Reanne's back and appearing more frightened than ever, if that was 
possible. The Windfinders still stood arrayed behind Renaile, almost twenty 
paces away.
Lifting her divided skirts, Elayne met Aviendha at the Bowl and eyed the Sea 
Folk suspiciously. Did they intend to create a fuss? She had been afraid of 
exactly that from the first mention of women at the farm who might be strong 
enough to join the link. The Atha'an Miere were sticklers for rank enough to 
shame the White Tower, and Garenia's presence meant that Renaile din Calon Blue 
Star, Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships to the Atha'an Miere, would not be 
part of the circle. Should not be.
Renaile frowned searchingly at the women around the Bowl. She seemed to be 
weighing them, judging their capabilities. "Talaan din Gelyn," she barked 
suddenly, "take your station!" It was like a whip-crack! Even Nynaeve jumped.
Talaan bowed low, touching her heart, then ran to the Bowl. As soon as she 
moved, Renaile barked again. "Metarra din Junalle, take your station!" Metarra, 
plump yet solid, sped on Talaan's heels. Neither apprentice was old enough to 
have earned what the Sea Folk called a "salt name."
Once begun, Renaile rattled off names quickly, sending Rainyn and two other 
Windfinders, all of whom moved quickly, yet not so fast as the apprentices. By 
the number of their medallions, Naime and Rysael were higher in rank than 
Rainyn, dignified women with a quiet air of command, but markedly weaker. Then 
Renaile paused, only for a heartbeat, yet in that rapid listing K stood out. 
"Tebreille din Gelyn South Wind, take your station! Caire din Gelyn Running 
Wave, assume the command!"
Elayne felt a moment of relief that Renaile had not named herself, but it lasted 
about as long as Renaile's pause had. Tereille and Caire exchanged one look, 
Tebreille grim and Caire smug, before moving to the Bowl. Eight earrings and a 
multitude of overlapping medallions marked each Windfinder to a Clan 
Wavemistress. Only Renaile stood above them; only Dorile among the Sea Folk on 
the hilltop was their equal. In brocaded yellow silks, Caire was slightly the 
taller, Tebreille in brocaded green somewhat sterner of face, both more than 
handsome women, and it did not take their names to know them blood sisters. They 
had the same big, almost black eyes, the same straight nose, the same strong 
chin. Caire silently pointed to a spot at her right side; Tebreille did not 
speak either, nor did she hesitate in standing where her sister pointed, but her 
face was stone. With her, a circle of thirteen women surrounded the Bowl nearly 
shoulder-to-shoulder. Caire's eyes almost sparkled. Tebreille's were leaden. 
Elayne was reminded of another of Lini's sayings. No knife is sharper than a 
sister's hate.
Caire glared around the circle of women surrounding the Bowl, not yet truly a 
circle, as though trying to fix each face in her mind. Or maybe to fix her scowl 
in theirs. Remembering herself, Elayne hurriedly passed the last angreal, the 
small amber turtle, to Talaan and started to explain how it was used. The 
explanation was simple, yet anyone who tried without knowing how could fumble 
for hours. She was not given the chance for five words.
"Silence!" Caire roared. Tattooed fists on her hips and bare feet apart, she 
belonged on the deck of a ship going into battle. "There will be no talking on 
station without my permission. Talaan, report yourself immediately on returning 
to your ship." Nothing in Caire's tone suggested that she was speaking to her 
own daughter. Talaan bowed deeply, touching her heart, and murmured something 
inaudible. Caire snorted contemptuously  --  and gave Elayne a glare that suggested 
a wish that she could order her to report herself to someone as well  --  before 
going on in a voice that might have been heard at the base of the hill. "Today, 
we shall do what has not been done since the Breaking of the World, when our 
ancestors fought wind and wave gone mad. By the Bowl of the Winds and the mercy 
of the Light, they survived. Today, we will use the Bowl of the Winds, lost to 
us for more than two thousand years, and now returned. I have studied the 
ancient lore, studied the records of the days when our foremothers first learned 
the sea and the Weaving of the Winds, and the salt entered our blood. What is 
known of the Bowl of the Winds, I know, more than anyone else." Her eyes cut 
toward her sister, a satisfied glance that Tebreille did not acknowledge. Which 
seemed to satisfy Caire even more. "What the Aes Sedai cannot do, I will do 
today, if it pleases the Light. I expect every woman to stand her station to the 
last. I will not accept failure." The rest of the Atha'an Miere seemed to accept 
that speech as expected and proper, but the Kinswomen gaped at Caire in 
astonishment. In Elayne's opinion, grandiose did not begin to describe it; 
plainly Caire fully expected that the Light would be pleased, and she would be 
most displeased if it was not! Nynaeve rolled her eyes to the heavens and opened 
her mouth. Caire forestalled her.
"Nynaeve," the Windfinder announced loudly, "you will now demonstrate your skill 
at linking. Be about it, woman, and quickly!"
In response, Nynaeve shut her eyes tight. Her lips . . . writhed. She looked 
about to burst a blood vessel. "I assume that means I have permission to speak!" 
she murmured. Fortunately too low to be heard by Caire, on the far side of the 
circle. Opening her eyes, she put on a smile that was quite horrible when added 
to the rest of her expression. She was a sour stomach and several other 
complaints rolled into one.
"The first thing is to embrace the True Source, Caire." The light of saidar 
suddenly shone bright around Nynaeve; she was using the angreal on her hand 
already, by what Elayne could feel. "I assume you know how to do that, of 
course." Ignoring the abrupt tightening of Caire's mouth, Nynaeve went on. 
"Elayne will now assist me in the demonstration. If we have your permission?"
"I prepare myself to embrace the Source," Elayne put in quickly, before Caire 
could erupt, "but I don't actually embrace it." She opened herself, and the 
Windfinders leaned forward, peering at her, though there really was nothing to 
see yet. Even Kirstian and Garenia forgot their fear enough to show interest. 
While I'm at this point, the rest is up to Nynaeve."
"Now I will reach out to her . . . " Nynaeve paused, looking at Talaan. Elayne 
had not had a chance to tell her anything, really. It s much the same as with an 
angreal" Nynaeve said, addressing the slender apprentice. Caire growled, and 
Talaan tried to watch Nynaeve with her head down. "You open yourself to the 
Source through an angreal, just as I will through Elayne. As though you mean to 
embrace the angreal and the Source at the same time. It isn't very difficult, 
really. Watch, and you'll see. When it's time to bring you into the circle, just 
put yourself on the brink. That way, when I embrace through you, I'll embrace 
through the angreal as well."
Concentration or no concentration, sweat began to bead on Elayne's forehead. But 
then, the heat had nothing to do with it. The True Source beckoned; it throbbed, 
and she throbbed with it. It demanded. The longer she hung just a hairsbreadth 
from touching the Power, the worse the desire, the need, would grow. Hanging, 
she began to tremble slightly. Vandene had told her that the longer you 
channeled, the worse that anticipation grew.
"Watch with Aviendha," Nynaeve told Talaan. "She knows how to  --  " She caught 
sight of Elayne's face and finished hurriedly. "Watch!"
It was not exactly the same as using an angreal, though very close. It was not 
meant to be done hurriedly, either; Nynaeve did not have a soft touch, at best. 
Elayne felt as though she were being shaken; nothing happened physically, but 
inside her head she seemed to be bouncing around, tumbling wildly downhill. 
Worse, she was jostled toward embracing saidar with excruciating slowness. It 
took less than a heartbeat, and seemed to take hours, days. She wanted to howl, 
but she could not breathe. Abruptly, like a dam bursting, the One Power flowed 
through her, a rush of life and joy, of bliss, and breath left her in a long 
gasp of pleasure and relief so overwhelming that her legs wobbled. It was all 
she could do to keep from panting. Tottering, pulling herself up, she gave 
Nynaeve a stern look, and Nynaeve shrugged apologetically. Twice in one day! The 
sun had to be turning green.
"I now control the flow of saidar from her as well as my own," Nynaeve went on, 
not quite meeting Elayne's eyes, "and will until I let her go. Now, don't fear 
that whoever leads the circle," she shot a frown at Caire and sniffed, "can make 
you draw too much. This really is a great deal like an angreal. The angreal 
buffers you against the extra Power, and in somewhat the same way, in a circle 
you can't be made to draw too much. In fact, in a circle you can't draw quite as 
much as you can otherwi  --  "
"This is dangerous!" Renaile broke in, shouldering roughly between Caire and 
Tebreille. Her scowl took in Nynaeve, Elayne, and the sisters standing off from 
the circle as well. "You say that one woman can simply seize another, hold her 
captive, use her? How long have you Aes Sedai known this? I warn you, if you try 
to use it on one of us  --  " It was her turn to be cut off.
"It doesn't work that way, Renaile." Sareitha touched Garenia, and she and 
Kirstian leaped apart to make room. The young Brown eyed Nynaeve uncertainly, 
then folded her hands and took on a lecturing tone, as if addressing a class. 
With it came composure; perhaps she did see Renaile as a pupil right then. "The 
Tower studied this for many years, long before the Trolloc Wars. I have read 
every page that survives in the Tower Library of those studies. It was proven 
conclusively that one woman cannot form a link with another against her will. It 
simply cannot be done; nothing happens. A willing surrender is necessary, just 
as in embracing to saidar itself." She sounded absolutely definite, but Renaile 
still frowned; too many people knew how Aes Sedai could sidestep the Oath 
against lying.
"And why did they study it?" Renaile demanded. "Why was the White Tower so 
interested in such a thing? Perhaps you Aes Sedai still study?"
"That is ridiculous." Exasperation dripped from Sareitha's voice. "If you must 
know, it was the problem of men who can channel that drew them to it. The 
Breaking of the World was a living memory to some, then. I don't suppose even 
very many sisters remember  --  it hasn't been part of the required instruction 
since before the Trolloc Wars  --  but men can be brought into a circle, too, and 
as the circle doesn't break even if you go to sleep . . . Well, you can see the 
advantages. That was an utter failure, unfortunately. More to the point here, I 
say again that it is impossible to force a woman into a circle. If you doubt, 
try it yourself. You will see."
Renaile nodded, accepting at last; there was very little else to do when an Aes 
Sedai made a simple statement of fact. Yet Elayne wondered. What was in the 
pages that had not survived? She had noticed a slight change in Sareitha's 
inflection at one point. She had questions. For later, when there were fewer 
ears around.
When Renaile and Sareitha withdrew, Nynaeve twitched her divided skirts 
straight, plainly irritated at the interruption, and opened her mouth again.
"Continue your demonstration, Nynaeve," Caire commanded harshly. Her dark face 
might have been smooth as a frozen pond, but she was not very pleased, either.
Nynaeve's mouth worked before she could make any sound come out, and when it 
did, she went on in a rush, as though afraid someone else might break in.
The next part of the lesson was passing control of the circle. That had to be 
done voluntarily, too, and even as she reached out toward Nynaeve, Elayne held 
her breath until she felt the subtle shift that meant she now controlled the 
Power flowing into her. And that flowing through Nynaeve, of course. She had not 
been sure it would work. Nynaeve could form a circle easily, if not with any 
finesse, but passing guidance also involved a form of surrender; Nynaeve had 
considerable difficulties relinquishing control or being brought into a circle, 
just as she had once had difficulty surrendering to saidar. Which was why Elayne 
kept the guidance for now. It would have to be passed to Caire, and Nynaeve 
might not be able to manage letting go twice. Those apologies must have been 
much easier for her.
Elayne linked next with Aviendha, so Talaan could actually see how it was done 
with an angreal, as much as there was to see, and it went perfectly; Aviendha 
was a very quick study, blending in easily. Talaan was quick as well, it turned 
out, adding her still greater angreal-aided flow without a hitch. One by one, 
Elayne brought them in, and she herself almost shivered at the river of the 
Power that streamed into her. No one yet was drawing nearly as much as she 
could, but it added up, especially with angreal involved. Elayne's awareness 
climbed higher with each addition of saidar. She could smell the heavy scents in 
the lacework gold boxes that the Windfinders wore around their necks, and 
separate one from another. She could make out each fold and crease in everyone's 
clothes as sharply as if she had her nose pressed to the cloth, more sharply. 
She was aware of the faintest movement of the air against her hair and skin, 
caresses she never would have noticed without the Power.
That was not the whole of her awareness, of course. The link had a certain 
kinship to the Warder bond, just as intense and somehow even more intimate. She 
knew that a tiny blister from climbing the hill made a spot of pain on Nynaeve's 
right heel; Nynaeve always talked about good stout shoes, but she had a weakness 
for slippers with a great deal of embroidery. Nynaeve wore a fixed frown, 
directed at Caire, her arms were crossed, her fingers wearing the angreal played 
on the braid pulled over her right shoulder, every line of her of a piece, yet 
inside she was a maelstrom of emotions. Fear, worry, anticipation, irritation, 
wariness and impatience bounced over each other, and washing through it all, 
sometimes submerging the rest, ripples of warmth and waves of heat that 
threatened to burst into flame. Those last Nynaeve suppressed quickly, 
especially the heat, but they always returned. Elayne almost thought she could 
recognize them, but it was like something glimpsed from the corner of your eye 
that was gone when you turned your head.
Surprisingly, Aviendha felt fear, too, but small and tightly contained, and all 
but swallowed by determination. Garenia and Kirstian, shaking visibly, were 
nearly pure terror, so strong it was amazing that they could even have begun to 
embrace the Source. What filled Reanne to overflowing was eagerness, and no 
matter her skirt smoothing. As for the Atha'an Miere . . . Even Tebreille exuded 
a wary alertness, and it did not take the quick darting of Metarra's eyes, and 
Rainyn's, to know the focus was Caire, watching them all, impatient and 
commanding.
Her, Elayne left to last, and it was no real surprise that she had to make four 
tries  --  four!  --  to bring the woman into the circle. Caire was no better at 
yielding than Nynaeve. Elayne desperately hoped the woman had been chosen for 
ability, not rank.
"I will now pass the circle to you," she told the Windfinder when it finally was 
done. "If you recall what I did with Ny  --  " Words froze momentarily in her 
throat as guidance of the circle was torn from her surrender, a sensation like 
having a sudden burst of wind rip all of her clothes off or yank the bones out 
of her. She exhaled fiercely, and if it sounded close to spitting, well, so be 
it.
"Good," Caire said, rubbing her hands together. "Good." Her attention focused on 
the Bowl, her head twisting this way and that as she studied it. Well, perhaps 
not all her attention. Reanne started to sit down, and without looking up, Caire 
snapped, "Hold your station, woman! This isn't a fish lolly! Stand till you're 
told to move!"
Startled, Reanne jerked back to her feet, muttering under her breath, but she 
might as well have ceased to exist as far as Caire was concerned. The 
Windfinder's eyes remained on the flattened crystal shape. Elayne felt resolve 
in her great enough to move a mountain. And something else, tiny and quickly 
stamped out. Uncertainty. Uncertainty? If after all of this, the woman really 
did not know what to do  --  
At that moment, Caire drew deeply. Saidar flooded through Elayne, almost as much 
as she could hold; an unbroken ring of light blazed into being, joining the 
women in the circle, brighter wherever one used an angreal, but nowhere faint. 
She watched closely as Caire channeled, forming a complex weave of all Five 
Powers, a four-pointed star that she laid atop the Bowl with what Elayne somehow 
was sure was exquisite precision. The star touched, and Elayne gasped. Once, she 
had channeled a trickle into the Bowl  --  in Tel'aran'rhiod, to be sure, and only 
a reflection of the Bowl, though still a dangerous thing to do  --  and that clear 
crystal had turned a pale blue, and the carved clouds moved. Now, the Bowl of 
the Winds was blue, the bright blue of a summer sky, and fleecy white clouds 
billowed across it.
The four-point star became five-pointed, the composition of the weave altered 
slightly, and the Bowl was a green sea with great heaving waves. Five points 
became six, and it was another sky, a different blue, darker, winter perhaps, 
with purple clouds heavy with rain or snow. Seven points, and a gray-green sea 
raged in storm. Eight points and sky. Nine and sea, and suddenly, Elayne felt 
the Bowl itself drawing saidar, a wild torrent far greater than all the circle 
together could manage.
The changes continued unabated inside the Bowl, sea to sky, waves to clouds, but 
a writhing, braided column of saidar shot up from that flattish crystal disc, 
Fire and Air, Water and Earth and Spirit, a column of intricate lace as wide as 
the Bowl, climbing up and up into the sky, until its top rose out of sight. 
Caire continued her weaving, sweat streaming down her face; she paused seemingly 
only to blink salty drops away from her eyes as she examined the images in the 
Bowl, then laid a new weave. The pattern of the braiding in the thick column 
altered with every weave, subtly echoing what Caire wove.
It was a very good thing she had not wanted to focus the flows for this circle, 
Elayne realized; what the woman was doing required years more study than she 
had. Many years more. Suddenly, she realized something else. That ever-changing 
lacework of saidar bent itself around something else, something unseen that made 
the column solid. She swallowed, hard. The Bowl was drawing saidin as well as 
saidar.
Her hope that no one else had puzzled that out vanished with one glance at the 
other women. Half stared at the twisting column with a revulsion that should 
have been reserved for the Dark One. Fear grew stronger among the emotions 
shared in her head. Some were approaching the level of Garenia and Kirstian, and 
it was a wonder those two had not fainted. Nynaeve was a hair from sicking up, 
for all her suddenly too smooth face. Aviendha appeared just as calm outwardly, 
but inside, that tiny fear quivered and pulsed, trying to grow.
From Caire came only determination, as steely hard as her expression. Nothing 
was going to stand in Caire's way, certainly not the mere presence of 
Shadow-tainted saidin mixed into her weaving. Nothing was going to stop her. She 
worked the flows, and abruptly spiderwebs of saidar blossomed from the unseen 
top of the column, like uneven spokes of a wheel, almost a solid fan to the 
south, sparser fans reaching north and northwest, single lacy spokes stretching 
in other directions. They changed as they grew, never the same from one moment 
to the next, spreading across the sky, farther and farther, until the ends of 
the pattern also passed out of sight. Not just saidar there either, Elayne was 
certain; in places that spiderweb caught and curved around something she could 
not see. Still Caire wove, and the column danced to her bidding, saidar and 
saidin together, and the spiderweb altered and flowed like a lopsided 
kaleidoscope spinning across the heavens, vanishing into the distance, on and on 
and on.
Without warning, Caire straightened, knuckling her back, and released the Source 
completely. Column and spiderweb evaporated, and she collapsed as much as sat 
down, breathing hard. The Bowl turned clear again, but small patches of saidar 
flashed and crackled around its edges. "It is done, the Light willing," she said 
tiredly.
Elayne hardly heard. That was not the way to end a circle. When Caire let go in 
that way, the Power disappeared from every woman simultaneously. Elayne's eyes 
popped. For one instant, it was as though she stood atop the highest tower in 
the world, and suddenly the tower was not there anymore! Just an instant, yet 
hardly pleasant. She felt tired, if not anywhere near what she would have had 
she actually done anything beyond serve as a conduit, but what she felt most was 
loss. Letting go of saidar was bad enough; having it simply vanish out of you 
went beyond thinking about.
Others had suffered far worse than she. As the glow joining the circle winked 
out, Nynaeve sat down right where she stood as though her legs had melted, sat 
stroking the bracelet-and-rings, staring at it and panting. Sweat rolled down 
her face. "I feel like a kitchen sieve that just had the whole mill poured 
through it," she murmured. Carrying that much of the Power had its cost even if 
you did nothing, even with an angreal.
Talaan wavered, a reed in the wind, casting surreptitious glances at her mother, 
plainly afraid to sit. Aviendha stood straight, her fixed expression saying that 
willpower had as much to do with that as anything else. She gave a slight smile, 
though, and made a gesture in Maiden handtalk  --  worth the price  --  and then 
another  --  more  --  right behind. More than worth the price. Everyone looked weary, 
if not so much as those who had used angreal. The Bowl of the Winds went quiet 
at last, just a wide bowl of clear crystal, but decorated now with towering 
waves. Saidar still seemed to be there, though, not being wielded by anyone, not 
visible, but in dimly felt flashes like those that had played around the Bowl at 
the end.
Nynaeve raised her head to glower at the cloudless sky, then lowered her gaze to 
Caire. "All that, for what? Did we do anything, or not?" A breath of air stirred 
across the hilltop, warm as the air in a kitchen.
The Windfinder struggled her feet. "Do you think Weaving the Winds is like 
throwing the helm over on a darter?" she demanded contemptuously. "I just moved 
the rudder on a skimmer with a beam as broad as the world! He will take time to 
turn, time to know he is supposed to turn. That he must turn. But when he does, 
not the Father of Storms himself will be able to stand in his way. I have done 
it, Aes Sedai, and the Bowl of the Winds is ours!"
Renaile moved into the circle, kneeling beside the Bowl. Carefully she began 
folding the white silk around it. "I will take this to the Mistress of the 
Ships," she said to Nynaeve. "We have fulfilled our part of the bargain. Now, 
you Aes Sedai must fulfill the rest of yours." Merilille made a sound in her 
throat, but when Elayne glanced at her, the Gray appeared a study in composure.
"Maybe you've done your part," Nynaeve said, rising unsteadily. "Maybe. We'll 
see when this . . . this skimmer of yours turns. If it turns!" Renaile stared 
hard at her across the Bowl, but Nynaeve ignored her. "Strange," she muttered, 
rubbing her temple. The bracelet-and-rings caught in her hair, and she grimaced. 
"I can almost feel an echo of saidar. It must be this thing!"
"No," Elayne said slowly. "I can feel it, too." Not just the dimly perceived 
crackling in the air, and not an echo, exactly. More the shadow of an echo, so 
faint that it was as if she were feeling someone use saidar at a . . . She 
turned. On the horizon to the south, lightning flashed, dozens of bolts vivid 
silver-blue against the afternoon sky. Very near to Ebou Dar.
"A rainstorm?" Sareitha said eagerly. "The weather must be righting itself 
already." But there were no clouds in the sky even where the lightning forked 
and fell. Sareitha was not strong enough to sense saidar being wielded at that 
distance.
Elayne shivered. She was not strong enough. Unless someone was using as much as 
they had on this hilltop. Fifty or even a hundred Aes Sedai, all channeling at 
once. Or . . . "Not one of the Forsaken," she murmured. Someone behind her 
moaned.
"One couldn't do that," Nynaeve agreed quietly. "Maybe they didn't feel us the 
way we do them, maybe, but they'll have seen, unless they're all blind. The 
Light burn our luck!" Quiet or not, she was agitated; she often called Elayne 
down for using language like that. "Take everyone who will go to Andor with you, 
Elayne. I'll . . . I'll meet you there. Mat's in the city. I have to go back for 
him. Burn the boy; he came for me, and I have to."
Elayne wrapped her arms around herself and drew a deep breath. Queen Tylin she 
left to the mercies of the Light; Tylin would survive if it was possible. But 
Mat Cauthon, her very strange, very instructive subject; her most unlikely 
rescuer. He had come for her, too, and offered more. And Thorn Merrilin; dear 
Thorn, who she sometimes still wished would turn out to be her real father, and 
the Light burn what that would make of her mother. And the boy, Olver, and Chel 
Vanin, and . . . She had to think like a queen. The Rose Crown is heavier than a 
mountain, her mother had told her, and duty will make you weep, but you must 
bear and do what must be done.
"No," she said, then more firmly, "No. Look at you, Nynaeve; you can hardly 
stand. Even if we all went, what could we do? How many of the Forsaken are 
there? We'd die, or worse, for no gain. The Forsaken have no reason to look for 
Mat or the others. It's us they will be after."
Nynaeve gaped at her, stubborn Nynaeve with sweat running down her face and her 
legs unsteady. Wonderful, gallant, foolish Nynaeve. "You're saying leave him, 
Elayne? Aviendha, talk to her. Tell her about that honor you're always going on 
about!"
Aviendha hesitated, then shook her head. She was almost as sweaty as Nynaeve, 
and from the way she moved, just as tired. "There are times to fight without 
hope, Nynaeve, but Elayne is right. The Shadowsouled will not be looking for Mat 
Cauthon; they will be after us, and the Bowl. He may have left the city already. 
If we go, we risk giving them what can undo what we have done. Wherever we send 
the Bowl, they will be able to make us tell them who we sent it with and where."
Nynaeve's face crumpled in pain. Elayne reached to put her arms around her.
"Shadowspawn!" someone screamed, and suddenly women were embracing saidar all 
over the hilltop. Balls of fire shot up from Merilille's hands, from Careane's 
and Sareitha's, as fast as they could throw. A huge winged shape enveloped in 
flame tumbled out of the sky trailing oily black smoke, falling just beyond the 
cliff.
"There's another one!" Kirstian shouted, pointing. A second winged creature dove 
away from the hill, body as big as a horse, ribbed wings spanning thirty paces 
or more, long neck stretched out before and longer tail streaming behind. Two 
figures crouched low on its back. A storm of fire rained after it, quickest of 
all from Aviendha and the Sea Folk, who made no throwing gesture as part of 
their weaving. A hail of fire so thick it seemed that Fire must be forming 
itself out of the air, and the thing dodged behind the hill on the other side of 
the farm and appeared to vanish.
"Did we kill it?" Sareitha asked. Her eyes shone bright, and she breathed hard 
in agitation.
"Did we even hit it?" one of the Atha'an Miere growled disgustedly.
"Shadowspawn," Merilille murmured in amazement. "Here! At least that proves it's 
the Forsaken in Ebou Dar."
"Not Shadowspawn," Elayne said hollowly. Nynaeve's face was a picture of 
anguish; she knew, too. "They call it a raken. It's the Seanchan. We must go, 
Nynaeve, and take every woman at the farm with us. Whether we killed that thing 
or not, more will come. Anyone we leave behind will be wearing a damane leash by 
tomorrow morning." Nynaeve nodded, slowly, painfully; Elayne thought she 
murmured, "Oh, Mat."
Renaile strode up with the Bowl in her arms, once more swathed in its white 
covering. "Some of our ships have encountered these Seanchan. If they are in 
Ebou Dar, then the ships beat to sea. My ship fights for his life, and I am not 
on his deck! We go now!" And she formed the weave for a gateway, right there.
It tangled uselessly, of course, flared bright for an instant then collapsed 
into nothing, but Elayne squeaked in spite of herself. Right there in the middle 
of them! "You aren't going anywhere from here unless you mean to stay long 
enough to learn this hilltop!" she snapped. She hoped none of the women who had 
been in the circle tried the weave; holding saidar was the fastest way to learn 
a place. She could have made it work here, and very likely so could they. "You 
aren't going to a moving ship from anywhere; I don't think it's even possible!." 
Merilille nodded, though that meant little; Aes Sedai believed a great many 
things to be true, and some of them actually were. As well if the Sea Folk 
believed it proven, in any case. Nynaeve, haggard and staring, was in no 
condition to do any leading at the moment, so Elayne went on. She hoped she 
managed to do her mother's memory proud. "But most of all, you aren't going 
anywhere except with us, because our bargain isn't complete; the Bowl of the 
Winds is not yours until the weather is right." Not precisely true unless you 
twisted the words of the bargain a little, and Renaile opened her mouth, but 
Elayne plowed on. "And because you made a bargain with Matrim Cauthon, my 
subject. You go voluntarily where I want you to, or you go tied to a packsaddle. 
Those were the choices you accepted. So, get down this hill now, Renaile din 
Calon Blue Star, before the Seanchan sweep down on us with an army and a few 
hundred women who can channel and would like nothing better than to see us 
collared alongside them. Now! Run!"
To her astonishment, they ran.
Chapter 6
Threads
Elayne ran, too, of course, holding her skirts up, and quickly took the lead on 
the well-worn dirt path. Only Aviendha stayed close, though she seemed to have 
no idea how to run in a dress, divided or not; tired as she was, she certainly 
would have passed Elayne otherwise. Everyone else strung out behind them along 
the narrow, winding track. None of the Atha'an Miere would push by Renaile, and 
despite her silk trousers she could not move very fast carrying the Bowl hugged 
to her chest. Nynaeve had no such compunctions, elbowing past and running hard, 
shouting for people to get out of her way when she stumbled into them whether 
they were Windfinders, Kinswomen, or Aes Sedai.
Bounding down the hillside, tripping and catching herself, Elayne wanted to 
laugh despite the urgency. Despite the danger. Lini and her mother had been 
death on running and climbing trees from the time she was twelve, but it was not 
just the sheer pleasure of running again that made delight bubble up in her 
middle. She had behaved as a queen was supposed to behave, and it had worked 
exactly as it was supposed to! She had taken charge, to lead people out of 
danger, and they followed! Her whole life had been training for this. It was 
satisfaction that made her laugh, and the hot glow of pride seemed about to 
burst through her skin like the radiance of saidar.
Rounding the last curve, she pounded down the final straight beside one of the 
tall white-plastered barns. And her toe caught an almost buried stone. She 
pitched forward heavily, windmilling her arms, and suddenly she was 
somersaulting head-over-heels through the air. No time even to yell. With a 
thump that jarred her teeth and took all the wind out of her, she landed hard at 
the foot at the path, sitting right in front of Birgitte. For an instant she 
could not even think, and when she could, little satisfaction remained. So much 
for queenly dignity. Brushing her hair out of her face, she tried to catch her 
breath as she waited for Birgitte's cutting comment. This was a chance for the 
other woman to play the older and wiser sister with a vengeance, and she seldom 
let an opportunity pass.
To Elayne's surprise, Birgitte heaved her to her feet even before Aviendha could 
reach her, and without so much as the faint grin on Aviendha's face. All Elayne 
could feel from her Warder was a sense of . . . focus; she thought an arrow 
nocked on a drawn bowstring might feel that way. "Do we run or fight?" Birgitte 
asked. "I recognized those Seanchan fliers from Falme, and truth for true, I 
suggest running. My bow is the ordinary sort, today." Aviendha gave her a slight 
frown, and Elayne sighed; Birgitte had to learn to guard her tongue if she 
really intended to hide who she was.
"Of course we run," Nynaeve panted, laboring down the final stretch of path. 
"Fight or run! Fool question! Do you think we're utter  -- ? Light! What are they 
doing?" Her voice started climbing and kept right on. "Alise! Alise, where are 
you? Alise! Alise!"
With a start, Elayne realized the farm was boiling as badly as it had when 
Careane's face was recognized. Maybe worse. A hundred and forty-seven Kinswomen 
inhabited the place at present, Alise had reported, including fifty-four 
red-belted Wise Women sent out days ago and a number of others who had been 
passing through the city; now it looked as though every last one was running 
somewhere, and a good many of the other women, too. Most of the Tarasin Palace 
servants in their green-and-white livery dashed this way and that carrying 
burdens. Ducks and chickens darted through the tumult, flapping and squawking, 
adding to the apparent confusion. Elayne even saw a Warder, Vandene's grizzled 
Jaem, trot by with his wiry arms wrapped around a big jute sack!
Alise appeared as though from the air, poised and collected despite the 
perspiration on her face. Every strand of her hair was in place, and her dress 
looked as if she were merely out for a stroll. "There's no need to screech," she 
said calmly, planting hands on hips. "Birgitte told me what those big birds are, 
and I thought we might be leaving sooner rather than later, especially with all 
of you galloping down the hill like the Dark One himself was after you. I told 
everybody to collect one clean dress apiece, three changes of shift and 
stockings, soap, mending baskets, and all the coin they have. That, and no more. 
The last ten to finish will do the washing-up till we get where we're going; 
that will speed their feet. I told those servants to gather all the food they 
could, too, just in case. And your Warders. Sensible fellows, most of them. 
Surprisingly sensible, for men. Does being a Warder do something to them?"
Nynaeve stood there with her jaw hanging, ready to issue orders and none left to 
give. Emotions played across her face too fast to catch. "Very good," she 
mumbled finally. And sourly. Suddenly she brightened. "The women who aren't Kin. 
Yes! They have to be  --  "
"Calm yourself," Alise broke in, making a soothing gesture. "They are already 
gone, for the most part. Mainly those with husbands or families they're worried 
about. I couldn't have held those back had I wanted. But a good thirty think 
those birds really are Shadowspawn, and want to stay as close to Aes Sedai as 
they can get." A sharp sniff said what she thought of that. "Now, you just 
gather yourself. Drink some cool water; not too fast. Put a little on your face. 
I have to keep an eye on things." Casting her eye over the bustle, everybody 
running in bounds, Alise shook her head. "Some would slack off if Trollocs were 
coming over the hill, and most of the noblewomen never really do get used to our 
rules. For sure, I'll need to remind two or three before we go." With that, she 
waded serenely back into the turmoil of the farmyard and left Nynaeve gaping.
"Well," Elayne said, brushing her skirt, "you did say she was a very capable 
woman."
"I never said that," Nynaeve snapped. "I never said 'very.' Hmmph! Where did my 
hat get to? Thinks she knows everything. I'll wager she doesn't know that!" She 
flounced off in a different direction than Alise.
Elayne stared after her. Her hat? She would have liked to know where her own hat 
had gone to  --  it was a beautiful thing  --  but really! Maybe being in a circle 
working that much of the Power, using an angreal doing it, had unsettled 
Nynaeve's wits temporarily. She still felt a trifle odd, herself, as though she 
could pluck little bits of saidar out of the air around her. In any case, she 
had other matters to worry about right then. Like being ready to get away before 
the Seanchan descended. From what she had seen in Falme, they really might bring 
a hundred damane, or more, and based on the little Egwene would let herself say 
of her captivity, most of those women really would be eager to help collar 
others. She said that what had turned her stomach most had been the sight of 
damane from Seanchan laughing with their sul'dam, fawning and playing with them, 
well-trained hounds with their affectionate handlers. Egwene said some of the 
women collared in Falme had been that way, too. It made Elayne's blood run cold. 
She would die before letting them put that leash on her! And she would as soon 
let the Forsaken have what she had found as the Seanchan. She went running to 
the cistern, Aviendha at her side breathing almost as hard as she was herself.
It seemed Alise really had thought of everything, though. The ter'angreal were 
already stowed away on the packhorses. The unsearched panniers remained full of 
jumbled odds and ends and the Light knew what, but those she and Aviendha had 
emptied now bulged with coarse sacks of flour and salt, beans and lentils. A 
handful of stablefolk minded the packanimals instead of running about with their 
arms full. Doing Alise's bidding, no doubt. Even Birgitte went trotting off at 
the woman's call with no more than a rueful grin!
Elayne lifted canvas covers to examine the ter'angreal as well as she could 
without unloading them again. Everything appeared to be there, a bit tumbled 
together in two panniers, not enough to fill them, but nothing broken. Not that 
anything short of the One Power itself could break most ter'angreal, yet even so 
. . .
Aviendha took a seat cross-legged on the ground, blotting sweat from her face 
with a large, plain linen handkerchief that seemed very much at odds with her 
pretty silk riding dress. Even she was beginning to show weariness. "What are 
you muttering about, Elayne? You sound like Nynaeve. This Alise has only saved 
us the trouble of packing those things ourselves."
Elayne colored faintly. She had not meant to speak aloud. "I just don't want 
anyone handling them who doesn't know what they are doing, Aviendha." Some 
ter'angreal could trigger even for people unable to channel, if they did the 
wrong thing, but the truth was, she did not want anyone handling them. They were 
hers! The Hall was not going to hand these over to some other sister just 
because she was older and more experienced, or hide them away because studying 
ter'angreal was too dangerous. With this many examples to study, maybe she could 
finally figure out how to make ter'angreal that worked every time; there had 
been far too many failures and half-successes. "They need someone who knows what 
she's doing," she said, lashing the stiff canvas back in place.
Order began to appear out of pandemonium more rapidly than Elayne expected, 
though not as fast as she could have wished. Of course, she admitted 
reluctantly, nothing slower than instantaneous could have matched her wishes. 
Unable to keep her eyes off the sky, she sent Careane running back to the top of 
the hill to watch toward Ebou Dar. The stocky Green grumbled a bit under her 
breath before curtsying, and even frowned at the Kinswomen dashing about as if 
on the point of suggesting one of them instead, but Elayne wanted someone who 
would not faint at the sight of "Shadowspawn" approaching, and Careane stood 
lowest among the sisters. Adeleas and Vandene brought out Ispan between them, 
firmly shielded and the leather sack back over her head. She walked quite 
easily, and nothing visible said that anything at all had been done to her, 
except . . . Ispan kept her hands folded at her waist, never so much as trying 
to raise the sack for a peek, and when she was boosted into a saddle, she held 
out her wrists to be corded to the pommel without being told. If she was that 
amenable, perhaps they had learned something from her. Elayne just did not want 
to contemplate how the learning might have been achieved.
There were . . . bumps, of course, of sorts, even with what might be rushing 
toward them. What surely was rushing toward them. Nynaeve getting her 
blue-plumed hat back was not really a bump, though it almost turned into one; 
Alise had found it, and handed it back telling Nynaeve she needed to shield her 
face from the sun if she wanted to keep that smooth pretty skin. An open-mouthed 
Nynaeve watched the graying woman hurry off to deal with one of the numerous 
small problems, then ostentatiously shoved the hat under a strap of her 
saddlebags.
From the beginning Nynaeve set about flattening the real bumps, but Alise was 
nearly always there first, and where Alise met a bump, the bump flattened 
itself. Several noblewomen demanded help packing their belongings, only to be 
informed in no uncertain terms that she had meant what she said and if they did 
not hop to it, they could live in what they stood in. They hopped. Some, and not 
only nobles, changed their minds about going when they learned the destination 
was Andor, and were literally chased away. Afoot, and told to keep running as 
long as they could. Every horse was needed, but they had to be well away before 
the Seanchan appeared; at the very least they could be expected to put anyone 
near the farm to the question. As should have been expected, Nynaeve got into a 
shouting match with Renaile over the Bowl, and the turtle Talaan had used, which 
Renaile apparently had tucked behind her sash. Hardly had they reached the stage 
of waving arms, however, than Alise was right there, and in short order the Bowl 
was back in Sareitha's care and the turtle in Merilille's. Following which, 
Elayne was treated to the sight of Alise shaking her finger under the astonished 
nose of the Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships to the Atha'an Miere, 
delivering a tongue-lashing on the subject of theft that left Renaile 
spluttering indignantly. Nynaeve did a little spluttering, too, stalking away 
empty-handed, yet Elayne thought she had never seen anyone look so forlorn.
All in all, it did not take very long, though. The remaining women who had been 
at the farm gathered under the watchful eyes of the Knitting Circle  --  and of 
Alise, who carefully noted the last ten to arrive, all but two in fine 
embroidered silks, not much different from Elayne's. Definitely not Kinswomen. 
Elayne felt sure they really would do the washing-up anyway; Alise would not let 
a little thing like noble birth stand in her way. The Wind-finders lined up with 
their horses, surprisingly silent except for Renaile, who muttered imprecations 
whenever she saw Alise. Careane was summoned back from the hilltop. The Warders 
brought the sisters their mounts. Almost everyone kept an eye on the sky, and 
saidar made halos around all of the older Aes Sedai and most of the Windfinders. 
Around a few of the Kin, as well.
Leading her mare to the head of the line, at the cistern, Nynaeve fingered the 
angreal still on her hand as if she were going to be the one to make the 
gateway, ridiculous as the very idea might be. For one thing, though she had 
washed her face  --  and donned her hat; strangely, all things considered  --  she 
still tottered whenever her self-control slipped. Lan stayed practically at her 
shoulder, stone-faced as always, but if ever there was a man ready to catch a 
woman when she fell, it was he. Even with the bracelet-and-rings, Nynaeve might 
not be able to manage enough to weave a gateway. More important, she had been 
dashing about the farm ever since they first arrived; Elayne had spent a 
considerable time holding saidar right where they now stood. She knew that spot. 
Nynaeve scowled sulkily when Elayne embraced the Source, but at least she had 
sense enough to say nothing.
Right from the first Elayne wished that she had asked Aviendha for the 
woman-cloaked-in-her-own-hair; she was weary, too, and all the saidar she could 
draw was barely enough to form the weave so it would work. The flows wavered in 
her grasp almost as if trying to twist free, then snapped into place so suddenly 
that she jumped; channeling when you were tired was not at all like other times, 
but this was the worst ever. At least the familiar vertical slash of silver 
appeared as it should, and widened into an opening right alongside the cistern. 
An opening no bigger than the one Aviendha had made, and at that, Elayne was 
grateful it was large enough to fit a horse through. At the last, she had not 
been certain it would be. Gasps rose from the Kinswomen, seeing a view of an 
upland meadow suddenly standing between them and the familiar gray bulk of the 
cistern.
"You should have let me try," Nynaeve said softly. Softly, but with a sharp 
point even so. "You nearly fubbed it altogether."
Aviendha gave Nynaeve a flat look that almost made Elayne grab her arm. The 
longer they remained near-sisters, the more she seemed to think she had to 
defend Elayne's honor; if they did become first-sisters, Elayne could see having 
to keep her away from Nynaeve, and Birgitte, completely!
"It's done, Nynaeve," she said quickly. "That's all that counts." Nynaeve 
directed a flat look at her and muttered something about the day being prickly, 
as if Elayne were the one showing her snappish side.
Birgitte was the first through, grinning impudently at Lan, leading her horse 
with her bow already in her other hand. Elayne could sense eagerness in her, a 
touch of satisfaction, perhaps that this time she had the lead instead of Lan  --  
there was always a bit of rivalry between Warders  --  and a small measure of 
wariness. Very small. Elayne knew that meadow well; Gareth Bryne had taught her 
to ride not far from there. About five miles over those first sparsely treed 
hills lay the manor house of one of her mother's estates. One of her estates; 
she had to get used to that. The seven families who tended the house and its 
grounds would be the only people for half a day's journey in any direction.
Elayne had chosen that destination because they could reach Caemlyn in two weeks 
from there. And because the estate was so isolated, she might be entering 
Caemlyn before anyone knew she was in Andor. That could be a very necessary 
precaution; at various times in Andor's history, rivals for the Rose Crown had 
been kept as "guests" until they relinquished their claims. Her mother had kept 
two, until she took the throne. With luck, she could have a solid base 
established by the time Egwene and the others arrived.
Lan took Mandarb right behind Birgitte's brown gelding, and Nynaeve lurched as 
if to rush after the black warhorse, then pulled herself up short with a level 
stare that dared Elayne to say a word. Fiddling furiously with her reins, she 
made a visible effort to look anywhere except through the gateway after Lan. Her 
lips moved. After a moment, Elayne realized that she was counting.
"Nynaeve," she said quietly, "we really don't have time for  --  "
"Move along," Alise called from the rear, the sound of her hands clapping a 
sharp punctuating crack. "No pushing or shoving, now, but I'll have no laggards 
either! Move along."
Nynaeve's head swung wildly, pained indecision painting her face. For some 
reason she touched her wide hat, a few of its blue plumes broken and drooping, 
before pulling her hand away. "Oh, that goat-kissing old . . .!" she growled, 
the rest lost as she dragged her mare through the gateway. Elayne sniffed. And 
Nynaeve had the nerve to speak to anybody about their language! She wished she 
could have heard the rest, though; she already knew the first bit.
Alise continued her urging, but there really did not seem to be much need after 
the first. Even the Windfinders hurried, glancing worriedly over their shoulders 
at the sky. Even Renaile, who mumbled something about Alise that Elayne noted in 
the back of her head. Though calling someone "a fish-loving scavenger" did seem 
rather mild. She would have expected the Sea Folk to eat fish all the time.
Alise herself brought up the very rear, except for the remaining Warders, as if 
to herd even the packhorses along. She paused long enough to hand Elayne her 
green-plumed hat. "You'll want to keep the sun off that sweet face of yours," 
she said with a smile. "Such a pretty girl. No need to turn to leather before 
your time."
Aviendha, sitting on the ground nearby, fell over backward and kicked her heels 
laughing.
"I think I'll ask her to find you a hat. With lots of plumes, and big bows," 
Elayne said in dulcet tones before quickly following the Kinswoman. That 
certainly cut off Aviendha's laughter.
The gently rolling meadow was broad and nearly a mile long, surrounded by hills 
taller than those she had left behind, and by trees she knew, oak and pine and 
blackwood, sourgum and leatherleaf and fir, thick forest with good, tall timber 
to south and west and east, though there might not be any cutting this year. 
Most of the more scattered trees to the north, toward the manor, were better 
suited for firewood. Small gray boulders dotted the thick brown grass here and 
there, and not even a withered stalk marked the death of a wildflower. That was 
not so different from the south.
For once Nynaeve was not peering at the surrounding countryside trying to find 
Lan. He and Birgitte would not be gone long anyway, not here. Instead she strode 
briskly among the horses, ordering people to mount in a loud, commanding voice, 
chivvying the servants with the pack animals, curtly telling some of the 
Kinswomen who had no horses that any child could walk five miles, shouting at a 
slender Altaran noblewoman with a scar on her cheek and carrying a bundle nearly 
as big as herself that if she had been fool enough to bring all of her dresses 
then she could carry them. Alise had gathered the Atha'an Miere around her and 
was instructing them on how to mount a horse. For a wonder, they actually 
appeared to be paying attention. Nynaeve glanced her way and seemed pleased to 
see Alise standing in one spot. Until Alise smiled encouragingly and motioned 
her to go on with what she was doing.
For an instant Nynaeve stood stock-still, staring at the woman. Then she came 
striding through the grass to Elayne. Reaching up to her hat with both hands, 
she hesitated, glowering up at it her through her lashes before giving it a 
twitch straight. "I'll just let her take care of everything this time," she said 
in a suspiciously reasonable tone. "We'll just see how well she does with those 
. . . Sea Folk. Yes, we will." Too reasonable a tone by half. Abruptly she 
frowned at the still-open gateway. "Why are you holding it? Let go." Aviendha 
was frowning, too.
Elayne drew a deep breath. She had thought about this, and there was no other 
way, but Nynaeve would try to argue her out of it, and there no time for 
arguing. Through the gateway, the farmyard stood empty, even the chickens 
finally frightened away by the hubbub, yet how long before it filled up again? 
She studied her weave, melded together so snugly that only a few threads 
remained distinct. She could see every flow, of course, but except for those 
few, they appeared inseparably combined. "Take everyone to the manor house, 
Nynaeve," she said. The sun did not have very much farther to fall; perhaps two 
hours of light remained. "Master Hornwell will be surprised at so many visitors 
arriving at dark, but tell him you're guests of the girl who cried over the 
redbird with the broken wing; he'll remember that. I will be along as soon as I 
can."
"Elayne," Aviendha began in a surprisingly anxious voice, and at the same time, 
Nynaeve said sharply, "Just what do you think you're  --  "
There was only one way to stop it. Elayne plucked one of the discernible threads 
free of the weave; it wavered and flailed like a living tentacle; it fuzzed and 
spluttered, tiny fluffs of saidar breaking off and fading away. She had not 
noticed that when Aviendha unmade her weave, but she had only seen the tail of 
that, really. "Go on," she told Nynaeve. "I'll wait for the rest until you are 
all out of sight." Nynaeve stared out, her jaw hanging. "It has to be done," 
Elayne sighed. "The Seanchan will be at the farm in hours, for sure. Even if 
they wait until tomorrow, what if one of the damane has the Talent to read 
residues? Nynaeve, I won't give Traveling to the Seanchan. I won't!"
Nynaeve growled something under her breath about the Seanchan that must have 
been particularly pithy, judging by her tone. "Well, I won't let you burn 
yourself out!" she said aloud. "Now, put that back! Before the whole thing 
explodes the way Vandene said. You could kill all of us!"
"It cannot be put back," Aviendha said, laying a hand on Nynaeve's arm. "She has 
begun, and now she must finish. You must do as she says, Nynaeve."
Nynaeve's brows drew down. "Must" was a word she did not like hearing one bit, 
not applied to her. She was not a fool, though, so after a bit of glaring  --  at 
Elayne, at the gateway, at Aviendha, at the world in general  --  she flung her 
arms around Elayne in a hug that made her ribs creak.
"You be careful, you hear me," she whispered. "If you get yourself killed, I 
swear I'll skin you alive!" In spite of everything, Elayne burst out laughing. 
Nynaeve snorted, pushing her out to arm's length by her shoulders. "You know 
what I mean," she grumbled. "And don't think I don't mean it, because I do! I 
do," she added in a softer voice. "You take care."
It took Nynaeve a moment to gather herself, blinking and pulling her blue riding 
gloves tight. There seemed to be a hint of moisture in her eyes, though that 
could not have been; Nynaeve made other people cry, she did not cry herself. 
"Well, then," she said loudly. "Alise, if you don't have everyone ready yet  --  " 
Turning, she cut off with a strangled croak.
Those who were supposed to be mounted were, even the Atha'an Miere. The Warders 
were all gathered around the other sisters; Lan and Birgitte had returned, and 
Birgitte watched Elayne worriedly. The servants had the pack animals in a line, 
and the Kinswomen were waiting patiently, most afoot except for the Knitting 
Circle. A number of horses that could have been used for riding were loaded with 
sacks of food and bundles of belongings. Women who had brought more than Alise 
allowed  --  none of them Kin  --  carried their bundles on their own backs. The 
slender noble with the scar was bent at an awkward angle beneath hers, and 
glaring at anyone but Alise. Every woman who could channel was staring at the 
gateway. And every woman who had been there to hear Vandene tell of the dangers 
watched that one whipping filament as she would have a red adder.
It was Alise herself who brought Nynaeve her horse. And straightened the 
blue-plumed hat as Nynaeve put a foot in the stirrup. Nynaeve turned the plump 
mare north with Lan riding Mandarb at her side and a look of utter mortification 
on her face. Why she did not just set Alise down, Elayne did not understand. To 
hear Nynaeve tell it, she had been putting women older than herself in their 
place since she was little more than a girl. And she was Aes Sedai, now, after 
all; that should carry mountains of weight with any Kinswoman.
As the column began to wend its way toward the hills, Elayne looked at Aviendha 
and Birgitte. Aviendha simply stood there with her arms folded beneath her 
breasts; she had the woman-wrapped-in-her-own-hair angreal clutched in one hand. 
Birgitte took Lioness's reins from Elayne, adding them to those of her own horse 
and Aviendha's, then walked over to a small boulder twenty paces away and sat 
down.
"You two must," Elayne began, then coughed when Aviendha's eyebrows shot up in 
surprise. Sending Aviendha out of danger was impossible without shaming her. 
Perhaps impossible altogether. "I want you to go with the others," she told 
Birgitte. "And take Lioness. Aviendha and I can take turns riding her gelding. 
I'd like a walk before bedtime."
"If you ever treat a man half as well as you do that horse," Birgitte said 
dryly, "he'll be yours for life. I think I'll just sit awhile; I've ridden long 
enough today. I'm not at your beck and call all the time. We can play that game 
in front of the sisters and the other Warders, to spare your blushes, but you 
and I know better." Despite the mocking words, what Elayne felt from her was 
affection. No; stronger than affection. Her own eyes stung suddenly. Her death 
would hurt Birgitte to the bone  --  the Warder bond made that certain  --  but it was 
friendship that made her stay now.
"I am thankful to have two friends such as you," she said simply. Birgitte 
grinned at her as if she had said something silly.
Aviendha, however, blushed furiously and stared at Birgitte, wide-eyed and 
flustered, as though the Warder's presence were to blame for her fiery cheeks. 
Hurriedly she shifted her gaze to the people still short of the first hill, 
perhaps half a mile distant. "Best to wait until they are out of sight," she 
said, "but you cannot wait too long. Once you have started the unweaving, the 
flows begin to grow . . . slick . . . after a time. Letting one slip free before 
it is out of the weave is the same as letting go of the weave; it will fall into 
whatever it wishes, then. But you must not hurry, either. Each thread must be 
pulled free as far as it will go. The more that come loose, the easier others 
will be to see, but you must always pick the thread that is easiest to see." 
Smiling warmly, she pressed her fingers firmly against Elayne's cheek. "You will 
do well, if you are careful."
It did not sound that difficult. She just had to be careful. It seemed to take a 
long time for the last woman to vanish over the hill, the slender noble bent 
under the bulk of her dresses. The sun barely appeared to settle any at all, but 
it seemed like hours. What did Aviendha mean precisely by "slick"? She could not 
explain beyond variations on the word; they became difficult to hold, that was 
all.
Elayne found out as soon as she began again. "Slick" was what you would get if 
you coated a live eel with grease. She gritted her teeth just holding on to that 
first thread, and that was on top of trying to pull it free. All that stopped 
her from gasping in relief when the thread of Air began whipping about, finally 
loose, was that there were more to go. If they became much more "slick," she was 
not sure she could manage it. Aviendha watched closely, but did not say another 
word, though she always had an encouraging smile when Elayne needed one. Elayne 
could not see Birgitte  --  she did not dare look away from her work  --  yet she 
could feel her, a small knot of rock-solid confidence in her own head, enough 
confidence to fill her.
Sweat slid down her face, down her back and belly, until she began to feel 
"slick" herself. A bath tonight would be most welcome. No, she could not think 
of that. All attention on the weaves. They were getting harder to handle, 
quivering in her grip as soon as she touched one, but they still came free, and 
every time one thread began to lash about, another seemed to leap out of the 
mass, to suddenly be clearly perceptible where there had only been solid saidar 
before. To her eye the gateway resembled some monstrous, distorted hundred-heads 
on the bottom of a pond, surrounded by flailing tendrils, every one thickly 
haired with threads of the Power that grew and writhed and vanished only to be 
replaced by new. The opening visible to anyone flexed along its edges, changing 
shape and even size continuously. Her legs began to tremble; strain stung her 
eyes as much as sweat did. She did not know how much longer she could go on. 
Gritting her teeth, she fought. One thread at a time. One thread at a time.
A thousand miles away, less than a hundred paces away through the shuddering 
gateway, dozens of soldiers swept around the white farm buildings, short men 
carrying crossbows, in brown breastplates and painted helmets that looked like 
the heads of huge insects. Behind them came a woman with red panels bearing 
silver lightning on her skirts, a bracelet on her wrist linked by a silvery 
leash to the collar around the neck of a woman in gray, and then another sul'dam 
and her damane, then another pair. One of the sul'dam pointed at the gateway, 
and the glow of saidar abruptly enveloped her sul'dam.
"Get down!" Elayne screamed, falling backward, out of sight of the farmyard, and 
silver-blue lightning shot through the gateway with a roar that filled her ears, 
forking savagely in every direction. Her hair lifted, every strand trying to 
stand on its own, and thunderous fountains of earth erupted wherever one of the 
forks struck. Dirt and pebbles rained down on her.
Hearing returned suddenly, and a man's voice from the other side of the opening, 
a slurred, drawling accent that made her skin crawl as much as the words. " . . 
. must take them alive, you fools!"
Abruptly one of the soldiers was leaping into the meadow right in front of her. 
Birgitte's arrow punched through the clenched fist embossed on his leather 
breastplate. A second Seanchan soldier stumbled over the first as he fell, and 
Aviendha's belt knife stabbed into his throat before he could recover. Arrows 
flew from Birgitte's bow like hail; with one boot on the horses' reins, she 
grinned grimly as she shot. The trembling horses tossed their heads and danced 
as if they would jerk free and run, but Birgitte simply stood and shot as fast 
as she could draw. Shouts from beyond the gateway said Birgitte Silverbow still 
struck home with every shaft she loosed. Answer came, quick as bad thought, 
black streaks, crossbow bolts. So quick, all happening so fast. Aviendha fell, 
blood running over the fingers clutching her right arm, but she let go of her 
wound immediately, crawling clear, scrabbling on the ground for the angreal, her 
face set. Birgitte cried out; dropping her bow, she grabbed her thigh where a 
quarrel stuck out. Elayne felt the stab of agony as sharply as if it were her 
own. Desperately, she seized another thread from where she lay half on her back. 
And realized to her horror after one tug that it was all she could do to hold 
on. Had the thread moved? Had it slipped free any at all? If it had, she did not 
dare let go. The thread trembled greasily in her grasp.
"Alive, I said!" that Seanchan voice roared. "Anyone who kills a woman gets no 
share of the taking gold!" The flurry of crossbow bolts ceased.
"You wish to take me?" Aviendha shouted. "Then come and dance with me!" Saidar's 
glow abruptly surrounded her, dim even with the angreal, and balls of fire 
sprang into being in front of the gateway and sprayed through again and again. 
Not very large balls, but the blasts as they burst back in Altara sounded in a 
steady stream. Aviendha panted with effort, though; her face glistened with 
sweat. Birgitte had recovered her bow; she looked every inch the hero of legend, 
blood streaming down her leg, barely able to stand, but an arrow half drawn, 
searching for a target.
Elayne tried to control her breathing. She could not embrace one shred more of 
the Power, nothing to help. "The two of you must get away," she said. She could 
not believe how she sounded, calm as ice; she knew she should have been wailing. 
Her heart was trying to pound through her ribs. "I don't know how much longer I 
can hold this." That held true for the entire weave as much as for that single 
thread. Was it sliding? Was it? "Go, as fast as you can. The other side of the 
hills should be safe, but every span you can cover gains something. Go!"
Birgitte growled in the Old Tongue, but nothing that Elayne knew. It sounded 
like phrases she would like to learn. If there was ever a chance. Birgitte went 
on in words Elayne could understand. "You let that bloody thing go before I tell 
you, and you won't have to worry about waiting for Nynaeve to skin you; I'll do 
it myself. And then let her have a turn. Just be quiet and hang on! Aviendha, 
get around here  --  behind that thing!  --  can you keep that up from behind it?  --  
get around here and on one of these bloody horses."
"As long as I can see where to weave," Aviendha replied, staggering to her feet. 
She wobbled sideways and barely caught herself short of falling. Blood flowed 
down her sleeve from a wicked gash. "I think I can." She vanished behind the 
gateway, and the fireballs continued. You could see through a gateway from the 
other side, though it appeared to be a heat haze hanging in the air. You could 
not walk through from that side, though  --  the attempt would be extremely painful 
 --  and when Aviendha reappeared, she was stumbling well wide. Birgitte helped her 
mount her gelding, but backwards, of all things!
When Birgitte motioned fiercely to her, Elayne did not bother with shaking her 
head. For one thing, she feared what might happen if she did. "I'm not certain I 
can hold on if I try to get up." In truth, she was not certain she could get up; 
tired was no longer in it; her muscles were water. "Ride as fast as you can. 
I'll hold on as long as I'm able. Please, go!"
Muttering curses in the Old Tongue  --  they had to be; nothing else ever had the 
sound!  --  Birgitte shoved the horses' reins into Aviendha's hands. Nearly falling 
twice, she hobbled to Elayne and bent to take her by the shoulders. "You can 
hang on," she said, her voice filled with the same conviction Elayne felt from 
her. "I never met a Queen of Andor before you, but I've known queens like you. A 
backbone of steel and a lion's heart. You can do it!"
Slowly she pulled Elayne up, not waiting for an answer, her face tight, every 
stab in her leg echoing in Elayne's head. Elayne quivered with the effort of 
holding the weave, holding that one thread; she was surprised to find herself 
erect. And alive. Birgitte's leg throbbed madly in her head. She tried not to 
lean on Birgitte, but her own trembling limbs would not support her completely. 
As they lurched toward the horses, each half leaning on the other, she kept 
looking back over her shoulder. She could hold a weave without looking at it  --  
she could normally  --  but she needed to reassure herself that she really did 
still have a grip on that one thread, that it was not slipping. The gateway now 
appeared like no weave she had ever seen, twisting wildly, wreathed with fuzzed 
tentacles.
With a groan, Birgitte heaved her into her saddle more than helped her. 
Backward, just like Aviendha! "You have to see," she explained, limping to her 
gelding; holding the reins of all three horses, she pulled herself up painfully. 
Without a sound, but Elayne felt the agony. "You do what needs doing and leave 
where we're going to me." The horses leaped away, perhaps as much from eagerness 
to be gone as from Birgitte's heel in her own mount's flank.
Elayne hung on to the high cantle of her saddle as grimly as she did to the 
weave, to saidar itself. The galloping horse flung her about, and it was all she 
could do to remain in the saddle. Aviendha used her saddle's cantle as a prop to 
keep herself upright; her mouth hung open, sucking air, and her eyes seemed 
fixed. The glow surrounded her, though, and that stream of fireballs continued. 
Not as fast as before, true, and some shot wide of the gateway, streaking trails 
of flame through the grass or exploding on the ground beyond, but they still 
formed and flew. Elayne took strength, made herself take strength; if Aviendha 
could keep on when she looked ready to fall on her face, she could, too.
At a gallop, the gateway began to dwindle, brown grass stretching out between 
them and the opening, and then the ground was slanting upward. They were 
climbing the hill! Birgitte was again the arrow in the bow, all focus, fighting 
down the agony in her legs, urging her horses for more speed. All they had to do 
was reach the crest, reach the other side.
With a gasp, Aviendha sagged onto her elbows, bouncing on her saddle like a 
loose sack; the light of saidar flickered around her and was gone. "I cannot," 
she panted. "I cannot." That was all she could get out. Seanchan soldiers began 
leaping into the meadow almost as soon as the hail of fire ceased.
"It's all right," Elayne managed. Her throat was sand; all the moisture that had 
been in her now coated her skin and soaked her clothes. "Using an angreal is 
tiring. You did well, and they can't catch us now."
As if to mock her, a sul'dam appeared in the meadow below; even at half a mile 
there was no mistaking the two women. The sun, low in the west, still flashed 
glints off the a'dam linking them. Another pair joined them, then a third, and a 
fourth. A fifth.
"The crest!" Birgitte shouted joyfully. "We made it! It's good wine and a well 
set-up man tonight!"
In the meadow, a sul'dam pointed, and time seemed to slow for Elayne. The glow 
of the One Power sprang up around the woman's damane. Elayne could see the weave 
forming. She knew what it was. And there was no way to stop it. "Faster!" she 
shouted. The shield struck her. She should have been too strong for it  --  she 
should have been!  --  but exhausted as she was, barely clinging to saidar as she 
was, it sliced between her and the Source. Down in the meadow, the weave that 
had been a gateway fell in on itself. Haggard, looking as though she could not 
possibly move, Aviendha hurled herself from her saddle at Elayne, carrying them 
both off. Elayne had just time to see the far slope of the hill below her as she 
fell.
The air turned white, blanking her sight. There was sound  --  she knew there was 
sound, a great roar  --  but it lay beyond hearing. Something struck her, as if she 
had fallen from a rooftop onto hard pavement, from a tower top.
Her eyes opened, staring at the sky. The sky looked, strange somehow, blurry. 
For a moment she could not move, and when she did, she gasped. She hurt 
everywhere. Oh, Light, she hurt! Slowly she raised a hand to her face; her 
fingers came away red. Blood. The others. She had to help the others. She could 
feel Birgitte, feel pain as bad as what gripped her, but at least Birgitte was 
alive. And determined, and angry apparently; she could not be injured too badly. 
Aviendha.
With a sob, Elayne rolled over, then pushed up to hands and knees, her head 
spinning, agony stabbing her side. Vaguely she recalled that moving with even 
one broken rib could be dangerous, but the thought was as hazy as the hillside. 
Thinking seemed . . . difficult. Blinking appeared to help her sight, though. 
Some. She was almost to the bottom of the hill! High above, a haze of smoke rose 
from the meadow beyond. Unimportant, now. Not important at all.
Thirty paces up the slope, Aviendha was on her hands and knees, too, almost 
falling over when she raised a hand to wipe away blood that poured down her 
face, but searching anxiously. Her gaze fell on Elayne, and she froze, staring. 
Elayne wondered how bad she looked. Surely no worse than Aviendha herself; half 
of the other woman's skirt was gone, her bodice torn nearly off, and everywhere 
skin showed, there seemed to be blood.
Elayne crawled to her. With her head, it seemed much easier than trying to stand 
and walk. As she came close, Aviendha gave a relieved gasp.
"You are all right," she said, touching bloody fingers to Elayne's cheek. "I was 
so afraid. So afraid."
Elayne blinked in surprise. What she could see of herself appeared in every bit 
as bad shape as Aviendha. Her own skirts remained intact, but half of her bodice 
was ripped away entirely, and she seemed to be bleeding from two dozen gashes. 
Then it struck her. She had not been burned out. She shivered at the thought. 
"We are both all right," she said softly.
Well off to one side, Birgitte wiped her belt knife on the mane of Aviendha's 
gelding and straightened from the still horse. Her right arm dangled, her coat 
was gone, along with one boot, and the rest of her garments torn; as much blood 
stained her skin and clothes as either of theirs. The crossbow bolt standing out 
from her thigh seemed to be the worst of her injuries, but the rest certainly 
added up to as much again. "His back was broken," she said, gesturing to the 
horse at her feet. "Mine's well, I think, but the last I saw of him, he was 
running fit to win the Wreath of Megairil. I always thought he had a turn of 
speed. Lioness." She shrugged, and winced. "Elayne, Lioness was dead when I 
found her. I'm sorry."
"We are alive," Elayne said firmly, "and that is what counts." She would weep 
for Lioness later. The smoke above the hilltop was not thick, but it rose over a 
wide area. "I want to see exactly what it was that I did."
It took clinging to one another for all three of them to stand, and laboring up 
the hillside was an effort of panting and groans, even from Aviendha. They 
sounded as though they had been thrashed within an inch of their lives  --  which 
Elayne supposed they had been  --  and looked as though they had wallowed in a 
butcher's shambles. Aviendha still carried the angreal tight in her fist, but 
even if she or Elayne had possessed more than their small Talent with Healing, 
neither could have managed to embrace the Source, much less channel. At the top 
of the hill, they stood leaning on each other and stared at devastation.
Fire ringed the meadow, but the heart of it was blackened, smoldering and swept 
clear even of boulders. Half the trees on the surrounding slopes were broken or 
leaning away from the meadow. Hawks began to appear, riding the hot air rising 
from the fire; hawks often hunted so, looking for small animals chased into the 
open by the flames. Of the Seanchan there was no sign. Elayne wished there were 
bodies, so she could be certain they were all dead. Especially all of the 
sul'dam. Gazing down at the burned, smoking ground, though, she was suddenly 
glad there was no evidence. It had been a terrible way to die. The Light have 
mercy on their souls, she thought. On all of their souls.
"Well," she said aloud, "I did not do as well as you, Aviendha, but I suppose it 
worked out for the best, considering. I will try to do better next time."
Aviendha glanced at her sideways. There was a gash on her cheek, and another 
across her forehead, as well as a long one laying open her scalp. "You did much 
better than I, for a first try. I was given a simple knot tied in a flow of Wind 
the first time. It took me fifty tries to unweave even that without having a 
clap of thunder in my face, or a blow that made my ears ring."
"I suppose I should have started with something simpler," Elayne said. "I have a 
habit of leaping in over my head." Over her head? She had leaped before looking 
to see whether there was water! She stifled a chuckle, but not before it sent a 
stab through her side. So instead of chuckling, she moaned through her teeth. 
She thought some of them might be loose. "At least we've found a new weapon. 
Perhaps I should not be happy about that, but with the Seanchan back again, I 
am."
"You do not understand, Elayne." Aviendha gestured toward the center of the 
meadow, where the gateway had been. "That could have been no more than a flash 
of light, or even less. You cannot tell until it happens. Is a flash of light 
worth the risk of burning out yourself and every woman closer to you than a 
hundred paces or more?"
Elayne stared at her. She had stayed, knowing that? To risk your life was one 
thing, but to risk losing the ability to channel . . . "I want us to adopt each 
other as first-sisters, Aviendha. As soon as we can find Wise Ones." What they 
were to do about Rand, she could not imagine. The very idea that they would both 
marry him and Min, too!  --  was worse than ridiculous. But of this, she was sure. 
"I don't need to know any more about you. I want to be your sister." Gently, she 
kissed Aviendha's bloodstained cheek.
She had only thought Aviendha blushed fiercely before. Even Aiel lovers did not 
kiss where anyone could see. Fiery sunsets paled beside Aviendha's face. "I want 
you for my sister, too," she mumbled. Swallowing hard  --  and eyeing Birgitte, who 
was pretending to ignore them  --  she leaned over and quickly pressed her lips to 
Elayne's cheek. Elayne loved her as much for that gesture as for the rest.
Birgitte had been gazing behind them, over her shoulder, and perhaps she had not 
been pretending after all, because she suddenly said, "Someone's coming. Lan and 
Nynaeve, unless I miss my guess."
Awkwardly, they turned, hobbling and stumbling and groaning. It seemed quite 
ludicrous; heroes in stories never got hurt so they could barely stand. In the 
distance to the north, two riders appeared briefly through the trees. Briefly, 
but long enough to make out a tall man on a tall horse, galloping hard, and a 
woman on a shorter animal running just as hard at his side. Gingerly, the three 
of them sat down to wait. That was another thing heroes in stories never did, 
Elayne thought with a sigh. She hoped she could be a queen to make her mother 
proud, but it was clear that she would never make a hero.
 
Chulein moved the reins slightly, and Segani banked smoothly, turning on a 
ribbed wing. He was a well-trained raken, swift and agile, her favorite, though 
she had to share flying him. There were always more morat'raken than raken; a 
fact of life. Down in the farm below, balls of fire were leaping out of the air 
apparently, scattering in every direction. She tried to pay no attention; her 
job was to watch for trouble approaching from the area around the farm. At least 
the smoke had stopped rising from where Tauan and Macu had died in the olive 
grove.
A thousand paces above the ground, she had a very long view. All the other raken 
were off scouting the countryside; any woman who ran would be marked for 
checking, to see whether she was one of those who had caused all the excitement, 
though truth for sure, anyone in these lands who saw a raken in the air likely 
would run. All Chulein had to do was watch for approaching trouble here. She 
wished she did not feel an itch between her shoulder blades; it always meant 
trouble was on the way. The wind of Segani's flight was not bad at this speed, 
but she drew the drawstring of her waxed linen hood tighter under her chin, 
tested the leather safety straps that held her in the saddle, adjusted her 
crystal goggles, snugged her gauntlets.
Over a hundred Fists of Heaven were on the ground already, and more importantly, 
six sul'dam with damane and another dozen carrying shoulder bags full of spare 
a'dam. The second flight would be lifting from the hills to the south with 
reinforcements. Better if more had come in the first strike, but there were few 
enough to'raken with the Hailene, and strong rumor had it that many of those had 
been given the task of ferrying the High Lady Suroth and her entire entourage 
down from Amadicia. Bad to think ill of the Blood, yet she wished more to'raken 
had been sent to Ebou Dar. No morat'raken could think well of the huge, ungainly 
to'raken, fit only to carry burdens, but they could have put more Fists of 
Heaven on the ground faster, more sul'dam.
"Rumor says there are hundreds of marath'damane down there," Eliya said loudly 
against her back. In the sky, you had to speak loudly, over the rush of wind. 
"Do you know what I'm going to do with my share of the taking gold? Buy an inn. 
This Ebou Dar looks a likely place, what I saw of it. Maybe I'll even find a 
husband. Have children. What do you think of that."
Chulein grinned behind her wind-scarf. Every flier talked of buying an inn  --  or 
a tavern, sometimes a farm  --  yet who could leave the sky? She patted the base of 
Segani's long, leathery neck.
Every woman flier  --  three in four were women  --  talked of a husband and children, 
but children meant an end to flying, too. More women left the Fists of Heaven in 
a month than left the sky in half a year.
"I think you should keep your eyes open," she said. But there was no harm in a 
little talk. She could have seen a child move in the olive groves below, much 
more anything that might threaten Fists of Heaven. The most lightly armored of 
soldiers, they were about as hard as the Deathwatch Guard; some said harder. 
"I'll use my share to buy a damane and hire a sul'dam." If there were half as 
many marath'damane down there as rumor claimed, her share would buy two damane. 
Three! "A damane trained to make Sky Lights. When I leave the sky, I'll be as 
rich as one of the Blood." They had something called "fireworks" here  --  she had 
seen some fellows vainly trying to interest the Blood in Tanchico  --  but who 
would watch such a pitiful thing compared to the Sky Lights? Those fellows had 
been bundled out and dumped in the road outside the city.
"The farm!" Eliya shouted, and suddenly something hit Segani hard, harder than 
the worst storm gust Chulein had ever felt, tumbling him wing over wing.
Down the raken plunged, screaming his raucous cry, spinning so fast that Chulein 
was pulled tight against her safety straps. She left her hands on her thighs, 
tensed on the reins but still. Segani had to pull out of this himself; any 
twitch on the reins would only hinder him. Rolling like a gambling wheel, they 
fell. Morat'raken were taught not to watch the ground if a raken fell, whatever 
the reason, but she could not help estimating her height every time a whiplike 
tumble bought the ground into sight. Eight hundred paces. Six hundred. Four. 
Two. The Light illumine her soul, and the infinite mercy of the Creator protect 
her from  --  
With a snap of his broad wings that jerked her sideways and rattled her teeth, 
Segani leveled out, the tips of his pinons brushing treetops as they swept down. 
With a calmness born of hard training, she checked the motion of his wings for 
strain. Nothing, but she would have a der'morat'raken examine him thoroughly 
anyway. A tiny thing that might slip by her eyes would not escape a master.
"It seems we've escaped the Lady of the Shadows one more time, Eliya." Turning 
to look over her shoulder, she let her words tail off. A length of broken safety 
strap trailed back from the empty seat behind her. Every flier knew that the 
Lady waited at the bottom of the long fall, but knowing never made seeing 
easier.
Offering a quick prayer for the dead, she firmly pushed herself back to duty and 
urged Segani to climb. A slow, spiraling climb, in case of some hidden strain, 
but as quick as she thought safe. Maybe a little quicker than safe. Smoke rising 
from beyond the knobby hill ahead made her frown, but what she saw as she 
cleared the crest dried her mouth. Her hands stilled on the reins, and Segani 
continued to climb on powerful sweeps of his wings.
The farm was . . . gone. Foundations scoured clean of the white buildings that 
had stood on them, the big structures built into a hillside smashed heaps of 
rubble. Gone. Everything was blackened and burned. Fire raged through the 
undergrowth on the slopes and made fans a hundred paces long into the olive 
groves and the forest, stretching from the spaces between the hills. Beyond lay 
broken trees for another hundred or more, all leaning away from the farm. She 
had never seen anything like it. Nothing could be alive down there. Nothing 
could have lived through that. Whatever it had been.
Quickly she came to herself and turned Segani south. In the distance she could 
make out to'raken, each one crowded with a dozen Fists of Heaven over this short 
distance, Fists of Heaven and sul'dam, coming too late. She began composing her 
report in her head; there was certainly no one else to make one. Everyone said 
this was a land full of marath'damane waiting to be collared, but with this new 
weapon, these women who called themselves Aes Sedai were a true danger. 
Something had to be done about them, something decisive. Perhaps, if the High 
Lady Suroth was on her way to Ebou Dar, she would see the need, too.
Chapter 7
A Goatpen
The Ghealdanin sky was cloudless, the forested hills hammered by a fierce 
morning sun. Even short of midday, the land sweltered. Pines and leatherleaf 
were yellowing in the drought, and others Perrin suspected also were evergreens. 
Not a whisper of air stirred. Sweat dripped down his face, ran into his short 
beard. His curly hair was matting on his head. He thought he heard thunder 
somewhere to the west, but he had almost stopped believing it would ever rain 
again. You hammered the iron that lay on your anvil instead of daydreaming about 
working silver.
From the vantage of his sparsely treed ridge, he studied the walled town of 
Bethal through a brass-bound looking glass. Even his eyes could use help over 
this distance. It was a good-sized town of slate-roofed buildings, with half a 
dozen tall stone structures that might have been minor nobles' palaces or the 
homes of well-to-do merchants. He could not make out the scarlet banner hanging 
limply atop the tallest tower of the largest palace, the only flag in sight, but 
he knew who it belonged to. Alliandre Maritha Kigarin, Queen of Ghealdan, far 
from her capital in Jehannah.
The town gates stood open, with a good twenty guards at each, yet no one came 
out, and the roads he could see were empty except for a lone rider galloping 
hard toward Bethal from the north. The soldiers were on edge, some shifting 
pikes or bows at sight of the horseman as though he waved a blood-dripping 
sword. More soldiers on watch crowded the wall towers or marched the walls 
between. Plenty of nocked arrows up there, too, and raised crossbows. Plenty of 
fear.
A storm had swept over this part of Ghealdan. It still did. The Prophet's bands 
created chaos, bandits took advantage, and Whitecloaks raiding across the border 
from Amadicia might easily strike this far. A few scattered columns of smoke 
farther south probably marked burning farms, Whitecloak work or the Prophet's. 
Bandits seldom bothered with burning, and the other two left little for them in 
any case. Adding to the jumble, rumor in every village he had passed the last 
few days said that Amador had fallen, to the Prophet or Taraboners or Aes Sedai, 
depending on who told the tale. Some claimed Pedron Niall himself was dead in 
the fighting to defend the city. All in all, reason enough for a queen to be 
concerned for her own safety. Or the soldiers could be down there because of 
him. Despite his best efforts, his passage south had hardly gone unnoticed.
He scratched his beard, considering. A pity the wolves in the surrounding hills 
could not tell him anything, but they seldom paid heed to men's doings except to 
stay clear of them. And since Dumai's Wells he had not felt right in asking any 
more of them than he absolutely had to. It might be best after all if he rode in 
alone, with just a few of the Two Rivers men.
He often thought Faile could read his mind, usually when he least wanted her to, 
and she proved it now, heeling her night-black mare Swallow close to his dun. 
Her narrow-skirted riding dress was nearly as dark as the mare, yet she seemed 
to be taking the heat better than he. She smelled faintly of herbal soap and 
clean perspiration, of herself. Of determination. Her tilted eyes were very 
determined, and with her bold nose, she was very much her namesake falcon.
"I would not like to see holes in that fine blue coat, husband," she said 
softly, for his ears alone, "and those fellows look as if they might just shoot 
at a group of strange men before asking who they are. Besides, how will you 
reach Alliandre without announcing your name to the world? This must be done 
quietly, remember." She did not say that she should be the one to go, that the 
gate guards would take a woman alone for a refugee from the troubles, that she 
could reach the Queen using her mother's name without exciting too much comment, 
but she did not need to. He had had all that and more from her every night since 
entering Ghealdan. He was here in part because of Alliandre's cautious letter to 
Rand, offering . . . Support? Allegiance? Her desire for secrecy had been 
paramount, in any case.
Perrin doubted that even Aram, sitting his leggy gray a few paces behind them, 
could have heard a word Faile said, yet before she finished speaking, Berelain 
brought her white mare up on his other side, sweat glistening on her cheeks. She 
also smelled determined, through a cloud of rose perfume. To him, it seemed a 
cloud. For a wonder, her green riding dress showed no more flesh than it had to.
Berelain's two companions stayed back, though Annoura, her Aes Sedai advisor, 
studied him with an unreadable expression from beneath her cap of thin 
shoulder-long beaded braids. Not him and the two women at his sides; him in 
particular. No sweat there. He wished he were close enough to smell the 
beak-nosed Gray sister; unlike the other Aes Sedai, she had made no promises to 
anyone. For whatever those promises were worth. Lord Gallenne, commander of 
Berelain's Winged Guards, was seemingly busy examining Bethal through a looking 
glass raised to his one eye, and fiddling with his reins in a way Perrin had 
come to know meant that he was deep in calculations. Probably how to take Bethal 
by force; Gallenne always saw the worst possibility first.
"I still think I should be the one to approach Alliandre," Berelain said. This, 
too, Perrin had heard every day. "It is why I came, after all." That was one of 
the reasons. "Annoura will be granted an audience at once, and take me in with 
none the wiser save Alliandre." A second wonder. There had not been a hint of 
flirtation in her voice. She seemed to be paying as much attention to smoothing 
her red leather gloves as to him.
Which one? The trouble was, he did not want to choose either.
Seonid, the second Aes Sedai who had come to the ridgeline, stood beside her bay 
gelding a little way off, near a tall drought-withered blackwood, looking not at 
Bethal but the sky. The two pale-eyed Wise Ones with her made a sharp contrast, 
faces sun-dark to her pale complexion, fair-haired to her dark, tall to her 
short, not to mention their dark skirts and white blouses contrasting to her 
fine blue wool. Necklaces and bracelets of gold and silver and ivory draped 
Edarra and Nevarin, while Seonid wore only her Great Serpent ring. They were 
young to her ageless. The Wise Ones matched the Green sister for 
self-possession, though, and they were studying the sky, too.
"Do you see something?" Perrin asked, putting off the decision.
"We see the sky, Perrin Aybara," Edarra said calmly, her jewelry making a soft 
clatter as she adjusted the dark shawl looped over her elbows. The heat seemed 
to touch the Aiel as little as it did the Aes Sedai. "If we saw more, we would 
tell you." He hoped they would. He thought they would. At least, if it was 
something they believed Grady and Neald might see, too. The two Asha'man would 
not keep it secret. He wished they were there instead of back in the camp.
More than half a week ago, now, a lace of the One Power streaking high across 
the sky had created quite a stir among the Aes Sedai and Wise Ones. And with 
Grady and Neald. Which fact had made a bigger stir still, as close to panic as 
any Aes Sedai was likely to come. Asha'man, Aes Sedai and Wise Ones all claimed 
they could still feel the Power faintly in the air long after that bar of lace 
vanished, but nobody knew what it meant. Neald said it made him think of wind, 
though he could not tell why. No one would voice more of an opinion than that, 
yet if both the male and female halves of the Power were visible, it had to be 
the Forsaken at work, and on a huge scale. Wondering what they were up to had 
kept Perrin awake late most nights since.
In spite of himself, he glanced to the sky. And saw nothing, of course, except a 
pair of pigeons. Abruptly a hawk plummeted into his sight, and one of the 
pigeons was gone in a spray of feathers. The other winged on frantically toward 
Bethal.
"Have you reached a decision, Perrin Aybara?" Nevarin asked, a touch sharply. 
The green-eyed Wise One appeared even younger than Edarra, perhaps no older than 
he was, and she did not quite have the blue-eyed woman's serenity. Her shawl 
slid down her arms as she planted hands on hips, and he half expected her to 
shake a finger at him. Or a fist. She reminded him of Nynaeve, though they 
surely looked nothing alike. Nevarin would have made Nynaeve look plump. "What 
use our advice if you will not listen?" she demanded. "What use?"
Faile and Berelain sat straight in their saddles, both as proud as they could 
be, both smelling expectant and uncertain at the same time. And irritated at 
being uncertain; neither liked that one speck. Seonid was too far to send her 
scent, but compressed lips gave her mood well enough. Edarra's command not to 
speak unless spoken to infuriated her. Still, she certainly wanted him to take 
the Wise Ones' counsel; she stared at him intently, as though the pressure of 
her eyes could push him the way they wanted him to go. In truth, he wanted to 
choose her, yet he hesitated. How far did her oath of fealty to Rand truly hold? 
Further than he would have believed, by the evidence seen so far, but still, how 
far could he trust an Aes Sedai? The arrival of Seonid's two Warders spared him 
for another few minutes.
They rode up together, though they had gone out separately, keeping their horses 
well back into the trees along the ridgeline so they would not be seen from the 
town. Furen was a Tairen, nearly as dark as good soil, with gray streaking his 
curly black hair, while Teryl, a Murandian, was twenty years younger, with dark 
reddish hair, curled mustaches, and eyes bluer than Edarra's, yet they were 
stamped from the same mold, tall and lean and hard. They dismounted smoothly, 
cloaks shifting colors and vanishing in a queasy-making way, and made their 
reports to Seonid, deliberately ignoring the Wise Ones. And Perrin.
"It's worse than back north," Furen said disgustedly. A few drops of sweat 
beaded on his forehead, but neither man appeared much affected by the heat. "The 
local nobles are shut up in their manors or the town, and the Queen's soldiers 
keep inside the town walls. They've abandoned the countryside to the Prophet's 
men. And the bandits, though those seem scarce around here. The Prophet's people 
are all over. I think Alliandre will be happy to see you."
"Rabble," Teryl snorted, slapping his reins on his palm. "I never saw more than 
fifteen or twenty in one place, armed with pitchforks and boar spears mainly. 
Ragged as beggars, they were. Fit for scaring farmers, to be sure, but you'd 
think the lords would be rooting them out and hanging them in bunches. The Queen 
will kiss your hand to see a sister."
Seonid opened her mouth, then glanced up at Edarra, who nodded. If anything, 
gaining permission to speak tightened the Green's mouth more. Her tone was mild 
as butter, though. "There is no more reason to put off your decision, Lord 
Aybara." She emphasized that title a bit, knowing exactly how much right he had 
to it. "Your wife can claim a great House, and Berelain is a ruler, yet Saldaean 
Houses count little here, and Mayene is the smallest of nations. An Aes Sedai 
for an emissary will put the weight of the White Tower behind you in Alliandre's 
eyes." Perhaps recalling that Annoura would do for that as well as she, she 
hurried on. "Besides, I have been in Ghealdan before, and my name is well known. 
Alliandre will not only receive me immediately, she will listen to what I say."
"Nevarin and I will go with her," Edarra said, and Nevarin added, "We will make 
sure she says nothing she should not." Seonid ground her teeth audibly, to 
Perrin's ears, and busied herself smoothing her divided skirts, eyes carefully 
down. Annoura made a sound, very nearly a grunt, and turned her head from the 
sight; she herself stayed away from the Wise Ones, and did not like seeing the 
other sisters with them.
Perrin wanted to groan. Sending the Green would lift him off a spike, yet the 
Wise Ones trusted Aes Sedai less than he did and kept Seonid and Masuri on short 
leashes. There had been tales about Aiel in the villages recently, too. None of 
those folk had ever seen an Aiel, but rumors about the Aiel following the Dragon 
Reborn drifted in the air, half of Ghealdan was sure there were Aiel just a day 
or two away, and each story was stranger and more horrible than the last. 
Alliandre might be too frightened to let him near her once she saw a pair of 
Aiel women telling an Aes Sedai when to hop. And Seonid was hopping, however 
much she ground her teeth! Well, he was not about to risk Faile without more 
assurance of her greeting than a vaguely worded letter received months ago. That 
spike dug deeper, right between his shoulder blades, yet he had no choice at 
all.
"A small party will get through those gates easier than a large," he said 
finally, stuffing the looking glass into his saddlebags. It would set fewer 
tongues wagging, as well. "That means just you and Annoura, Berelain. And maybe 
Lord Gallenne. Likely they'll take him for Annoura's Warder."
Berelain chortled in delight, leaning to clasp his arm with both hands. She did 
not leave it at that, of course. Her fingers squeezed caressingly, and she 
flashed a heated smile of promise, then straightened before he could move, her 
face suddenly innocent as a babe's. Expressionless, Faile focused on pulling her 
gray riding gloves snug. By her scent, she had not noticed Berelain's smile. She 
hid her disappointment well. "I'm sorry, Faile," he said, "but  --  "
Outrage flared in the smell of her like thorns. "I am certain you have matters 
to discuss with the First before she goes, husband," she said calmly. Her tilted 
eyes were pure serenity, her scent sand burrs. "Best you see to her now." 
Pulling Swallow around, Faile walked the mare over to a plainly fuming Seonid 
and the tight-faced Wise Ones, but she did not dismount or speak to them. 
Instead she frowned down at Bethal, a falcon staring from her eyrie.
Perrin realized he was feeling at his nose and pulled his hand down. There was 
no blood, of course; his nose only felt as if there should be.
Berelain needed no last-minute instructions  --  the First of Mayene and her Gray 
advisor were all impatience to be off, all certainty they knew what to say and 
do  --  yet Perrin stressed caution anyway, and emphasized that Berelain and only 
Berelain was to speak with Alliandre. Annoura gave him one of those cool Aes 
Sedai looks and nodded. Which might have been agreement or might not; he doubted 
he could get more out of her with a pry-bar. Berelain's lips curled in 
amusement, though she agreed with everything he said. Or said she did. He 
suspected she would say anything to get what she wanted, and those smiles in all 
the wrong places bothered him. Gallenne had put his looking glass away, but he 
was still playing with his reins, no doubt calculating how to carve a way out of 
Bethal for the two women. Perrin wanted to growl.
He watched them ride down to the road with worry. The message Berelain carried 
was simple. Rand understood Alliandre's caution, but if she wanted his 
protection she must be willing to announce support for him openly. That 
protection would come, soldiers and Asha'man to make it plain to everyone, and 
even Rand himself if need be, once she agreed to make the announcement. Berelain 
had no reason to change the message a hair, despite her smiles  --  he thought they 
might be another way of flirting  --  but Annoura . . . Aes Sedai did what they 
did, and the Light alone knew why half the time. He wished he knew some way to 
reach Alliandre without using a sister or rousing talk. Or risking Faile.
The three riders reached the gates with Annoura in the lead, and guards quickly 
raised pikes, lowered bows and crossbows, no doubt as soon as she named herself 
Aes Sedai. Not many people had the nerve to challenge that particular claim. 
There was barely a pause before she was leading the way into the town. In fact, 
the soldiers seemed eager to hurry them through, out of sight of anyone watching 
from the hills. Some peered at the distant heights, and Perrin did not need to 
smell them to sense their unease over who might be hidden up there, who might, 
improbably, have recognized a sister.
Turning north, toward their camp, Perrin led the way along the ridge until they 
were out of sight from Bethal's towers, then slanted down to the hard-packed 
road. Scattered farms lined the road, thatch-roofed houses and long narrow 
barns, withered pastures and stubbled fields and high-walled stone goatpens, but 
there was little livestock to be seen and fewer people. Those few watched the 
riders warily, geese watching foxes, stopping chores where they stood until the 
horses passed on. Aram kept as close an eye on them in return, sometimes 
fingering the sword hilt rising above his shoulder, perhaps wishing to find more 
than farmfolk. Despite his green-striped coat, little Tinker remained in him.
Edarra and Nevarin walked beside Stepper, seemingly out for a stroll yet keeping 
pace easily despite their bulky skirts. Seonid heeled them on her gelding, Furen 
and Teryl at her own back. The pale-cheeked Green pretended that she simply 
wanted to ride a careful two paces behind the Wise Ones, but the men scowled 
openly. Warders often had a greater care for their Aes Sedai's dignity than the 
sister did herself, and Aes Sedai had enough for queens.
Faile kept Swallow on the far side of the Aiel women, riding in silence, 
apparently studying the drought-scarred landscape. Slim and graceful, she made 
Perrin feel a little clumsy at the best of times. She was quicksilver, and he 
loved it in her, usually, but . . . A slight breath of air had begun to stir, 
enough to keep her scent mingled with the rest. He knew he should be thinking 
about Alliandre and what her answer would be, or better still, the Prophet and 
how to find him once Alliandre replied, however she did, but he could not find 
room in his head.
He had expected Faile to be angry when he chose Berelain, for all that Rand 
supposedly had sent her for the purpose. Faile knew he did not want to send her 
into danger, into any risk of danger, a fact she disliked more than she did 
Berelain. Yet her scent had been soft as a summer morning  --  until he tried to 
apologize! Well, apologies usually stoked her anger if she already was angry  --  
except when they melted her temper, anyway  --  but she had not been angry! Without 
Berelain, everything ran smooth as silk satin between them. Most of the time. 
But explanations that he did nothing to encourage the woman  --  far from it!  --  
earned only a curt "Of course you don't!" in tones that called him a fool for 
bringing it up. But she still grew angry  --  with him!  --  every time Berelain 
smiled at him or found an excuse to touch him, no matter how brusquely he put 
her off, and the Light knew he did that. Short of tying her up, he did not know 
what more he could do to discourage her. Ginger attempts to find out from Faile 
what he was doing wrong received a light "Why do you think you've done 
anything?" or a not-so-light "What do you think you've done?" or a flat "I do 
not want to talk about it." He was doing something wrong, but he could not 
puzzle out what! He had to, though. Nothing was more important than Faile. 
Nothing!
"Lord Perrin?"
Aram's excited voice cut into his brown study. "Don't call me that," he 
muttered, following the direction of the man's pointing finger, to yet another 
abandoned farm some distance ahead, where fire had taken the roof from house and 
barn. Only rough stone walls stood. An abandoned farm, but not deserted. Angry 
shouts rose up there.
A dozen or more rough-clad fellows carrying spears and pitchforks were trying to 
force their way over the chest-high stone wall of a goatpen, while a handful of 
men within tried to keep them out. Several horses ran loose inside, frightened 
at the noise and dodging about, and there were three women mounted. They were 
not simply waiting to see how it would all turn out, though; one of the women 
appeared to be hurling rocks, and even as he looked, another dashed close to the 
wall to lash out with a long cudgel while the third reared her horse, and a tall 
fellow toppled back off the wall to get clear of flashing hooves. But there were 
too many attackers, too much wall to defend.
"I advise you to ride wide," Seonid said. Edarra and Nevarin turned grim stares 
on her, but she plowed on, hurry overwhelming her matter-of-fact tone. "Those 
are surely the Prophet's men, and killing his people is a bad way to begin. Tens 
of thousands, hundreds of thousands, may die if you fail with him. Is it worth 
risking that to save a handful?"
Perrin did not intend to kill anyone if he could help it, but he did not intend 
to look the other way either. He wasted no time in explanations, though. "Can 
you frighten them?" he asked Edarra. "Just frighten?" He remembered all too well 
what the Wise Ones had done at Dumai's Wells. And the Asha'man. Maybe as well 
Grady and Neald were not there.
"Perhaps," Edarra replied, studying the crowd around the pen. She half-shook her 
head, shrugged a fraction. "Perhaps." That would have to be good enough.
"Aram, Furen, Teryl," he snapped, "with me!" He dug in his heels, and as Stepper 
leaped forward, he was relieved to see the Warders following closely. Four men 
charging made a better show than two. He kept his hands on the reins, away from 
his axe.
He was not so pleased when Faile galloped Swallow up alongside him. He opened 
his mouth, and she arched an eyebrow at him. Her black hair was beautiful, 
streaming in the wind of their rush. She was beautiful. An arched eyebrow; no 
more. He changed what he had been about to say. "Guard my back," he told her. 
Smiling, she produced a dagger from somewhere. With all the blades she carried 
hidden away, sometimes he wondered how he missed being stabbed just trying to 
hug her.
As soon as she looked ahead again, he gestured frantically to Aram, trying to 
keep the motion where she could not see. Aram nodded, but he was leaning 
forward, sword bared, ready to skewer the first of the Prophet's folk he 
reached. Perrin hoped the man understood he was to guard Faile's back, and the 
rest of her, if they actually came to grips with those fellows.
None of the ruffians had noticed them yet. Perrin shouted, but they seemed not 
to hear over their own yelling. A man in a coat too big for him managed to 
scramble atop the wall, and two others appeared about to get over. If the Wise 
Ones were going to do anything, it was past  --  
A thunderclap nearly over their heads almost deafened Perrin, a mountainous 
crack that made Stepper stumble before regaining his pace. The attackers 
certainly noticed that, staggering and looking around wildly, some clapping 
hands over their ears. The man on the wall overbalanced and fell off outside. He 
leaped up immediately, though, angrily gesturing to the enclosure, and some of 
his companions leaped back at it. Others saw Perrin then and pointed, their 
mouths working, but still no one ran. A few hefted weapons.
Suddenly a horizontal wheel of fire appeared above the goat-pen, as wide as a 
man was tall, flinging off sputtering tufts of flame as it spun with a moan that 
rose and fell, mournful groan to keening wail and back.
The rough-clad men broke in every direction like scattering quail. For a moment 
longer the man in a too-big coat waved his arms and shouted at them, then with 
one last glance at the fiery wheel, he too darted away.
Perrin almost laughed. He would not have to kill anyone. And he would not have 
to worry about Faile getting a pitchfork through her ribs.
Apparently the people in the pen were as frightened as those outside, one of 
them at least. The woman who had reared her horse at the attackers slipped open 
the gate and kicked her mount to an awkward gallop. Up the road, away from 
Perrin and the others.
"Wait!" Perrin shouted. "We won't harm you!" Whether she heard or not, she kept 
whipping her reins. A bundle tied behind her saddle bounced wildly. Those men 
might be running as hard as they could now, but if she went off by herself, even 
two or three could do her injury. Lying flat on Stepper's neck, Perrin dug in 
his heels, and the dun shot forward like an arrow.
He was a big man, yet Stepper had earned his name for more than prancing feet. 
Besides, by its lumbering run, the woman's mount was hardly fit for a saddle. 
With every stride Stepper closed the gap, nearer, nearer, until Perrin was able 
to reach out and seize the other horse's bridle. Up close, her hammer-nosed bay 
was little better than crowbait, lathered and worn out more than the short run 
could account for. Slowly he drew both horses to a halt.
"Forgive me if I frightened you, Mistress," he said. "Truly, I mean you no 
harm."
For the second time that day an apology did not get the response he expected. 
Angry blue eyes glared at him from a face surrounded by long red-gold curls, a 
face as regal as any queen's for all that it was plastered with sweat and dust. 
Her dress was plain wool, travel-stained and as dusty as her cheeks, but her 
face was furious as well as queenly. "I do not need," she began in chill tones, 
trying to jerk her horse free, then cut off as another of the women, 
white-haired and bony, galloped up on a slab-sided brown mare in worse condition 
than the bay. They had been riding hard for some time, these folk. The older 
woman was just as worn and dust-covered as the younger.
She alternated between beaming at Perrin and scowling at the woman whose bridle 
he still held. "Thank you, my Lord." Her voice, thin but strong, gave a hitch as 
she noticed his eyes, but golden-yellow eyes on a man slowed her only an 
instant. Not a woman fazed by much. She still carried the stout stick she had 
been using for a weapon. "A most timely rescue. Maighdin, whatever were you 
thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed! And the rest of us, too! She's 
a headstrong girl, my Lord, always leaping before she looks. Remember, child, a 
fool abandons friends, and gives up silver for shiny brass. We do thank you, my 
Lord, and Maighdin will, too, when she comes to her senses."
Maighdin, a good ten years older than Perrin, could only be called a girl in 
comparison to the older woman, but despite weary grimaces that matched her 
scent, frustration tinged with anger, she accepted the tirade, only pulling once 
more in a halfhearted attempt to free her horse, then giving up. Letting her 
hands rest on her can tie, she frowned at Perrin accusingly, then blinked. The 
yellow eyes again. Yet despite that strangeness, she still did not smell afraid. 
The old woman did, but Perrin did not think it was of him.
Another of Maighdin's companions, an unshaven man mounted on yet another 
bedraggled horse, this a knob-kneed gray, approached while the old woman was 
talking, but kept back. He was tall, as tall as Perrin if not nearly so wide, in 
a travel-worn dark coat with a sword belted over. Like the women, he had a 
bundle tied on behind his saddle. That tiny breeze swirled to bring Perrin his 
scent. He was not afraid; he was wary. And if the way he looked at Maighdin was 
any guide, it was she he was wary of. Maybe this was not so simple as rescuing 
travelers from a gang of ruffians after all.
"Perhaps you should all come to my camp," Perrin said, finally releasing the 
bridle. "You'll be safe from . . . brigands . . . there." He half expected 
Maighdin to make a break for the nearest tree line, but she turned her horse 
with his, back toward the goatpen. She smelled . . . resigned.
Even so, she said, "I thank you for the offer, but I . . . we . . . must 
continue our journey. We will go on, Lini," she added firmly, and the older 
woman frowned at her so sternly that he wondered whether they were mother and 
daughter despite her use of the woman's name. They certainly looked nothing 
alike. Lini was narrow-faced and parchment-skinned, all sinew, while Maighdin 
might be beautiful under that dust. If a man liked fair hair.
Perrin glanced over his shoulder at the man trailing after. A hard-looking 
fellow, in need of a razor. Perhaps he liked fair hair. Perhaps he liked it too 
much. Men had made trouble for themselves as well as others for that reason 
before this.
Ahead, Faile was sitting Swallow and peering over the wall of the pen at the 
people inside. Perhaps one of them had been hurt. Seonid and the Wise Ones were 
nowhere in sight. Aram had understood, apparently; he was close to Faile, though 
looking impatiently toward Perrin. The danger was clearly past, though.
Before Perrin was halfway to the goatpen, Teryl appeared with a narrow-eyed, 
stubble-cheeked man stumbling along beside his roan, the collar of his coat 
gripped in the Warder's fist. "I thought we should catch one of them," Teryl 
said with a hard grin. "Always best to hear both sides, whatever you thought you 
saw, my old da always said." Perrin was surprised; he had thought Teryl could 
not think beyond the end of his sword.
Even hiked up as it was, the stubble-cheeked fellow's frayed coat was plainly 
too big for him. Perrin doubted anyone else had been able to see well enough at 
the distance, but he recognized that thrusting nose, too. This man had been the 
last to run, and he was not cowed now, either. His sneer took them all in. 
"You're all in deep muck, for this," he rasped. "We was doing the Prophet's 
bidding, we was. The Prophet says if a man bothers a woman as doesn't want him, 
he dies. This lot was chasing after her"  --  he jerked his chin at Maighdin  --  "and 
she was running hard. The Prophet'll have your ears for this!" He spat for 
emphasis.
"That is ridiculous," Maighdin announced in a clear voice. "These people are my 
friends. This man completely misunderstood what he saw."
Perrin nodded, and if she thought he was agreeing with her, all well and good. 
But putting what this fellow said alongside what Lini had . . . Not simple at 
all.
Faile and the others joined them, followed by the rest of Maighdin's traveling 
companions, three more men and another woman, all leading worn-down horses with 
few miles left in them. Not that they had been prime horseflesh in some years, 
if ever. A finer collection of buck knees, bow hocks, spavins, and swaybacks, 
Perrin could not recall. As always, his gaze went first to Faile  --  his nostrils 
strained for her scent  --  but Seonid snagged his eyes. Slumped in her saddle, 
flushing scarlet, she wore a sullen glower, and her face looked odd, her cheeks 
puffed out and her mouth not quite closed. There was something, a bit of 
red-and-blue . . . Perrin blinked. Unless he was seeing things, she had a 
wadded-up scarf stuffed into her mouth! Apparently when Wise Ones told an 
apprentice to be quiet, even an Aes Sedai apprentice, they meant it.
He was not the only one with sharp eyes; Maighdin's mouth fell open when she saw 
Seonid, and she gave him a long, considering look as if he were responsible for 
the scarf. So she knew an Aes Sedai on sight, did she? Uncommon, for the country 
woman she appeared. She did not sound one, though.
Furen, riding behind Seonid, wore a thunderhead for a face, but it was Teryl who 
made everything even less simple by tossing something to the ground. "I found 
this behind him," he said, "where he might have dropped it, running."
At first, Perrin did not know what he was looking at, a long loop of rawhide 
thickly strung with what appeared to be tags of shriveled leather. Then he did 
know, and his teeth bared in a snarl. "The Prophet would have our ears, you 
said."
The stubble-cheeked man stopped gaping at Seonid and licked his lips. "That . . 
. that's Hari's work!" he protested. "Hari's a mean one. He likes to keep count, 
take trophies, and he . . . uh . . . " Shrugging in his captive coat, he sank in 
on himself like a cornered dog. "You can't tie that to me! The Prophet'll hang 
you if you touch me! He's hanged nobles before, fine lords and ladies. I walk in 
the Light of the blessed Lord Dragon!" Perrin walked Stepper to the man, careful 
to keep the dun's hooves clear of the . . . thing . . . on the ground. He wanted 
nothing less than to have the fellow's scent in his nose, but he bent down, 
putting his face closer. Sour sweat warred with fear, panic, a tinge of anger. A 
pity he could not sniff out guilt. "Might have dropped" was not "had dropped." 
Close-set eyes widened, and the man pressed back against Teryl's gelding. Yellow 
eyes had their uses.
"If I could tie that to you, you'd hang from the nearest tree," he growled. The 
fellow blinked, began to brighten as he understood what that meant, but Perrin 
gave him no time to regain his bluster. "I'm Perrin Aybara, and your precious 
Lord Dragon sent me here. You spread the word. He sent me, and if I find a man 
with . . . trophies . . . he hangs! If I find a man burning a farm, he hangs! If 
one of you looks at me cross-eyed, he hangs! And you can tell Masema I said so, 
too!" Disgusted, Perrin straightened. "Let him go, Teryl. If he isn't out of my 
sight in two shakes . . .!" Teryl's hand opened, and the fellow dashed off at a 
dead run for the nearest trees, never so much as glancing back. Part of Perrin's 
disgust was for himself. Threatening! If one of them looked at him cross-eyed? 
But if the nameless man had not cut off ears himself, he had watched it and done 
nothing.
Faile was smiling, pride shining through the sweat on her face. Her look washed 
away some of Perrin's revulsion. He would walk barefoot through fire for that 
look.
Not everyone approved, of course. Seonid's eyes were squeezed shut, and her 
gloved fists quivered on her reins as though she desperately wanted to yank that 
scarf from her mouth and tell him what she thought. He could guess anyway. 
Edarra and Nevarin had gathered their shawls around them and were eyeing him 
darkly. Oh, yes; he could guess.
"I thought it was to be all secrecy," Teryl said casually, watching the 
stubble-cheeked man run. "I thought Masema wasn't to know you were here till you 
spoke in his pink ear."
That had been the plan. Rand had suggested it as a precaution, Seonid and Masuri 
had insisted on it every chance they got. After all, Prophet of the Lord Dragon 
or no, Masema might not want to come face-to-face with someone Rand sent, 
considering the things he was said to have allowed. Those ears were not the 
worst, if the tenth part of rumor was to be believed. Edarra and the other Wise 
Ones saw Masema as a possible enemy, to be ambushed before he could set his own 
trap.
"I'm supposed to stop . . . that," Perrin said, gesturing angrily to the rawhide 
string on the ground. He had heard the rumors, and done nothing. Now he had 
seen. "I might as well start now." And if Masema decided he was an enemy? How 
many thousands followed the Prophet, out of belief or fear? It did not matter. 
"It stops, Teryl. It stops!"
The Murandian nodded slowly, eyeing Perrin as though seeing him for the first 
time.
"My Lord Perrin?" Maighdin said. He had forgotten all about her and her friends. 
The others had gathered with her a little way off, most still afoot. There were 
three men aside from the fellow who had followed Maighdin, and two of those were 
hiding behind their horses. Lini appeared the wariest of all, eyes focused on 
him worriedly; she had her horse close to Maighdin's and seemed ready to seize 
the bridle herself. Not to stop the younger woman bolting, but to bolt herself 
and take Maighdin with her. Maighdin herself appeared completely at ease, but 
she also studied Perrin. Little wonder, after all that talk of the Prophet and 
the Dragon Reborn, on top of his eyes. Not to mention an Aes Sedai gagged. He 
expected her to say that they wanted to go now, immediately, but what she said 
instead was "We will accept your kind offer. A day or two resting in your camp 
might be just the thing."
"As you say, Mistress Maighdin," he said slowly. Masking his surprise was 
difficult. Especially since he had just recognized the two men trying to keep 
their horses between them and him. Ta'veren work, to bring them here? A strange 
twist in any case. "It might be just the thing at that."
Chapter 8
A Simple Country Woman
The camp lay about a league farther on, well back from the road among low, 
wooded hills, just beyond a stream that was ten paces' width of stones and only 
five of water never deeper than a man's knees. Tiny green and silver fish darted 
away from the horses' hooves. Casual passersby were unlikely to come on them 
here. The nearest inhabited farm was over a mile away, and Perrin had checked 
personally to make sure those folk took their animals to water elsewhere.
He truly had been trying to avoid notice as much as possible, traveling by back 
roads and the smallest country paths when they could not keep to the forests. A 
futile effort, really. The horses could be pastured wherever there was grass, 
but they required at least some grain, and even a small army had to buy food, 
and a lot of it. Every man needed four pounds a day, in flour and beans and 
meat. Rumors must have been floating all over Ghealdan, though with luck, no one 
suspected who they were. Perrin grimaced. Perhaps they had not, until he went 
and opened his mouth. Still, he would have done nothing differently.
It was three camps really, close to one another and none far from the stream. 
They traveled together, all following him, obeying him supposedly, but there 
were too many personalities involved, and no one was entirely sure the others 
aimed at the same goal. Some nine hundred or so Winged Guards had their cook 
fires crowded between rows of picketed horses in a broad meadow of trampled 
brown grass. He tried to close his nose to the mingled smells of horses, sweat, 
dung and boiling goat meat, an unpleasant combination on a hot day. A dozen 
mounted sentries rode a slow circuit in pairs, their long, red-streamered lances 
all at precisely the same angle, but the rest of the Mayeners had shed 
breastplates and helmets. Coatless and often shirtless in the sun, they lay 
sprawled on their blankets or diced as they waited on the food. Some looked up 
as Perrin passed, a number straightened from what they were doing to study the 
additions to his party, but none came running, so the patrols were still out. 
Small patrols, without lances, who could see without being seen. Well, that was 
the hope. It had been.
A handful of gai'shain moved at various chores among the Wise Ones' low 
gray-brown tents on the sparsely wooded crest of the hill above the Mayeners. At 
this distance, the white-robed figures appeared harmless, eyes downcast and 
meek. Up close, they would look the same, but most were Shaido. The Wise Ones 
claimed gai'shain were gai'shain; Perrin did not trust any Shaido out of his 
sight. Off to one side on the slope, beneath a bedraggled sourgum, perhaps a 
dozen Maidens in cadin'sor knelt in a circle around Sulin, the toughest of them 
despite her white hair. She had sent out scouts, too, women who could move as 
fast afoot as the Mayeners on their horses and were much more likely to escape 
unwanted attention. None of the Wise Ones up there were in the open, but a 
slender woman stirring a large stew kettle straightened, knuckling her back as 
she watched Perrin and the others pass. A woman in a green silk riding dress.
He could see the glare on Masuri's face. Aes Sedai did not stir kettles, nor 
perform twenty other tasks the Wise Ones had her and Seonid doing. Masuri laid 
it at Rand's feet, but he was not here, and Perrin was. Given half a chance, she 
would peel his hide for him.
Edarra and Nevarin turned up that way, even in those bulky skirts barely 
disturbing the layers of dead leaves that carpeted the ground. Seonid followed, 
her cheeks still bulging around that scarf. She twisted in her saddle, peering 
back at Perrin. If he could have believed an Aes Sedai looking anxious, that was 
what he would have called her. Riding behind her, Furen and Teryl wore scowls.
Masuri saw them coming and hastily bent back to the black kettle, stirring with 
renewed vigor, trying to make out that she had never stopped. So long as Masuri 
stayed in the Wise Ones' charge, Perrin thought he did not have to worry about 
his hide. The Wise Ones seemed to keep a very short leash.
Nevarin looked back over her shoulder at him, another of those dark stares he 
had been getting from her and Edarra since sending his warning, his threat, by 
the stubble-cheeked fellow. Perrin exhaled in exasperation. He did not have to 
worry about his pelt unless the Wise Ones decided they wanted it. Too many 
personalities. Too many goals.
Maighdin rode at Faile's side, seemingly paying no attention to what they 
passed, but he would not have wagered a split copper on it. Her eyes had widened 
a hair at sight of the Mayener sentries. She knew what red breastplates and 
helmets like rimmed pots meant, as surely as she had recognized an Aes Sedai 
face. Most people would not have known either, especially not folk dressed as 
she was. She was a mystery, this Maighdin. For some reason, she seemed vaguely 
familiar.
Lini and Tallanvor  --  that was what he had heard Maighdin call the fellow who had 
ridden after her; "young" Tallanvor, though there could not have been more than 
four or five years between them if that  --  stayed as close behind Maighdin as 
possible, with Aram in the way trying to heel Perrin. So did a little stick of a 
fellow with a pursed mouth, called Balwer, who seemed to pay less heed to their 
surroundings than Maighdin pretended. Even so, Perrin thought Balwer saw more 
than she did. He could not say why, precisely, but the few times he had caught 
the bony little man's scent, he had been minded of a wolf testing the air. 
Strangely, there was no fear in Balwer, only quickly suppressed ridges of 
irritation shot through with the quivery smell of impatience. The remainder of 
Maighdin's companions trailed along well back. The third woman, Breane, was 
whispering fiercely to a hulking fellow who kept his eyes down and sometimes 
nodded silently, sometimes shook his head. A shoulder-striker and street tough 
if ever there was one, but the short woman had an edge of toughness about her, 
too. The last man sheltered behind those two, a stout man with a battered straw 
hat pulled low to hide his face. On him, the sword the men all wore looked as 
strange as it did on Balwer.
The third part of the camp, spread out among the trees just around the curve of 
the hill from the Mayeners, covered as much ground as the Winged Guards' though 
it held far fewer people. Here, the horses were picketed well away from the cook 
fires, so the unblemished smell of dinner filled the air. Roasting goat, this 
time, and hard turnips the farmers probably had intended to feed to their pigs 
even with times as hard as they were. Close on to three hundred Two Rivers men 
who had followed Perrin away from home were tending meat on spits, mending 
clothes, checking over arrows and bows, all scattered in haphazard clumps of 
five or six friends around a fire. Nearly every one of them waved and shouted 
greetings, though there was too much of "Lord Perrin" and "Perrin Goldeneyes" to 
suit him. Faile had a right to the titles they gave her.
Grady and Neald, unsweating in their night-black coats, did not cheer; standing 
beside the cook fire they had built a little away from everyone else, they 
merely looked at him. Expectant looks, he thought. Expecting what? That was the 
question he always asked himself about them. The Asha'man made him uneasy, more 
than Aes Sedai or Wise Ones. Women channeling the Power was natural, if not 
exactly anything a man could be comfortable around. Plain-faced Grady appeared a 
farmer despite his coat and sword, and Neald a popinjay with his curled 
mustaches, yet Perrin could not forget what they were, what they had done at 
Dumai's Wells. But then, he had been there, too. The Light help him, he had. 
Pulling his hand from the axe at his belt, he dismounted.
Servants, men and women from Lord Dobraine's estates in Cairhien, came running 
from the lines where the horses were picketed, to take their mounts. None stood 
taller than Perrin's shoulder, country-clad folk, forever bowing and curtsying 
obsequiously. Faile said he just upset them when he tried to make them stop, or 
at least not to bob around him so often; in truth, that was how they smelled 
when he did, and they always went back to bobbing in an hour or two. Others, 
nearly as many as the Two Rivers men, were working with the horses or around the 
long rows of high-wheeled carts that hauled all their supplies. A few were 
darting in and out of a large red-and-white tent.
As usual, that tent made Perrin grunt gloomily. Berelain had a larger one back 
in the Mayener part of the camp, plus one for her two maids and another for the 
pair of thief-catchers she had insisted on bringing. Annoura had a tent of her 
own, and Gallenne as well, but only he and Faile possessed one here. For 
himself, he would have slept under the sky like the other men from home. They 
had nothing over them at night but a blanket. There was certainly no fear of 
rain. The Cairhienin servants bedded down beneath the carts. He could not ask 
Faile to do that, though, not when Berelain had a tent. If only he could have 
left Berelain in Cairhien. But then he would have had to send Faile into Bethal.
A pair of banners on tall, fresh-cut poles in the middle of a clear space near 
the tent soured his mood further. The breeze had picked up a trifle, though it 
was still too warm; he thought he heard that thunder again, faint in the west. 
The flags unfolded in slow waves, collapsed of their own weight, rippled open 
again. His crimson-bordered Red Wolfhead and the Red Eagle of long-dead 
Manetheren, out in the open again despite his orders. Perhaps he had stopped 
trying to hide, after a fashion, but what was now Ghealdan had been part of 
Manetheren; Alliandre would not be soothed by hearing of that banner! He managed 
a pleasant face and a smile for the stocky little woman who curtsied deeply and 
took Stepper away, but it was a near thing. Lords were supposed to be obeyed, 
and if he was supposed to be a lord, well, he seemed to be making a poor job of 
it.
Fists on her hips, Maighdin stood studying those rippling flags as her horse was 
taken off with the rest. Surprisingly, Breane had both their bundles, held 
awkwardly; she wore a petulant scowl, directed at the other woman. "I have heard 
about banners like those," Maighdin said suddenly. And angrily; there was no 
anger in her voice, and her face was smooth as ice, but her fury filled Perrin's 
nose. "They were raised by men in Andor, in the Two Rivers, who rebelled against 
their lawful ruler. Aybara is a Two Rivers name, I think."
"We don't know much about lawful rulers in the Two Rivers, Mistress Maighdin," 
he growled. He was going to skin whoever had put them up this time. If stories 
about rebellion had spread this far . . . He faced too many complications 
already without adding more. "I suppose Morgase was a good queen, but we had to 
fend for ourselves, and we did." Abruptly he knew who she minded him of. Elayne. 
Not that it meant anything; he had seen men a thousand miles from the Two Rivers 
who could have belonged to families he knew back home. Still, she had to have 
some reason for anger. Her accent could be Andoran. "Things aren't as bad in 
Andor as you might have heard," he told her. "Caemlyn was quiet, last I was 
there, and Rand  --  the Dragon Reborn  --  means to put Morgase's daughter Elayne on 
the Lion Throne."
Far from being mollified, Maighdin rounded on him, blue eyes blazing. "He 
intends to put her on the throne? No man puts a queen on the Lion Throne! Elayne 
will claim the throne of Andor by her right!"
Scratching his head, Perrin wished Faile would stop watching the woman so calmly 
and say something. But all she did was tuck her riding gloves behind her belt. 
Before he could think of what to say, Lini darted in, seizing Maighdin's arm and 
giving her a shake fit to rattle her teeth.
"You apologize!" the old woman barked. "This man saved your life, Maighdin, and 
you forget yourself, a simple country woman speaking so to a lord! Remember who 
you are, and don't let your tongue land you in hotter water! If this young lord 
was at odds with Morgase, well, everyone knows she's dead, and it's none of your 
affair in any event! Now apologize before he grows angry!"
Maighdin stared at Lini, her mouth working, even more startled than Perrin. 
Again she surprised him, though. Instead of erupting at the white-haired woman, 
she slowly drew herself up, shoulders squared, and looked him in the eye. "Lini 
is entirely right. I have no right to speak to you so, Lord Aybara. I apologize. 
Humbly. And I ask your pardon." Humble? Her jaw was stubborn, her tone proud 
enough for an Aes Sedai, and her scent said she was ready to chew a hole in 
something.
"You have it," Perrin said hastily. Which did not seem to placate her one bit. 
She smiled, and maybe she intended gratitude, but he could hear her teeth 
grinding. Were women all crazy?
"They are hot and dirty, husband," Faile said, putting a hand in at last, "and 
the last few hours have been trying for them, I know. Aram can show the men 
where to clean themselves. I will take the women with me. I'll have damp cloths 
brought to wash your hands and faces," she told Maighdin and Lini. Gathering up 
Breane with a gesture, she began herding them toward the tent. At a nod from 
Perrin, Aram motioned the men to follow him.
"As soon as you finish your wash, Master Gill, I'd like to talk with you," 
Perrin said.
He might as well have made that spinning wheel of fire. Maighdin whipped around 
to gape at him, and the other two women froze in their tracks. Tallanvor was 
suddenly gripping his sword hilt again, and Balwer rose on his toes, peering 
over his bundle, head tilting this way then that. Not a wolf, perhaps; some sort 
of bird, watching for cats. The stout man, Basel Gill, dropped his belongings 
and leaped a foot in the air.
"Why, Perrin," he stammered, snatching off the straw hat. Sweat made tracks in 
the dust on his cheeks. He bent to pick up his bundle, changed his mind and 
straightened again hastily. "I mean, Lord Perrin. I . . . ah . . . I thought it 
was you, but . . . but with them calling you lord, I wasn't sure you'd want to 
know an old innkeeper." Scrubbing a handkerchief across his nearly bald head, he 
laughed nervously. "Of course, I'll talk to you. Washing can wait a little 
longer."
"Hello, Perrin," the hulking man said. With his heavy-lidded eyes, Lamgwin Dorn 
appeared lazy despite his muscles and the scars on his face and hands. "We heard 
about young Rand being the Dragon Reborn, Master Gill and me. Should have 
figured you'd have come up in the world, too. Perrin Aybara's a good man, 
Mistress Maighdin. I think you could trust him with anything you've a mind to." 
He was not lazy, and he was not stupid, either.
Aram jerked his head impatiently, and Lamgwin and the other two followed, but 
Tallanvor and Balwer dragged their feet, casting wondering glances back at 
Perrin and Master Gill. Concerned glances. And at the women. Faile had them 
moving again, as well, though with plenty of darted looks at Perrin and Master
Gill, at the men trailing Aram. Suddenly they were not so pleased at being 
separated.
Master Gill mopped his forehead and smiled uneasily. Light, why did he smell 
afraid? Perrin wondered. Of him? Of a man tied to the Dragon Reborn, calling 
himself lord and leading an army, however small, threatening the Prophet. Might 
as well throw gagging Aes Sedai into it, too; he would take the blame for that, 
one way or another. No, Perrin thought wryly; nothing in that to frighten 
anybody. The whole lot of them were probably afraid he might murder them all.
Trying to put Master Gill at ease, he led the man to a large oak a hundred paces 
from the red-and-white tent. Most of the great tree's leaves were gone and half 
those left were brown, but massive limbs spreading low provided a little shade, 
and some of the gnarled roots stood high enough to serve as benches. Perrin had 
used one for just that, twiddling his thumbs while camp was being set. Whenever 
he tried to do anything useful, there were always ten hands snatching it away 
from him.
Basel Gill was not eased, however much Perrin asked after the Queen's Blessing, 
his inn in Caemlyn, or recalled his own visit there. But then, perhaps Gill was 
remembering that that visit was not the thing to calm a man, with Aes Sedai and 
talk of the Dark One and a flight in the night. He paced anxiously and hugged 
his bundle to his chest, shifted it from one arm to the other and answered in a 
bare handful of words, licking his lips between.
"Master Gill," Perrin told him finally, "stop calling me Lord Perrin. I'm not. 
It's complicated, but I'm not a lord. You know that."
"Of course," the round man replied, at last seating himself on one of the oak 
roots. He appeared reluctant to set his bundled things down, drawing his hands 
from them slowly. "As you say, Lord Perrin. Ah, Rand . . . the Lord Dragon . . . 
he really means the Lady Elayne to have the throne? Not that I doubt your word, 
of course," he added hurriedly. Pulling off his hat, he began mopping his 
forehead again. Even for such a round man, he seemed to be sweating twice as 
much as the heat called for. "I'm sure the Lord Dragon will do just as you say." 
His laugh was shaky. "You wanted to talk to me. And not about my old inn, I'm 
sure."
Perrin exhaled wearily. He had thought nothing could be worse than old friends 
and neighbors bowing and scraping, but at least they forgot sometimes and spoke 
their minds. And none of them was afraid of him. "You're a long way from home," 
he said in a gentle voice. No need to go too fast, not with a man ready to jump 
out of his skin. "I wondered what brought you here. Not troubles of any kind, I 
hope."
"You tell him right, Basel Gill," Lini said sharply, marching up to the oak. "No 
embroidery, mind." She had not been gone very long, yet somehow she had found 
time to wash her face and hands and work her hair into a neat white bun on the 
back of her head. And to beat most of the dust from her plain woolen dress. 
Bobbing a perfunctory curtsy in Perrin's direction, she turned to shake a 
gnarled finger at Gill. " 'Three things annoy to distraction: a tooth that 
aches, a shoe that pinches, and a man that chatters.' So you hold to the point 
and don't go telling the young lord more than he wants to hear." For a moment 
she held the gaping innkeeper with an admonitory stare, then abruptly gave 
Perrin another quick curtsy. "He does love the sound of his own voice  --  most men 
do  --  but he'll tell it to you properly, now, my Lord."
Master Gill glowered at her, and muttered under his breath when she waved 
sharply for him to speak. "Bony old . . . " was what Perrin heard. "What 
happened  --  the simple and straight of it  --  " The round man glared at Lini again, 
but she did not appear to notice, "was that I had some business down to Lugard. 
A chance to import wine. But you're not interested in that. I took Lamgwin 
along, of course, and Breane, because she won't let him out of her sight an hour 
she doesn't, have to. Along the way, we met Mistress Dorlain, Mistress Maighdin 
as we call her, and Lini, and Tallanvor. And Balwer, of course. On the road. 
Near to Lugard."
"Maighdin and I were in service in Murandy," Lini put in impatiently. "Until the 
troubles. Tallanvor was an armsman to the House, and Balwer the secretary. 
Bandits burned the manor, and our lady couldn't afford to keep us, so we decided 
to travel together for protection."
"I was telling it, Lini," Master Gill grumbled, scratching behind his ear. "The 
wine merchant had left Lugard for the country, for some reason, and . . . " He 
shook his head. "It's all too much to go into, Perrin. Lord Perrin, I mean. 
Forgive me. You know there's trouble everywhere nowadays, one kind or another. 
Seems like every time we ran from one kind, we found another, and always getting 
further from Caemlyn. Till here we are, tired and grateful for a rest. And 
that's the short of it."
Perrin nodded slowly. That could be simple truth, though he had learned that 
people had a hundred reasons for lying, or just shading the truth. Grimacing, he 
raked fingers through his hair. Light! He was becoming suspicious as a 
Cairhienin, and the deeper Rand tangled him, the worse it got. Why on earth 
would Basel Gill, of all people, lie to him? A lady's maid, accustomed to 
privilege and fallen on hard times; that explained Maighdin. Some things were 
simple.
Lini's hands were folded at her waist, but she watched with a keen eye, no 
little like a falcon herself, and Master Gill began fidgeting as soon as he 
stopped talking. He seemed to take Perrin's grimace as a demand for more. He 
laughed, more on edge than amused. "I haven't seen so much of the world since 
the Aiel War, and I was considerably skinnier, then. Why, we've been as far as 
Amador. Of course, we left after those Seanchan took the city, but truth, they 
aren't any worse than the Whitecloaks, that I could  --  " He cut off as Perrin 
leaned forward abruptly and seized his lapel.
"Seanchan, Master Gill? Are you sure of that? Or is it one of those rumors, like 
the Aiel, or Aes Sedai?"
"I saw them," Gill replied, exchanging uncertain looks with Lini. "And that's 
what they call themselves. I'm surprised you don't know. Word's been running 
ahead of us all the way from Amador. These Seanchan want people to know what 
they're about. Strange people, with strange creatures." His voice picked up 
intensity. "Like Shadowspawn. Big leathery things that fly, and carry men, and 
these things like lizards, only they're big as horses, and they have three eyes. 
I saw them! I did!"
"I believe you," Perrin said, releasing the man's coat. "I've seen them, too." 
At Falme, where a thousand Whitecloaks died in minutes and it had taken dead 
heroes of legend, called by the Horn of Valere, to throw the Seanchan back. Rand 
had said they would return, but how could they have so soon? Light! If they held 
Amador, they had to have Tarabon as well, or most of it. Only a fool killed a 
deer when he knew there was a wounded bear behind his back. How much had they 
taken? "I can't send you to Caemlyn right away, Master Gill, but if you stay 
with me a while longer, I'll see you there safely." If staying with him any 
length of time was safe. The Prophet, Whitecloaks, and now maybe Seanchan added 
in.
"I think you're a good man," Lini said suddenly. "I'm afraid we didn't tell you 
the whole truth, and maybe we should."
"Lini, what are you saying?" Master Gill exclaimed, bounding to his feet. "I 
think the heat's getting to her," he told Perrin. "And all the travel. She has 
strange fancies, sometimes. You know how old folks can get. Hush, now, Lini!"
Lini slapped away the hand he was trying to put over her mouth. "You mind 
yourself, Basel Gill! I'll 'old' you! Maighdin was running from Tallanvor, in a 
manner of speaking, and he was chasing her. We all were, four days now, and near 
killing us and the horses both. Well, it's no wonder she doesn't know her own 
mind half the time; you men snarl up a woman's wits so she can hardly think, 
then you pretend you've done nothing at all. The lot of you ought to have your 
ears boxed on general principle. The girl's afraid of her own heart! Those two 
should be married, and the quicker the better."
Master Gill gaped at her, and Perrin was not sure his own mouth might not be 
hanging open. "I'm not certain I understand what it is you want of me," he said 
slowly, and the white-haired woman leaped in before he was well finished.
"Don't pretend to be dense. I won't believe it in you for a moment. I can see 
you have more wits than most men. That's the worst habit you men have, making 
believe you don't see what's plain under your noses." What had happened to all 
those curtsies? Folding thin arms across her chest, she eyed him sternly. "Well, 
if you must pretend, I'll set it out for you. This Lord Dragon of yours does 
whatever he wants, the way I hear. Your Prophet picks out people and marries 
them on the spot. Very well; you snatch up Maighdin and Tallanvor and marry 
them. He'll thank you, and so will she. When her mind settles."
Stunned, Perrin glanced at Master Gill, who shrugged and made a sickly grin. "If 
you will forgive me," Perrin told the frowning woman, "I have some matters I 
must see to." He hurried away, only looking back once. Lini was shaking a finger 
at
Master Gill, berating him despite his protests. The breeze was wrong for Perrin 
to hear what they were saying. In truth, he did not want to. They were all 
crazy!
Berelain might have her two maids and her thief-catchers, but Faile had her own 
attendants, of a sort. Close on twenty young Tairens and Cairhienin were sitting 
cross-legged near the tent, the women in coats and breeches with swords belted 
on just like the men. None wore their hair longer than the shoulder, and men and 
women both had it tied back with a ribbon, imitating the Aiel tail. Perrin 
wondered where the rest were; they seldom strayed far from the sound of Faile's 
voice. Not causing trouble, he hoped. She had taken them under her wing to keep 
them out of trouble, she said, and the Light knew they would have gotten into 
it, left back in Cairhien with a great lot of young fools just like them. In 
Perrin's opinion, the whole lashing of them needed a swift kick in the bottom to 
knock some sense into them. Dueling, playing at ji'e'toh, pretending to be some 
sort of Aiel. Idiocy!
Lacile rose to her feet as Perrin came closer, a pale little woman with red 
ribbons pinned to her lapels, small gold hoops in her ears, and a challenging 
stare that sometimes made the Two Rivers men think she might like a kiss despite 
her sword. Right then, the challenge was stony hard. A moment behind her, Arrela 
stood too, tall and dark, with her hair cut short as a Maiden's and her clothes 
plainer than most of the men's. Unlike Lacile, Arrela made it clear she would as 
soon kiss a dog as any man. The pair made as if to move in front of the tent, to 
block Perrin's way, but a square-chinned fellow in a puffy-sleeved coat barked 
an order and they sat again. Reluctantly. For that matter, Parelean thumbed that 
block of a chin as though he might be reconsidering. He had worn a beard the 
first time Perrin saw him  --  several of the Tairen men had had them  --  but Aiel 
did not wear beards. Perrin muttered about foolishness under his breath. They 
were Faile's to the bone, and the fact that he was her husband meant little. 
Aram might be jealous of his attentions, yet Aram at least shared his affections 
with Faile. He could feel the young idiots' eyes on him as he strode inside. 
Faile would skin him if she ever learned that he hoped they would keep her from 
trouble.
The tent was tall and spacious, with a flowered carpet for a floor and sparse 
furnishings that folded for storage on a cart, most of them. The heavy 
stand-mirror certainly could not. Except for brass-bound chests draped with 
embroidered cloths and doubling as extra tables, straight lines of bright gilt 
decorated everything down to the washstand and its mirror. A dozen mirrored 
lamps made the interior nearly as bright as outside, if considerably cooler, and 
there were even a pair of silk hangings dangling from the roof poles, too ornate 
for Perrin's taste. Too rigid, with the birds and flowers marching in lines and 
angles. Dobraine had set them up to travel like Cairhienin nobles, though Perrin 
had managed to "lose" the worst of it. The huge bed, for one, a ridiculous thing 
to travel with. It had taken up almost a whole cart to itself.
Faile and Maighdin were sitting alone together, worked silver cups in hand. They 
had the air of women feeling one another out, all smiles on the outside yet with 
a hint of sharpness to the eyes, a hint of listening for something behind the 
words, and not a clue as to whether they would hug in the next instant or draw 
knives. Well, he thought most women would not actually go as far as knives, but 
Faile could. Maighdin appeared much less travel-worn than she had, washed and 
combed, the dust brushed from her dress. A small mosaic-topped table between 
them held more cups and a tall sweating silver pitcher that gave off the minty 
scent of herb tea. Both women looked around at his entrance, and for an instant, 
they had almost exactly the same expression, coolly wondering who was barging in 
and not at all pleased with the interruption. At least Faile softened hers 
immediately with a smile.
"Master Gill told me your story, Mistress Dorlain," he said. "You've faced hard 
days, but you can be sure you're safe here till you decide to leave." The woman 
murmured thanks over the rim of her cup, but she smelled wary, and her eyes 
tried to read him like a book.
"Maighdin also told me their story, Perrin," Faile said, "and I have an offer to 
make her. Maighdin, you and your friends have had trying months behind, and you 
tell me of no prospects ahead. Enter my service, all of you. You will still have 
to journey, but the circumstances will be much better. I pay well, and I am not 
a harsh mistress." Perrin voiced his approval immediately. If Faile wanted to 
indulge her fancy for taking in strays, at least he wanted to help this lot, 
too. Maybe they would be safer with him than wandering around alone at that.
Choking on her tea, Maighdin nearly dropped her cup. She blinked at Faile, 
dabbing at the damp on her chin with a lace-edged linen handkerchief, and her 
chair creaked faintly as she turned, strangely, to study Perrin. "I . . . thank 
you," she said at last, slowly. "I think . . . " Another moment's perusal of 
Perrin, and her voice picked up. "Yes, I thank you, and I accept your kind offer 
gratefully. I must tell my companions." Rising, she hesitated in setting her cup 
on the tray, then straightened only to spread her skirts in a curtsy suitable 
for any palace. "I will try to give good service, my Lady," she said levelly. 
"May I withdraw?" At Faile's assent, she curtsied again and backed away two 
steps before turning to go! Perrin scratched his beard. Somebody else who would 
be bobbing at him every time she turned around.
No sooner had the tentflap dropped behind Maighdin than Faile put her cup down 
and laughed, drumming her heels on the carpet. "Oh, I like her, Perrin. She has 
spirit! I'll wager she would have singed your beard over those banners if I 
hadn't saved you. Oh, yes. Spirit!"
Perrin grunted. Just what he needed; another woman to singe his beard. "I 
promised Master Gill to look after them, Faile, but . . . Can you guess what 
that Lini asked? She wanted me to marry Maighdin to that fellow Tallanvor. Just 
stand them up and marry them whatever they said! She claimed they want it." He 
filled a silver cup with tea and dropped into the chair Maighdin had vacated, 
ignoring its alarming groans under his sudden weight. "In any case, that 
nonsense is the least of my worries. Master Gill says it was the Seanchan took 
Amador, and I believe him. Light! The Seanchan!"
Faile tapped her fingertips together, staring across them at nothing. "That 
might be just the thing," she mused. "Most servants do better married than not. 
Perhaps I should arrange it. And for Breane, too. The way she went running out 
of here to check on that big fellow as soon as her face was clean, I suspect 
they should be already. There was a gleam in her eye. I won't have that kind of 
behavior in my servants, Perrin. It just leads to tears and recriminations and 
sulking. And Breane will be worse than he is."
Perrin stared at her. "Did you hear me?" he said slowly. "The Seanchan have 
captured Amador! The Seanchan, Faile!"
She gave a start  --  she really had been thinking about marrying off those women! 
 --  then smiled at him, amused. "Amador is long way, yet, and if we do meet with 
these Seanchan, I'm sure you will deal with them. After all, you taught me to 
perch on your wrist, didn't you?" That was what she claimed, though he had never 
seen any sign of it.
"They might be a touch more difficult than you were," he said dryly, and she 
smiled again. She smelled extremely pleased, for some reason. "I'm thinking 
about sending Grady or Neald to warn Rand, no matter what he said." She shook 
her head fiercely, smiles evaporating, but he pushed on. "If I knew how to find 
him, I would. There has to be some way to get word to him without anyone 
learning of it." Rand had insisted on that more than he had on secrecy about 
Masema. Perrin had been exiled from Rand's presence, and no one was to know 
anything remained between them except enmity.
"He knows, Perrin. I'm sure of it. Maighdin saw pigeoncotes everywhere in 
Amador, and apparently the Seanchan didn't look at them twice. By this time, any 
merchant who has business with Amador has heard, and so has the White Tower. 
Believe me, Rand must have, too. You have to trust that he knows best. In this, 
he does." She was not always so certain of that.
"Maybe," Perrin muttered irritably. He tried not to worry about Rand's sanity, 
but Rand made Perrin at his most suspicious look like a child skipping in a 
meadow. How much did Rand trust even him? Rand kept things back, had plans he 
never let on.
Exhaling, Perrin settled back in the chair, gulped a swallow of tea. The truth 
of it was, mad or sane, Rand was right. If the Forsaken caught a suspicion of 
what he was up to, or the White Tower did, they would find some way to overturn 
the anvil on his feet. "At least I can give the Tower's eyes-and-ears less to 
talk about. This time, I'm burning that bloody banner." And the Wolf-head, too. 
He might have to play at being a lord, but he could do it without a bloody flag!
Faile's full lips pursed judiciously, and she shook her head slightly. Slipping 
from her chair, she knelt beside him, took his wrist in her hands. Perrin met 
her level gaze warily. When she looked at him so intently, so seriously, she was 
about to tell him something important. That, or pull the wool over his eyes and 
spin him around till he did not know front from back. Her scent told him 
nothing. He tried to stop smelling her; it was all too easy to lose himself in 
that, and then she would pull the wool over his eyes. One thing he had learned 
since marrying: a man needed all of his wits dealing with a woman. Too often 
even that was not enough; women did what they wanted as surely as Aes Sedai.
"You might want to reconsider, husband," she murmured. A tiny smile quirked her 
mouth as if she once again knew what he was thinking. "I doubt anyone who's seen 
us since we entered Ghealdan knew what the Red Eagle is. Around a town the size 
of Bethal, some will, though. And the longer we have to hunt for Masema, the 
greater the chance."
He did not bother with saying that was all the more reason to get rid of the 
banner. Faile was no fool, and she thought much faster than he. "Then why keep 
it," he asked slowly, "when all it'll do is draw eyes to the idiot everybody 
will think is trying to pull Manetheren out of the grave?" Men had tried that in 
the past, and women, too; the name of Manetheren carried powerful memories, and 
it was convenient for anyone who wanted to start a rebellion.
"Because it will draw eyes." She leaned toward him intently. "To a man trying to 
raise up Manetheren again. Lesser folk will smile to your face, hope you ride on 
soon, and try to forget you as soon as you do. As for the greater, they've too 
much in front of their faces right now to look twice unless you pinch their 
noses. Compared to the Seanchan, or the Prophet, or the Whitecloaks, a man 
trying to raise Manetheren is small turnips. And I think it's safe to say the 
Tower won't look twice either, not now." Her smile widened, and the light in her 
eyes said she was about to make her most telling point. "But most important, no 
one will think that man is doing anything else." Abruptly her smile vanished; 
she stuck a finger against his nose, hard. "And don't call yourself an idiot, 
Perrin t'Bashere Aybara. Not even sideways, like that. You aren't, and I do not 
like it." Her scent was tiny spikes, not true anger but definitely displeased.
Quicksilver. A kingfisher flashing by faster than thought. Certainly faster than 
his thoughts. It would never have occurred to him to hide so . . . flagrantly. 
But he could see the sense. It was like concealing the fact that you were a 
murderer by claiming to be a thief. Yet it might work.
Chuckling, he kissed her fingertip. "The banner stays," he said. He supposed 
that meant the Wolfhead did, too. Blood and bloody ashes! "Alliandre has to know 
the truth, though. If she thinks Rand means to set me up as King of Manetheren 
and take her lands . . ."
Faile rose so suddenly, turning away, that he was afraid he had made a mistake 
bringing up the Queen. Alliandre could lead to Berelain all too easily, and 
Faile smelled . . . prickly. Wary. But what she said, over her shoulder, was 
"Alliandre won't be a bit of trouble for Perrin Goldeneyes. That bird's as good 
as netted, husband, so it's time to put our minds on how to find Masema." 
Kneeling gracefully beside a small chest against the tent wall, the only chest 
without draperies, she lifted the lid and began removing rolled maps.
Perrin hoped she was right about Alliandre, because he did not know what to do 
if she was wrong. If only he were half what she thought him. Alliandre was a 
netted bird, the Seanchan would fall over like dolls for Perrin Goldeneyes, and 
he would snatch up the Prophet and take him to Rand if Masema had ten thousand 
men around him. Not for the first time he realized that however much her anger 
hurt and confused him, it was her disappointment he feared. If he ever saw that 
in her eyes, it would rip the heart out of his chest.
He knelt beside her and helped her spread out the largest map, covering the 
south of Ghealdan and the north of Amadicia, and studied it as though Masema's 
name would leap off the parchment at him. He had more reason than Rand to want 
to succeed. Whatever else, he could not fail Faile.
Faile lay in the darkness, listening until she was sure that Perrin's breath had 
the deep rhythm of sleep, then slipped out from the blankets they shared. Rueful 
amusement touched her as she pulled her linen nightdress up over her head. Did 
he really think she would not find out that he had hidden the bed deep in a 
copse one morning while the carts were being loaded? Not that she minded; not a 
great deal, at least. She was sure she had slept on the ground as often as he. 
She had pretended surprise, of course, and made light of it. Anything else, and 
he would have apologized, perhaps even gone back to fetch the bed. Managing a 
husband was an art, so her mother said. Had Deira ni Ghaline ever found it so 
difficult?
Scuffing her bare feet into slippers, she shrugged into a silk robe, then 
hesitated, looking down at Perrin. He would be able to see her clearly, if he 
woke, but to her, he was just a shadowed mound. She wished her mother were 
there, now, to advise her. She loved Perrin with every fiber of her being, and 
he confused every fiber. Actually understanding men was impossible, of course, 
but he was so unlike anyone she had grown up with. He never swaggered, and 
instead of laughing at himself, he was . . . modest. She had not believed a man 
could be modest! He insisted that only chance had made him a leader, claimed he 
did not know how to lead, when men who met him were ready to follow after an 
hour. He dismissed his own thinking as slow, when those slow, considering 
thoughts saw so deeply that she had to dance a merry jig to keep any secrets at 
all. He was a wonderful man, her curly-haired wolf. So strong. And so gentle. 
Sighing, she tiptoed from the tent. His ears had caused her difficulties before.
The camp lay quiet beneath a gibbous moon that gave as much light in a cloudless 
sky as it normally would have full, a brightness that washed out the stars. Some 
sort of night-bird cried shrilly, then fell silent at an owl's deep hoot. There 
was a small breeze, and for a wonder, it actually seemed a little cool. Probably 
her imagination. The nights were cool only in comparison to the days.
Most of the men were asleep, dark humps among the shadows beneath the trees. A 
few remained awake, talking around the handful of fires still burning. She made 
no effort to hide, but none noticed her. Some appeared half asleep where they 
sat, heads nodding. If she had not known how well the men on sentry duty would 
be keeping watch, she might have thought the camp could be surprised by a herd 
of wild cattle. Of course, the Maidens would be on guard in the night, too. But 
it did not matter if they saw her, either.
The high-wheeled carts made long, shadowed rows, the servants already snug and 
snoring beneath. Most of the servants. One fire still crackled there. Maighdin 
and her friends sat around it. Tallanvor was talking, gesturing fiercely, but 
only the other men seemed to be paying him any mind, though he appeared to be 
addressing himself to Maighdin. That they had had better garb in their bundles 
than those near rags was not surprising, but their former mistress must have had 
a very free hand to give out silk to her people, and Maighdin wore finely cut 
silk indeed, in a muted blue. None of the others was dressed so well, so perhaps 
Maighdin had been their lady's favorite.
A twig snapped under Faile's foot, and heads whipped around, Tallanvor starting 
to his feet, half drawing his sword before he saw her gathering her robe in the 
moonlight. They were more alert than the Two Rivers men behind her. For an 
instant the lot of them just stared at her; then Maighdin rose gracefully and 
made a deep curtsy, and the others hastily followed her example with varying 
degrees of skill. Only Maighdin and Balwer appeared at all at ease. A nervous 
smile split Gill's round face.
"Go on with what you were doing," Faile told them kindly. "But don't stay up too 
late; tomorrow will be full." She walked on, but when she glanced back, they 
were still standing, still peering after her. Their travels must have made them 
wary as rabbits, always watching for a fox. She wondered how well they would fit 
in. Over the next few weeks, she would be busy training them to her ways, 
learning theirs. One was as important as the other for a well-run household. The 
time would have to be found. They did not stay long in her thoughts tonight. 
Soon she was beyond the carts, not quite out to where Two Rivers men would be 
keeping sharp watch from up in the trees. Nothing larger than a mouse would get 
by them unseen  --  even some of the Maidens had been spotted upon occasion  --  but 
they were watching for anyone attempting to sneak in. Not for those who had a 
right to be there. In a small moonlit clearing, her people were waiting.
Some of the men bowed, and Parelean nearly went to one knee before stopping 
himself. Several women instinctively made curtsies that looked quite peculiar in 
men's garb, then dropped their eyes or shifted in embarrassment at realizing 
what they had done. The manners of the court had been bred into them, though 
they tried very hard to adopt Aiel customs. What they believed were Aiel 
customs, at least. Sometimes they horrified the Maidens with what they believed. 
Perrin called them fools, and they were in some ways, but they had sworn fealty 
to her, these Cairhienin and Tairens  --  water oath, they named it, copying the 
Aiel, trying to  --  and that made them hers. Among themselves they had taken to 
calling their "society" Cha Faile, the Falcon's Talon, though they had seen the 
necessity of keeping that quiet. They were not fools in all ways. In fact, 
around the edges anyway, they were not too unlike the young men and women she 
had grown up with.
Those she had sent off early that morning had just returned, for the women among 
them were still changing out of the dresses they had worn of necessity. Even one 
woman dressed as a man would have roused notice in Bethal, not to mention five. 
The clearing was a great flurry of skirts and shifts, coats and shirts and 
breeches. The women made believe they did not mind being unclothed in front of 
others, including men, since the Aiel apparently did not, but haste and labored 
breathing gave them the lie. The men were all shifting feet and turning heads, 
torn between looking away decently and watching, as they thought the Aiel did, 
while pretending they were not looking at half-dressed women. Faile held her 
robe close over her nightdress; she could not have dressed further without 
waking Perrin for sure, but she made no pretense at comfort. She was no Domani, 
to receive her retainers in her bath.
"Forgive us for being late, my Lady Faile," Selande panted, tugging her coat on. 
The accents of Cairhien were sharp in the short woman's voice. Even for a 
Cairhienin, she was not tall. She managed a credible swagger, though, a suitable 
boldness in the tilt of her head and the set of her shoulders. "We would have 
returned sooner, but the gate guards made a bother letting us out."
"A bother?" Faile said sharply. If only she could have seen with her own eyes, 
on top of theirs; if only Perrin had let her go instead of that trollop. No, she 
would not think about Berelain. It was not Perrin's fault. She repeated that to 
herself twenty times a day, like a prayer. But why was the man so blind? "What 
kind of bother?" She drew a chagrined breath. Troubles with your husband should 
never affect your tone with your vassals.
"Nothing of note, my Lady." Selande buckled her sword belt and settled it on her 
hips. "They let some fellows ahead of us drive their wagons through without a 
second look, but they were worried about letting women go out into the night." 
Some of the other women laughed. The five men who had gone into Bethal stirred 
irritably, no doubt because they had not been thought enough protection. The 
rest of Cha Faile made a thick semicircle behind those ten, watching Faile 
closely, listening closely. Moonlight shadowed their faces.
"Tell me what you saw," Faile commanded in a calmer tone. Much better.
Selande made her report concisely, and for all Faile's wishes that she had gone 
herself, she had to admit they had seen almost as much as she could have wished. 
The streets of Bethal were nearly empty even at the busiest hours of the day. 
People stayed to their own homes as much as possible. A little commerce trickled 
in and out, but few merchants ventured into this part of Ghealdan, and barely 
enough food came in from the countryside to keep everyone fed. Most of the 
townspeople seemed stunned, afraid of what lay outside the walls, sinking deeper 
and deeper into apathy and despair. Everyone kept their mouths closed for fear 
of the Prophet's spies, and their eyes as well, for fear of being taken for 
spies. The Prophet had a deep effect. For instance, however many bandits roamed 
the hills, cutpurses and footpads had vanished from Bethal. It was said the 
Prophet's penalty for a thief was to cut off the man's hands. Though that did 
not seem to apply to his own people.
"The Queen tours the city every day, showing herself to keep spirits up," 
Selande said, "but I do hot think it helps much. She is making a progress here 
in the south to remind people they have a Queen; maybe she has had more success 
elsewhere. The Watch has been added to the wall guards, and all but a handful of 
her soldiers, too. Perhaps it makes the townsfolk feel safer. Until she moves 
on. Unlike everyone else, Alliandre herself apparently feels no fear the Prophet 
will come storming over the walls. She walks alone in the gardens of Lord 
Telabin's palace, morning and evening, and keeps only a few soldiers, who spend 
most of their time in the kitchens. Everybody in the city seems as concerned 
with food, with how long there will be enough, as they are with the Prophet. In 
truth, my Lady, for all the guards on the walls, I think if Masema appeared at 
the gates alone, they might give him the town."
"They would," Meralda put in contemptuously, buckling her own sword round her 
waist, "and beg for mercy." Dark and stocky, Meralda was as tall as Faile, but 
the Tairen woman ducked her head at a frown from Selande and murmured an 
apology. There were no doubts who led Cha Faile, after Faile herself.
She had been pleased there was no need to change the precedence they had 
established. Selande was the brightest of them except perhaps for Parelean, and 
only Arella and Camaille were quicker. And Selande had something extra, a 
steadiness, as if she had already faced the worst fear in her life and nothing 
could ever be that bad again. Of course, she wanted a scar like those some of 
the Maidens had. Faile possessed several small scars, badges of honor most of 
them, but actually seeking one was idiocy. At least the woman was not too very 
eager in the matter.
"We made a map, as you required, my Lady," the diminutive woman finished with a 
last, warning glance at Meralda. "We marked out Lord Telabin's palace on the 
back as much as we could, but I fear that is not much more than the gardens and 
stables."
Faile did not try to make out the lines on the paper she unfolded in the 
moonlight. A pity she had not been able to go herself; she could have mapped the 
interior, too. No. Done was done, as Perrin liked to say. And it was enough. 
"You are certain no one searches wagons leaving the city?" Even in the pale 
light, she could see confusion on many of the faces in front of her. None knew 
why she had sent some of them into Bethal.
Selande did not look confused. "Yes, my Lady," she said calmly. Quite bright, 
and more than quick enough.
The wind gusted for a moment, rustling leaves on the trees, rustling dead leaves 
on the ground, and Faile wished she had Perrin's ears. His nose and eyes, too. 
It did not matter if anyone saw her here with her retainers, but eavesdroppers 
would be something else. "You've done very well, Selande. All of you have." 
Perrin knew the dangers here, as real as any farther south; he knew, but like 
most men, he thought with his heart as often as his head. A wife had to be 
practical, to keep her husband out of trouble. That had been her mother's very 
first piece of advice on married life. "At first light, you will return to 
Bethal, and if you receive word from me, this is what you will do . . . "
Even Selande's eyes widened in shock as she went on, but no one murmured the 
slightest protest. Faile would have been surprised if anyone had. Her 
instructions were to the point. There would be some danger, but under the 
circumstances, not nearly what might have been.
"Are there any questions?" she said finally. "Does everyone understand?"
With one voice, Cha Faile answered. "We live to serve our Lady Faile." And that 
meant they would serve her beloved wolf, whether he wanted them to or not.
 
Maighdin shifted in her blankets on the hard ground, sleep eluding her. That was 
her name, now; a new name for a new life. Maighdin, for her mother, and Dorlain, 
for a family on an estate that had been hers. A new life for an old life gone, 
but ties of the heart could not be cut. And now . . . Now . . . 
A faint crackle of dead leaves brought her head up, and she watched a dim shape 
pass through the trees. The Lady Faile, returning to her tent from wherever she 
had gone. A pleasant young woman, kindhearted and well spoken. Whatever her 
husband's stock, she almost certainly was nobly born. But young. Inexperienced. 
That might be a help.
Maighdin let her head fall back on the cloak she had wadded up for a pillow. 
Light, what was she doing here? Taking service as a lady's maid! No. She would 
hold on to her confidence in herself, at least. She could still find that. She 
could. If she dug deeply. Her breath caught at the sound of footsteps close by.
Tallanvor knelt gracefully at her side. He was shirtless, moonlight gleaming on 
the smooth muscles of his chest and shoulders, his face in shadows. A slight 
breeze ruffled his hair. "What madness is this?" he asked softly. "Entering 
service? What are you up to? And don't tell me that nonsense about making a new 
life; I don't believe it. No one does."
She tried to turn away, but he laid a hand on her shoulder. He exerted no 
pressure, yet it stopped her as surely as a halter. Light, please let her not 
tremble. The Light did not listen, but at least she managed to keep her voice 
steady. "If you haven't noticed, I must make my way in the world, now. Better as 
a lady's maid than a tavern maid. You may feel free to go on alone if service 
here doesn't suit."
"You didn't abdicate your wits or your pride when you gave up the throne," he 
muttered. Burn Lini for revealing that! "If you mean to pretend that you did, I 
suggest you avoid letting Lini get you alone." The man chuckled at her! He 
chuckled, oh, so richly! "She wants a word with Maighdin, and I suspect she 
won't be as gentle with Maighdin as she was with Morgase."
Angrily she sat up, brushing his hand away. "Are you blind, and deaf as well? 
The Dragon Reborn has plans for Elayne! Light, I wouldn't like it if he simply 
knew her name! It must be more than chance that brought me to one of his 
henchmen, Tallanvor. It has to be!"
"Burn me, I knew it must be that. I hoped I was wrong, but . . . " He sounded as 
angry as she. He had no right to be angry! "Elayne is safe in the White Tower, 
the Amyrlin Seat won't let her anywhere near a man who can channel, even if he 
is the Dragon Reborn  --  especially if he is!  --  and Maighdin Dorlain can do 
nothing about the Amyrlin Seat, the Dragon Reborn, or the Lion Throne. All she 
can do is get her neck snapped, or her throat cut, or  -- !"
"Maighdin Dorlain can watch!" she broke in, at least partly to stop that awful 
litany. "She can listen! She can . . .!" Irritably, she trailed off. What could 
she do? Suddenly she realized she was sitting there in a thin shift and 
hurriedly folded her blankets around her. The night actually seemed a little 
cool. Or maybe the goose bumps on her skin were from Tallanvor's unseen eyes on 
her. The thought roused a flush in her cheeks she hoped he could not see. 
Luckily, it put a heat in her voice, too. She was not a girl, to go blushing 
because a man looked at her! "I will do what I can, whatever that is. The chance 
will come to learn something or do something that will help Elayne, and I will 
take it!"
"A dangerous decision," he told her calmly. She wished she could make out his 
face in the darkness. Only to read his expression, of course. "You heard him 
threaten to hang anyone who looked at him the wrong way. I can believe it, in a 
man with those eyes. Like a beast. I was surprised he let that fellow go; I 
thought he'd rip his throat out! If he discovers who you are, who you used to be 
. . . Balwer might betray you. He never really explained why he helped us escape 
Amador. Maybe he thought Queen Morgase would give him a new position. Now he 
knows there's no chance of that, and he might want to curry favor with his new 
master and mistress."
"Are you afraid of Lord Perrin Goldeneyes?" she demanded contemptuously. Light, 
the man frightened her! Those eyes belonged on a wolf. "Balwer knows enough to 
hold his tongue. Anything he says will reflect on him; he came with me, after 
all. If you're afraid, then ride on!"
"You always fling that in my face," he sighed, settling back on his heels. She 
could not see his eyes, but she could feel them. "Ride on if you wish, you say. 
Once, there was a soldier loved a queen from afar, knowing it was hopeless, 
knowing he could never dare speak. Now the queen is gone, and only a woman 
remains, and I hope. I burn with hope! If you want me to leave, Maighdin, say 
it. One word. 'Go!' A simple word."
She opened her mouth. A simple word, she thought. Light, it's only one word! Why 
can't I say it! Light, please! For the second time that night, the Light failed 
to hear. She sat there huddled in her blankets like a fool, her mouth open, her 
face growing hotter and hotter.
If he had chuckled again, she would have put her belt knife in him. If he had 
laughed, or given any sign of triumph . . . Instead, he leaned forward and 
gently kissed her eyes. She made a sound deep in her throat; she could not seem 
to move. Wide-eyed, she watched him stand. He loomed in the moonlight. She was a 
queen  --  she had been a queen  --  used to command, used to hard decisions in hard 
times, but right then the pounding of her heart drummed thought from her head.
"Had you said 'go,'" he told her, "I'd have buried hope, but I could never leave 
you."
Not until he was back in his own blankets could she make herself lie down and 
draw hers around her. She breathed as if she had been running. The night was 
cool; she was shivering, not trembling. Tallanvor was too young. Too young! 
Worse, he was right. Burn him for that! A lady's maid could do nothing to affect 
events, and if the Dragon Reborn's wolf-eyed killer learned that he had Morgase 
of Andor in his hands, she could be used against Elayne instead of helping her. 
He had no right to be right when she wanted him to be wrong! The illogic of that 
thought infuriated her. There was a chance she might do some good! There had to 
be!
In the back of her head, a small voice laughed. You can't forget that you're 
Morgase Trakand, it told her scornfully, and even after she's abdicated her 
throne, Queen Morgase can't stop trying her hand in the affairs of the mighty, 
no matter how much ruin she's made of it so far. And she can't tell a man to go 
away, either, because she can't stop thinking how strong his hands are, and how 
his lips curve when he smiles, and  --  
Furious, she pulled the blanket over her head, trying to shut out the voice. She 
was not staying because she could not walk away from power. As for Tallanvor . . 
. She would set him firmly in his place. This time she would! But . . . What was 
his place, with a woman who was no longer a queen? She tried to put him out of 
her mind and tried to ignore that mocking voice that would not be quiet, yet 
when sleep finally came, she could still feel the pressure of his lips on her 
eyelids.
Chapter 9
Tangles
Perrin woke before first light as usual, and as usual, Faile was already up and 
about. She could make a mouse seem noisy when she wanted to, and he suspected 
that if he woke an hour after lying down, she would still manage to be up first. 
The doorflaps were tied back, the side panels raised a little at the bottom, and 
a stir of air rose through the venthole in the peak, enough to create an 
illusion of coolness. Perrin actually shivered while searching for his shirt and 
breeches. Well, it was supposed to be winter, even if the weather did not know 
it.
He dressed in the dark and scrubbed his teeth with salt, needing no lamps, and 
when he left the tent, stamping his feet into his boots, Faile had her new 
servants gathered around her in the deep grayness of early morning, some holding 
lighted lanterns. A lord's daughter needed servants; he should have arranged for 
it before this. There were Two Rivers folk in Caemlyn that Faile had trained 
herself, but with the need for secrecy there had been no way to fetch them 
along. Master Gill would want to go home as soon as possible, and Lamgwin and 
Breane with him, but maybe Maighdin and Lini would stay.
Aram straightened from where he had been sitting cross-legged beside the tent, 
and waited silently on Perrin. If Perrin had not stopped him, Aram would have 
slept across the entrance. This morning his coat was striped red-and-white, 
though the white was a trifle dingy, and even here that wolfhead-pommeled sword 
hilt rose over his shoulder. Perrin had left his axe in the tent, and grateful 
to be rid of it. Tallanvor still wore his sword belted over his coat, but not 
Master Gill or the other two.
Faile must have been watching, because no sooner did Perrin come out than she 
gestured toward the tent, clearly issuing orders. Maighdin and Breane came 
bustling past him and Aram with lanterns, their jaws set, smelling of 
determination for some reason. Neither curtsied, a pleasant surprise. Lini did, 
a quick bend of the knee before she darted after the other two muttering about 
"knowing their place." Perrin suspected Lini was one of those women who saw her 
"place" as being in charge. Come to think of it, most women did. That was the 
way of the world, it seemed, not just the Two Rivers.
Tallanvor and Lamgwin followed close behind the women, and Lamgwin was as 
serious about bowing as Tallanvor, who was almost grim. Perrin sighed and bowed 
back, and they both gave a start, gaping at him. A curt shout from Lini jerked 
them into the tent.
With only a quickly flashed smile for him, Faile strode off toward the carts, 
talking alternately to Basel Gill on one side of her and Sebban Balwer on the 
other. The men each held a lantern out to light her way. Of course, a double 
handful of those idiots kept pace where they could hear if she raised her voice, 
strutting and stroking sword hilts and staring about in the dimness as though 
they expected an attack or hoped for one. Perrin tugged at his short beard. She 
always found plenty of work to fill her hours, and nobody took it out of her 
hands. Nobody would dare.
Not so much as the first fingers of dawn showed on the horizon yet, but the 
Cairhienin were beginning to stir around the carts, and moving more quickly the 
closer Faile came. By the time she reached them, they appeared to be trotting, 
their lanterns bobbing and swinging in the dimness. The Two Rivers men, used to 
farmers' days, were already making breakfast, some laughing and roughhousing 
around their cook fires, some grumping, but most getting the work done. A few 
tried to stay in their blankets and were unceremoniously tumbled out. Grady and 
Neald were up, too, as always off by themselves, shadows in black coats among 
the trees. Perrin could not recall seeing them without those coats, always 
buttoned to the neck, always clean and un-wrinkled come sunrise, whatever they 
had looked like the night before. Stepping through the forms in unison, the pair 
were practicing the sword as they did every morning. That was better than their 
evening practice, when they would sit cross-legged, hands on knees, staring at 
some distant nothing. They never did anything then that anyone could see, yet 
not a man in the camp but knew what they were about and kept as far off as 
possible. Not even the Maidens would step into their line of sight then.
Something was missing, Perrin realized with a start. Faile always had one of the 
men meet him first thing with a bowl of the thick porridge they breakfasted on, 
but it seemed she had been too busy this morning. Brightening, he hurried toward 
the cook fires, hoping at least to be able to dip up his own porridge for once. 
A small hope.
Flann Barstere, a lanky fellow with a dent in his chin, met him halfway and 
shoved a carved bowl into his hands. Flann was from up toward Watch Hill, and 
Perrin did not know him well, but they had been hunting together a time or two, 
and once Perrin had helped him dig one of his father's cows out of a bog-hole in 
the Waterwood. "The Lady Faile told me to bring this to you, Perrin," Flann said 
anxiously. "You won't tell her I forgot, will you? You won't tell? I found some 
honey, and I put in a good dollop." Perrin tried not to sigh. At least Flann had 
remembered his name.
Well, maybe he could not get away with doing the simplest chores for himself, 
but he was still responsible for the men eating beneath the trees. Without him, 
they would be with their families, getting ready for the day's chores around the 
farm, milking cows and cutting firewood instead of wondering whether they might 
have to kill or be killed before sunset. Gulping down the honeyed porridge 
quickly, he told Aram to take his ease over breakfast, but the man looked so 
miserable that he relented, so Aram followed as he made his way around the camp. 
The journey was not one Perrin enjoyed.
Men put down their bowls when he approached, or even stood until he passed. He 
gritted his teeth whenever somebody he had grown up with, or worse, a man who 
had sent him on errands as a boy, called him Lord Perrin. Not everyone did, but 
too many. Far too many. After a time, he gave up telling them to stop out of 
sheer weariness; all too often the reply was "Oh! Whatever you say, Lord 
Perrin." It was enough to make a man howl!
Despite that, he made himself pause to speak a word or two to every man. Mainly, 
though, he kept his eyes open. And his nose. They all knew enough to keep their 
bows in good repair and tend the fletching and points on their arrows, but some 
would wear the soles out of their boots or the bottom out of their breeches 
without noticing, or let blisters fester because they could not be bothered to 
do anything about them just yet. Several had the habit of picking up brandy when 
they could, and two or three of those had no head for it at all. There had been 
a small village the day before reaching Bethal that held no fewer than three 
inns. It was very strange. Having Mistress Luhhan or his mother tell him he 
needed new boots or his breeches mended had always been embarrassing, and he was 
sure he would have been irritated at the same from anybody else, but from 
grizzled old Jondyn Barran on down, the Two Rivers men just said "Why, right you 
are, Lord Perrin; I'll see to it straight away" or some such. He caught a number 
of them grinning at one another when he moved on. And they smelled pleased! When 
he rooted a clay jar of pear brandy out of Jori Congar's saddlebags  --  a skinny 
fellow who ate twice as much as anyone else and always looked as if he had not 
had a bite in a week, Jori was a good shot with a bow, but given a chance he 
would drink until he could not stand, and he had light fingers besides  --  Jori 
gave him a wide-eyed look and spread his hands as if he did not know where the 
jar had come from. But as Perrin walked on, emptying the brandy onto the ground, 
Jori laughed, "You can't put anything over on Lord Perrin!" He sounded proud! 
Sometimes, Perrin thought he was the only sane person left. Another thing, he 
noticed. One and all, they were very interested in what he did not say. Man 
after man cast an eye toward the two banners that occasionally flapped atop 
their poles in a brief gust, Red Wolfhead and Red Eagle. They eyed the banners 
and watched him, waiting for the order he had given every time the things had 
come out since reaching Ghealdan. And often enough before that. Except that he 
had said nothing yesterday, and he said nothing today, and he saw speculation 
blooming on men's faces. He left behind clusters of men peering at the banners 
and at him, murmuring excitedly among themselves. He did not try to listen. What 
would they say if he was wrong, if the White-cloaks or King Ailron decided they 
could look away from the Prophet and the Seanchan long enough to snuff out a 
supposed rebellion? They were his responsibility, and he had already gotten too 
many of them killed.
The sun was more than peeking above the horizon, spreading a sharp morning 
light, by the time he finished, and over at the tent, Tallanvor and Lamgwin were 
lugging out chests under Lini's direction, while Maighdin and Breane appeared to 
be sorting the contents out on a broad patch of dead grass, blankets and linens 
mainly, and long bright swaths of silk satin that had been intended to drape the 
bed he had misplaced. Faile must have been inside, because that gaggle of idiots 
were cooling their heels not far off. No carrying and hauling for them. Useful 
as rats in the barn.
Perrin thought about taking a look at Stayer and Stepper, but when he glanced 
through the trees at the horselines, he was seen. No fewer than three of the 
farriers stepped out anxiously, watching him. They were blocky men in leather 
aprons, alike as eggs in a basket, though Falton had only a fringe of white 
around his head, Aemin was graying, and Jerasid had not yet come into his middle 
years. Perrin growled at the sight of them. They would hover if he laid a hand 
on either horse, and goggle if he lifted a hoof. The one time he had tried to 
change a worn shoe, on Stayer, all six farriers had darted about grabbing up 
tools before he could touch them, nearly knocking the bay over in their rush to 
do the work themselves.
"They're afraid you don't trust them," Aram said suddenly. Perrin looked at him 
in surprise, and Aram shifted his shoulders in his coat. "I've talked to them, 
some. They think if a lord tends his own horses, it must be because he doesn't 
trust them. You might send them off, with no way to get home." His tone said 
they were fools to think that, but he gave Perrin a sideways glance and shrugged 
again, uncomfortably. "I think they're embarrassed, too. If you don't behave the 
way they think a lord should, it reflects on them, as they see it."
"Light!" Perrin muttered. Faile had said the same  --  about them being 
embarrassed, anyway  --  but he had believed it just a lord's daughter talking. 
Faile had grown up surrounded by servants, yet how could a lady know the 
thoughts of a man who had to work for his bread? He frowned toward the 
horselines. Five of the farriers stood together watching him, now. Embarrassed 
that he wanted to look after his own horses, and upset that he did not want them 
pulling wool and scratching gravel all over the place. "Do you think I ought to 
act like a fool in silk smallclothes?" he asked. Aram blinked, and began 
studying his boots. "Light!" Perrin growled.
Spotting Basel Gill hurrying from the direction of the carts, Perrin moved to 
meet him. He did not think he had done very well at making Gill feel at ease 
yesterday. The stout man was talking to himself and once more mopping his head 
with a kerchief, sweating away in a rumpled dark gray coat. The day's heat was 
beginning to take hold already. He did not see Perrin until Perrin was nearly on 
him, and then he gave a jump, stuffing the kerchief into a coat pocket and 
making a bow. He looked curried and brushed fit for a feastday.
"Ah. My Lord Perrin. Your Lady told me to take a cart into Bethal. She says I'm 
to find you some Two Rivers tabac, if I can, but I don't know that's possible. 
Two Rivers leaf has always been dear, and trade isn't what it was."
"She's sending you for tabac?" Perrin said, frowning. He supposed secrecy had 
gone down the well, but still. "I bought three casks, two villages back. Enough 
for everybody."
Gill shook his head firmly. "Not Two Rivers leaf, and your Lady says you like 
that above any other. The Ghealdanin leaf will do for your men. I'm to be your 
shambayan, she called it, and keep you and her supplied with what you need. Not 
much different from what I did running the Blessing, really." The similarity 
seemed to amuse him; his belly shook with quiet chuckles. "I have quite a list, 
though I can't say how much of it I'll find. Good wine, herbs, fruit, candles 
and lamp oil, oilcloth and wax, paper and ink, needles, pins, oh, all sorts of 
things. Tallanvor and Lamgwin and I are going, with some of your Lady's other 
retainers."
His Lady's other retainers. Tallanvor and Lamgwin were bringing out yet another 
chest for the women to sort through. They had to pass by the squatting clump of 
young fools, who never offered to lend a hand. In fact, the layabouts ignored 
them completely.
"You keep an eye on that lot," Perrin cautioned. "If one of them starts any 
trouble  --  if he even looks as if he will  --  you have Lamgwin crack his head." And 
if it was one of the women? They were just as likely, maybe more so. Perrin 
grunted. Faile's "retainers" were going to tie his belly into permanent knots 
yet. Too bad she could not be satisfied with the likes of Master Gill and 
Maighdin. "You didn't mention Balwer. Has he decided to go on alone?" Just then, 
a shift in the breeze brought him Balwer's scent, an alert smell very much at 
odds with the fellow's almost desiccated exterior.
Even for so reedy a man, Balwer made surprisingly little noise on the dried 
leaves underfoot. In a sparrow-brown coat, he offered a quick bow, and his 
tilted head added to the image of a bird. "I am staying, my Lord," he said 
cautiously. Or maybe that was just his manner. "As your gracious Lady's 
secretary. And yours, if it pleases you." He stepped closer, very nearly a hop. 
"I am well versed, my Lord. I possess a good memory and write a good hand, and 
my Lord can be assured that whatever he confides in me will never pass my lips 
to another. The ability to keep secrets is a primary skill of a secretary. Don't 
you have pressing duties for our new mistress, Master Gill?"
Gill frowned at Balwer, opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap. Spinning 
on his heel, he trotted away toward the tent.
For a moment Balwer watched him go, head to one side, lips pursed thoughtfully. 
"I can offer other services, as well, my Lord," he said finally. "Knowledge. I 
overheard some of my Lord's men speaking, and I understand that my Lord may have 
had some . . . difficulties . . . with the Children of the Light. A secretary 
learns many things. I know a surprising amount about the Children."
"With any luck I can avoid Whitecloaks," Perrin told him. "Better if you knew 
where the Prophet is. Or the Seanchan." He did not expect any of that, of 
course, but Balwer surprised him.
"I cannot be certain, of course, but I think the Seanchan have not spread far 
beyond Amador as yet. Fact is difficult to sift from rumor, my Lord, but I keep 
my ears open. Of course, they do seem to move with unexpected suddenness. A 
dangerous people, with large numbers of Taraboner soldiers. I believe from 
Master Gill that my Lord knows of them, but I observed them closely in Amador, 
and what I saw is at my Lord's disposal. As to the Prophet, there are as many 
rumors concerning him as the Seanchan, but I believe I can say reliably that he 
was recently at Abila, a largish town some forty leagues south of here." Balwer 
smiled thinly, a brief self-satisfied smile.
"How can you be so sure?" Perrin said slowly. "As I said, my Lord, I keep my 
ears open. The Prophet reportedly closed a number of inns and taverns, and tore 
down those he considered too disreputable. Several were mentioned, and by 
chance, I happen to know there are inns of those names in Abila. I think there 
is little chance another town would have inns with the same names." He flashed 
another narrow smile. He certainly smelled pleased with himself.
Perrin scratched his beard thoughtfully. The man just happened to remember where 
some inns that Masema supposedly had torn down were located. And if Masema 
turned out not to be there after all, well, these days rumors sprouted like 
mushrooms after rain. Balwer sounded a man trying to build up his own 
importance. "Thank you, Master Balwer. I'll keep that to mind. If you hear any 
more, be sure to tell me." As he turned to go, the man caught his sleeve.
Balwer's skinny fingers leaped away immediately, as though burned, and he made 
one of those birdlike bows, dry-washing his hands. "Forgive me, my Lord. I 
hesitate to press, but do not take the Whitecloaks too lightly. Avoiding them is 
wise, but it may not be possible. They are much closer than the Seanchan. Eamon 
Valda, the new Lord Captain Commander, led most of their numbers toward northern 
Amadicia before Amador fell. He was hunting the Prophet, also, my Lord. Valda is 
a dangerous man, and Rhadam Asunawa, the Grand Inquisitor, makes Valda seem 
pleasant. And I fear neither has any love for your own Lord. Forgive me." He 
bowed again, hesitated, then went on smoothly. "If I may say so, my Lord's 
display of Manetheren's banner is inspired. My Lord will be more than a match 
for Valda and Asunawa, if he takes care."
Watching him bow himself away, Perrin thought he knew part of Balwer's story 
now. Clearly, he also had run afoul of the Whitecloaks. That could take no more 
than being on the same street with them, a frown at the wrong time, but it 
seemed Balwer had a grudge. A sharp mind, too, seeing right away about the Red 
Eagle. And a sharp tongue with Master Gill.
Gill was on his knees beside Maighdin, talking rapidly despite Lini's effort to 
hush him. Maighdin had turned to stare after Balwer as the fellow hurried 
through the trees toward the carts, but now and then her gaze swung to Perrin. 
The rest of them clustered close to her, peering now at Balwer, now at Perrin. 
If he had ever seen a group of people worried about what somebody else had said, 
it was they. But what were they worried he might have heard? Backbiting, 
probably. Tales of resentments and misdeeds, real or imagined. People cooped up 
together tended to start pecking at one another. If that was it, maybe he could 
put a stop before somebody drew blood. Tallanvor was fondling his sword hilt 
again! What did Faile intend to do with the fellow?
"Aram, I want you to go talk to Tallanvor and that lot. Tell them what Balwer 
said to me. Just slide it into the talk, but tell everything." That should 
soothe fears of tale-bearing. Faile said servants needed to be made to feel at 
home. "Make friends with them if you can, Aram. But if you decide to moon over 
one of the women, be sure it's Lini. The other two are taken."
The man had a smooth tongue for any pretty woman, but he managed to look 
surprised and offended, both. "As you wish, Lord Perrin," he muttered sulkily. 
"I'll catch you up quickly."
"I will be over with the Aiel."
Aram blinked. "Ah. Yes. Well, it might take a while, at that, if I'm to make 
friends with them. They don't look like they much want friends, to me." This 
from a fellow who stared suspiciously at anyone except Faile who came near 
Perrin and never smiled for anyone not wearing a skirt.
Nevertheless, he went over and squatted on his heels where he could speak to 
Gill and the others. Even from a distance their standoffishness was plain. They 
continued with their work, only now and then saying a word to Aram, and they 
looked at each other as often as at him. Skittish as green quail in summer, when
the foxes were teaching the cubs to hunt. But at least they were talking.
Perrin wondered what mischief Aram had gotten up to with the Aiel  --  there did 
not seem to have been any time for it!  --  but he did not wonder long. Any serious 
trouble with Aiel usually meant someone dead, and not the Aiel. In truth, he was 
not so eager to meet the Wise Ones himself. He walked around the curve of the 
hill, but instead of climbing the slope, his feet carried him all the way to the 
Mayeners. He had stayed away from their camp as much as possible, too, and not 
simply because of Berelain. There were disadvantages to having too keen a nose.
Fortunately, a freshening breeze was carrying most of the stink away, though it 
did little for the heat. Sweat rolled down the faces of the mounted sentries in 
their red armor. At the sight of him, they sat up even more rigidly in their 
saddles, which was saying something. Where the Two Rivers men rode like fellows 
heading out to the fields, the Mayeners usually were statues on horseback. They 
could fight, though. The Light send there was no need.
Havien Nurelle came running, buttoning up his coat, before Perrin was well past 
the sentries. The dozen or so other officers followed at Nurelle's heels, all 
coated and some fastening the straps of their red breastplates. Two or three 
carried helmets with thin red plumes tucked under their arms. Most were years 
older than Nurelle, some twice his age, graying men with hard, scarred faces, 
but Nurelle's reward for helping to rescue Rand had been to be named Gallenne's 
second, his First Lieutenant, they called it.
"The First hasn't returned, yet, Lord Perrin," Nurelle said, making a bow 
mirrored by the others. A tall slender man, he did not look as young as he had 
before Dumai's Wells. There was an edge to his eyes, which had seen more blood 
than most veterans of twenty battles. But if his face was harder, there was 
still an eagerness to please in his scent. To Havien Nurelle, Perrin Aybara was 
a man who could fly or walk on water as he chose. "The morning patrols saw 
nothing, those that are back. I would have reported, otherwise."
"Of course," Perrin told him. "I . . . just wanted to look about a bit."
He simply meant to walk around until he could work up his nerve to face the Wise 
Ones, but the young Mayener followed him with the rest of the officers, 
anxiously watching for Lord Perrin to find some flaw in the Winged Guards, 
wincing whenever they came on bare-chested men tossing dice on a blanket or some 
fellow snoring away with the sun on the climb. He need not have bothered; to 
Perrin, the camp looked laid out with a plumb line and level. Each man had his 
blankets, and his saddle for a pillow, not more than two paces from where his 
horse was tied to one of the long ropes drooping between chest-high poles set 
upright in the ground. A cook fire stood every twenty paces, with lances stacked 
in steel-tipped cones between. The whole made a sort of box around five peaked 
tents, one striped gold-and-blue and larger than the other four combined. All 
very different from the Two Rivers men's every-which-way arrangement.
Perrin walked along briskly, trying not to look too much a fool. He was not sure 
how much success he was having. He itched to stop and look over a horse or two  --  
just to be able to pick up a hoof without somebody practically fainting  --  but 
mindful of what Aram had said, he kept his hands to himself. Everyone seemed as 
startled as Nurelle at his pace. Tough-eyed bannermen chivvied men to their feet 
only to have Perrin stride by with a nod before they were all upright. A puzzled 
murmur trailed in the air behind him, and his ears caught a few comments about 
officers, lords in particular, that he was just as glad Nurelle and the others 
missed. Finally, he found himself on the verge of the camp, staring up the 
brushy slope toward the Wise Ones' tents. Only a few of the Maidens were visible 
among the scattered trees up there, and some of the gai'shain.
"Lord Perrin," Nurelle said hesitantly. "The Aes Sedai . . . " He stepped closer 
and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. "I know they swore to the Lord 
Dragon, and . . . I've seen things, Lord Perrin. They do camp chores! Aes Sedai! 
This morning, Masuri and Seonid came down to fetch water! And yesterday, after 
you returned . . . Yesterday, I thought I heard someone up there . . . crying 
out. It couldn't have been one of the sisters, of course," he added hurriedly, 
and laughed to show how ridiculous the idea was, a very shaky laugh. "You . . . 
You will see that everything is . . . all right . . . with them?" He had ridden 
into forty thousand Shaido leading two hundred lancers, but talking about this 
had him hunching his shoulders and shifting his feet. Of course, he had ridden 
into forty thousand Shaido because an Aes Sedai wanted him to.
"I'll do what I can," Perrin muttered. Maybe matters were worse than he had 
thought. Now he had to stop them getting worse still. If he could. He would 
rather have faced the Shaido again.
Nurelle nodded as though Perrin had promised all he asked and more. "That is 
well, then," he said, sounding relieved. Casting sideways glances at Perrin, he 
worked himself up to say something else, but apparently this was not so touchy 
as the Aes Sedai. "I heard that you let the Red Eagle stay."
Perrin very nearly jumped. Even for just around the hill, news had traveled 
fast. "It seemed the thing to do," he said slowly. Berelain would have to know 
the truth, yet if too many knew, that truth would spread from the next village 
they passed, the next farm. "This used to be part of Manetheren," he added, as 
if Nurelle did not know that perfectly well. Truth! He had gotten so he could 
bend truth like an Aes Sedai, and to men on his side. "Not the first time that 
flag's been raised around here, I'll warrant, but none of those fellows had the 
Dragon Reborn behind him." And if that did not set the necessary seeds, he did 
not know how to plow a furrow.
Abruptly he realized that what seemed every last one of the Winged Guards was 
watching him with their officers. No doubt wondering what he was saying, after 
all but running through that way. Even the lean balding old soldier Gallenne 
called his dogrobber had come out to stare, and Berelain's maids, a pair of 
plump plain-faced women garbed to match their mistress's tent. Perrin had hardly 
seen a thing, but he knew he had to give some sort of praise.
Raising his voice enough to carry, he said, "The Winged Guards will do Mayene 
proud if we ever face another Dumai's Wells." Those were the first words that 
came to mind, but he winced at saying them.
To his shock, shouting rose straight away among the soldiers, cheering, "Perrin 
Goldeneyes!" and "Mayene for Goldeneyes!" and "Goldeneyes and Manetheren!" Men 
danced and capered, and some snatched lances from the stacks to shake them so 
the red streamers waved in the breeze. Grizzled bannermen watched them with arms 
folded, nodding approval. Nurelle beamed, and not only him. Officers with gray 
in their hair and scars on their faces grinned like boys praised at their 
lessons. Light, he was the only sane man left! Vie prayed never to see another 
battle!
Wondering whether this was going to cause trouble with Berelain, he made his 
goodbyes with Nurelle and the others and tramped up the slope through dead or 
dying brush, none of it waist-high. Brown weeds crackled beneath his boots. 
Shouting still filled the Mayener camp. Even after she learned the truth, the 
First might not be pleased to have her soldiers cheering him this way. Of 
course, that could have good points. Maybe she would be angry enough to stop 
pestering him.
Short of the crest, he paused, listening to the cheers finally fade away. No one 
was going to cheer him here. All of the side flaps were down on the Wise Ones' 
low gray-brown tents, closing them in. Only a few of the Maidens were in sight, 
now. Squatting easily on their heels beneath a leatherleaf that still showed 
some green, they eyed him curiously. Their hands moved quickly in that way they 
had of talking among themselves with signs. After a moment Sulin rose, shifting 
her heavy belt knife, and strode in his direction, a tall, wiry woman with a 
pink scar across her sun-dark cheek. She glanced back down the way he had come 
and seemed relieved that he was alone, though it was often hard to tell with 
Aiel.
"This is good, Perrin Aybara," she said quietly. "The Wise Ones have not been 
pleased that you make them come to you. Only a fool displeases Wise Ones, and I 
have not taken you for a fool."
Perrin scrubbed at his beard. He had been keeping clear of the Wise Ones  --  and 
the Aes Sedai  --  as much as possible, but he had had no intention of forcing them 
to come to him. He just found their company uncomfortable. To put it mildly. 
"Well, I need to see Edarra now," he told her. "About the Aes Sedai."
"Perhaps I was mistaken after all," Sulin said dryly. "But I will tell her." 
Turning, she paused. "Tell me something. Teryl Wynter and Furen Alharra are 
close to Seonid Traighan  --  like first-brothers with a first-sister; she does not 
like men as men  --  yet they offered to take her punishment for her. How could 
they shame her so?"
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. A pair of gai'shain appeared from the 
reverse slope, each leading two of the Aiel's pack mules; the white-robed men 
passed within a few paces, heading down toward the stream. He could not be sure, 
but he thought both were Shaido. The pair kept their eyes meekly down, barely 
looking up enough to see where they were going. They had had every opportunity 
to run away, doing chores like that without anyone to watch. A peculiar people.
"I see you are shocked, too," Sulin said. "I had hoped you could explain. I will 
tell Edarra." As she started for the tents, she added over her shoulder, "You 
wetlanders are very strange, Perrin Aybara."
Perrin frowned after her, and when she vanished into one of the tents, he turned 
to frown at the two gai'shain leading the horses to water. Wetlanders were 
strange? Light! So Nurelle had been right in what he heard. It was beyond time 
to stick his nose into what was going on between the Wise Ones and the Aes 
Sedai. He should have before this. He wished he did not think it would be the 
same as sticking his nose into a hornets' nest.
It seemed to take a long time for Sulin to reappear, and she did little to help 
his mood when she did. Holding the tentflap for him, she flicked his belt knife 
contemptuously with a finger as he ducked through. "You should be better armed 
for this dance, Perrin Aybara," she said.
Inside, he was surprised to find all six Wise Ones sitting cross-legged on 
colorful tasseled cushions, their shawls tied around their waists and their 
skirts making carefully arranged fans across the layered rugs. He had hoped for 
just Edarra. None looked to be more than four or five years older than he, some 
no older at all, yet somehow they always made him feel as if he were facing the 
oldest members of the Women's Circle, the ones who had spent years learning to 
sniff out whatever you wanted to hide. Separating one woman's scent from 
another's was all but impossible, but he hardly needed to. Six sets of eyes 
latched on to him, from Janina's pale sky blue to Marline's purple twilight, not 
to mention Nevarin's sharp green. Every eye could have been a skewer.
Edarra brusquely motioned him to take a cushion himself, which he did with 
gratitude, though it put him facing them all in a semicircle. Maybe Wise Ones 
had designed these tents, to make men bend their necks if they wanted to stand 
upright. Strangely, it was cooler in the dim interior, but he still felt like 
sweating. Maybe he could not pick one from another, yet these women smelled like 
wolves studying a tethered goat. A square-faced gai'shain who was half again as 
big as he was knelt to offer a golden cup of dark wine-punch on an elaborate 
silver tray. The Wise Ones already held mismatched silver cups and goblets. 
Unsure what it meant that he was being offered gold  --  maybe nothing, yet who 
could say, with Aiel?  --  Perrin took it cautiously. It gave off the scent of 
plums. The fellow bowed meekly enough when Edarra clapped her hands, and bent 
himself out of the tent backward, but the half-healed slash down his hard face 
had to date from Dumai's Wells.
"Now that you are here," Edarra said as soon as the tentflap dropped behind the 
gai'shain, "we will explain again why you must kill the man called Masema 
Dagar."
"We should not have to explain again," Delora put in. Her hair and eyes were 
nearly the same shade as Maighdin's, but no one would call her pinched face 
pretty. Her manner was pure ice. "This Masema Dagar is a danger to the 
Car'a'carn. He must die." 
"The dreamwalkers have told us, Perrin Aybara." Carelle certainly was pretty, 
and though her fiery hair and piercing eyes made her look as though she had a 
temper, she was always mild. For a Wise One. And certainly not soft. "They have 
read the dream. The man must die."
Perrin took a swallow of plum punch to gain a moment. Somehow, the punch was 
cool. It was always the same with them. Rand had not mentioned any warning from 
the dreamwalkers. The first time, Perrin had mentioned that. Only the once; they 
had thought he was casting doubt on their word, and even Carelle had gone 
hot-eyed. Not that Perrin thought they would lie. Not exactly. He had not caught 
them in one, anyway. But what they wanted for the future and what Rand wanted  --  
what he himself wanted, for that matter  --  might be very different things. Maybe 
it was Rand who was keeping secrets. "If you could just give me some idea what 
this danger is," he said, finally. "The Light knows, Masema's a madman, but he 
supports Rand. A fine thing, if I go around killing people on our side. That 
will certainly convince people to join Rand."
Sarcasm was lost on them. They looked at him, unblinking. "The man must die," 
Edarra said at last. "It is enough that three dreamwalkers have said so, and six 
Wise Ones tell you." The same as always. Maybe they did not know any more than 
that. And maybe he should get on with why he had come.
"I want to talk about Seonid and Masuri," he said, and six faces turned to 
frost. Light, these women could stare down a stone! Setting the winecup beside 
him, he leaned toward them stubbornly. "I'm supposed to show people Aes Sedai 
sworn to Rand." He was supposed to show Masema, actually, but this did seem a 
good time to mention that. "They aren't going to be very cooperative if you lot 
beat them! Light! They're Aes Sedai! Instead of making them haul water, why 
don't you learn from them? They must know all sorts of things you don't." Too 
late, he bit his tongue. The Aiel women did not take offense, though; not that 
it showed, anyway.
"They know some things we do not," Delora told him firmly, "and we know some 
they do not." As firmly as a spearpoint in the ribs.
"We learn what there is to learn, Perrin Aybara," Marline said calmly, combing 
nearly black hair with her fingers. She was one of the few Aiel he had seen with 
such dark hair, and she often toyed with it. "And we teach what there is to 
teach."
"In any event," Janira said, "it is none of your affair. Men do not interfere 
between Wise Ones and apprentices." She shook her head over his foolishness.
"You may stop listening outside and come in, Seonid Traighan," Edarra said 
suddenly. Perrin blinked in surprise, but none of the women batted an eye.
There was a moment of silence, then the tentflap twitched aside, and Seonid 
ducked inside, kneeling quickly on the rugs. That vaunted Aes Sedai serenity was 
shattered in her. Her mouth was a thin line, her eyes tight, her face red. She 
smelled of anger, frustration, and a dozen more emotions all whirling about so 
quickly that Perrin could barely separate any out. "May I speak to him?" she 
asked in a stiff voice.
"If you take care what you say," Edarra told her. Sipping her wine, the Wise One 
watched over the rim of her cup. A teacher watching a pupil? A hawk watching a 
mouse? Perrin could not be sure. Except that Edarra was very sure of her place, 
whatever the pairing. So was Seonid. But that did not carry over to him.
She twisted around to face him on her knees, back going straight, eyes heated. 
Anger raged in the smell of her. "Whatever you know," she said angrily, 
"whatever you think you know, you will forget!" No, there was not a shred of 
serenity left in her. "Whatever is between the Wise Ones and us is for us alone! 
You will stand aside, avert your eyes, and keep your mouth closed!"
Amazed, Perrin raked his fingers through his hair. "Light, you're upset because 
I know you got a switching?" he said incredulously. Well, he would have been, 
too, but not alongside the rest. "Don't you know these women would as soon cut 
your throat as look at you? Slit your throat and leave you by the side of the 
road! Well, I promised myself I wouldn't let that happen! I don't like you, but 
I promised to protect you from the Wise Ones, or the Asha'man, or Rand himself, 
so come down off that high horse!" Realizing that he was shouting, he drew a 
deep, embarrassed breath and settled back on his cushion, snatched up his 
winecup and took a long drink.
Seonid went stiffer by the word with indignation, and her lip curled well before 
he finished. "You promised?" she sneered. "You think Aes Sedai need your 
protection? You  -- ?"
"Enough," Edarra said quietly, and Seonid's jaw snapped shut, though her hands 
made white-knuckled fists clutching her skirts.
"What makes you think we would kill her, Perrin Aybara?" Janina asked curiously. 
Aiel seldom showed much on their faces, but the others frowned at him or looked 
with open incredulity.
"I know how you feel," he replied slowly. "I've known since I saw you with the 
sisters after Dumai's Wells." He was not about to explain that he had smelled 
their hatred, their contempt, every time a Wise One looked at an Aes Sedai back 
then. He did not smell it now, but no one could maintain that level of fury for 
long without bursting. That did not mean it was gone, only that it had sunk 
deep, maybe into the bone.
Delora snorted, a sound like linen ripping. "First you say they must be coddled 
because you need them, and now because they are Aes Sedai and you have promised 
to protect them. Which is truth, Perrin Aybara?"
"Both." Perrin met Delora's hard gaze for a long moment, then eyed each of the 
others in turn. "Both are true, and I mean both."
The Wise Ones exchanged glances, the sort where every flicker of an eyelid held 
a hundred words and no man could make out a one. Finally, in a shifting of 
necklaces and readjusting of tied shawls, they appeared to reach agreement.
"We do not kill apprentices, Perrin Aybara," Nevarin said. She sounded shocked 
at the idea. "When Rand al'Thor asked us to apprentice them, perhaps he thought 
it was just to make them obey us, but we do not speak empty words. They are 
apprentices, now."
"They will remain so until five Wise Ones agree they are ready to be more," 
Marline added, sweeping her long hair over her shoulder. "And they are treated 
no differently than any others."
Edarra nodded over her winecup. "Tell him the advice you would give him 
concerning Masema Dagar, Seonid Traighan," she said.
The kneeling woman had practically writhed during Nevarin and Marline's short 
speeches, gripping her skirt until Perrin thought the silk might rip, but she 
wasted no time complying with Edarra's instructions. "The Wise Ones are right, 
whatever their reasons. I do not say this because they wish it." She drew 
herself up again, smoothing her features with a visible effort. A touch of heat 
still flared in her voice, though. "I saw the work of so-called Dragonsworn 
before I ever met Rand al'Thor. Death and destruction, to no purpose. Even a 
faithful dog must be put down if it begins to foam at the mouth."
"Blood and ashes!" Perrin grumbled. "How can I even let you in sight of the man 
after that? You swore fealty to Rand; you know that isn't what he wants! What 
about that 'thousands will die if you fail'?" Light, if Masuri felt the same, 
then he had to put up with Aes Sedai and Wise Ones for nothing! No, worse. He 
would have to guard Masema from them!
"Masuri knows Masema for rabid as well as I," Seonid replied when he put the 
question to her. All of her serenity had returned.
She regarded him with a cool, unreadable face. Her scent was sharply alert. 
Intent. As if he needed his nose, with her eyes fixed on his, big and dark and 
bottomless. "I swore to serve the Dragon Reborn, and the best service I can give 
him now is to keep this animal from him. Bad enough that rulers know Masema 
supports him; worse if they see him embrace the man. And thousands will die if 
you fail  --  to get close enough to Masema to kill him."
Perrin thought his head would spin. Again an Aes Sedai whirled words about like 
a top, made it seem she had said black when she meant white. Then the Wise Ones 
added their bit.
"Masuri Sokawa," Nevarin said calmly, "believes the rabid dog can be leashed and 
bound so he may be used safely." For an instant, Seonid looked as surprised as 
Perrin felt, but she recovered quickly. Outside, she did; her scent was suddenly 
wary, as if she sensed a trap where she had not expected one.
"She also wishes to fit you for a halter, Perrin Aybara," Carelle added, even 
more casually. "She thinks you must be bound also, to make you safe." Nothing on 
her freckled face told whether she agreed.
Edarra raised a hand toward Seonid. "You may go, now. You will not listen 
further, but you may ask Gharadin again to let you Heal the wound on his face. 
Remember, if he still refuses, you must accept it. He is gai'shain, not one of 
your wetlander servants." She invested that last word with depths of scorn.
Seonid stared icy augers at Perrin. She looked at the Wise Ones, her lips 
trembling on the brink of speech. In the end, though, all she could do was go 
with as good a grace as she could muster. Outwardly, that was considerable, an 
Aes Sedai being Aes Sedai fit to shame a queen. But the scent she trailed behind 
her was frustration sharp enough to cut.
As soon as she was gone, the six Wise Ones focused on Perrin again.
"Now," Edarra said, "you can explain to us why you would put a rabid animal next 
to the Car'a'carn."
"Only a fool obeys another's command to push him over a cliff," Nevarin said.
"You will not listen to us," Janina said, "so we will listen to you. Speak, 
Perrin Aybara."
Perrin considered making a break for the doorflaps. But if he did, he would 
leave behind one Aes Sedai who might possibly be of some doubtful help, and 
another, along with six Wise Ones, who were all set to ruin everything he had 
come to do. He put his winecup down again, and settled his hands on his knees. 
He needed a clear head if he was to show these women he was no tethered goat.
Chapter 10
Changes
When Perrin left the Wise Ones' tent, he considered removing his coat to see 
whether his hide was still attached and whole. Not a tethered goat, maybe, but a 
stag with six she-wolves on his heels, and he was unsure what fast feet had 
gained him. For certain, none of the Wise Ones had changed her mind, and their 
promises not to take any action on their own had been vague at best. About the 
Aes Sedai, there had been no promises, even foggy ones.
He looked for either of the sisters, and found Masuri. A narrow rope had been 
tied between two trees and a fringed red-and-green rug draped over it. The 
slender Brown was flailing away with a bent-wood beater, raising thin clouds of 
dust, motes that floated glittering in the midmorning sun. Her Warder, a compact 
man with dark receding hair, sat on a fallen tree trunk nearby, watching her 
glumly. Rovair Kirklin normally had a ready grin, but it was buried deep today. 
Masuri caught sight of Perrin, and with barely a pause in her rug-beating shot 
him a look of such frozen malevolence that he sighed. And she was the one who 
thought as he did. As close to it as he was likely to find, anyway. A red-tailed 
hawk passed overhead, riding rising currents of hot air from hill to hill 
without flapping its outstretched wings. It would be very nice to soar away from 
all this. The iron in front of him, not dreams of silver.
Nodding to Sulin and the Maidens, who might have taken root under that 
leatherleaf, Perrin turned to go, and stopped. Two men were climbing the hill, 
one an Aiel in the grays and browns and greens of the cadin'sor, his cased bow 
on his back, a bristling quiver at his belt, and his spears and round hide 
buckler in hand. Gaul was a friend, and the only man among the Aiel who did not 
wear white. His companion, a head shorter in a broad-brimmed hat and coat and 
breeches of a plain dull green, was no Aiel. He had a full quiver at his belt, 
too, and a knife even longer and heavier than the Aielman's, but he carried his 
bow, much shorter than a Two Rivers longbow though longer than the horn bows of 
the Aiel. Despite his clothes, he did not have the look of a farmer, or a city 
man either. Perhaps it was the graying hair tied at the nape of his neck and 
hanging to his waist, the beard fanning across his chest, or perhaps just the 
way he moved, much like the man at his side, slipping around the brush on the 
hill so that you were sure no twig snapped in his passing, no weeds broke under 
his foot. Perrin had not seen him in what seemed a very long time.
Reaching the hilltop, Elyas Machera regarded Perrin, golden eyes shining faintly 
in the shadow of his hat brim. His eyes had been that way years before Perrin's; 
Elyas had introduced Perrin to the wolves. He had been dressed in hides, then. 
"Good to see you again, boy," he said quietly. Sweat glistened on his face, but 
little more than on Gaul's. "You give away that axe, finally? I didn't think 
you'd ever stop hating it."
"I still do," Perrin said just as quietly. A long time ago the onetime Warder 
had told him to keep the axe until he stopped hating to use it. Light, but he 
still hated it! And he had added new reasons, now. "What are you doing in this 
part of the world, Elyas? Where did Gaul find you?"
"He found me," Gaul said. "I did not know he was behind me until he coughed." He 
spoke loudly enough to be heard by the Maidens, and the sudden stillness among 
them was solid as a touch.
Perrin expected at least a few cutting comments  --  Aiel humor could near draw 
blood, and the Maidens seized any chance to dig at the green-eyed man  --  but 
instead, some of the women took up spears and bucklers to rattle them together 
in approbation. Gaul nodded approval.
Elyas grunted ambiguously and tugged his hat down, yet he smelled pleased. The 
Aiel did not approve of much this side of the Dragonwall. "I like to keep 
moving," he told Perrin, "and I just happened to be in Ghealdan when some mutual 
friends told me you were traveling with this parade." He did not name the mutual 
friends; it was unwise to speak openly about talking to wolves. "Told me a lot 
of things. Told me they smell a change coming. They don't know what. Maybe you 
do. I hear you've been running with the Dragon Reborn."
"I don't know," Perrin said slowly. A change? He had not thought to ask the 
wolves anything more than where large groups of men were, so he could go around 
them. Even here in Ghealdan, sometimes he felt blame among them for the wolves 
dead at Dumai's Wells. What kind of change? "Rand is surely changing things, but 
I couldn't say what they mean. Light, the whole world is turning somersaults, 
and never mind him."
"All things change," Gaul said dismissively. "Until we wake, the dream drifts on 
the wind." For a moment he studied Perrin and Elyas, comparing their eyes, 
Perrin was sure. He said nothing about them, though; the Aiel seemed to take 
golden eyes as just one more peculiarity among wetlanders. "I will leave you two 
to talk alone. Friends long separated need to talk by themselves. Sulin, are 
Chiad and Bain about? I saw them hunting yesterday, and thought I might show 
them how to draw a bow before one of them shoots herself."
"I was surprised to see you come back today," the white-haired woman replied. 
"They went out to set snares for rabbits." Laughter rippled through the Maidens, 
and fingers flickered rapidly in handtalk.
Sighing, Gaul rolled his eyes ostentatiously. "In that case, I think I must go 
cut them loose." Almost as many Maidens laughed at that, including Sulin. "May 
you find shade this day," he told Perrin, a casual farewell between friends, but 
he clasped forearms formally with Elyas and said, "My honor is yours, Elyas 
Machera."
"Odd fellow," Elyas murmured, watching Gaul lope back down the hill. "When I 
coughed, he turned around ready to kill me, I think, then he just started 
laughing instead. You have any objections to going somewhere else? I don't know 
the sister who's trying to murder that rug, but I don't like taking chances with 
Aes Sedai." His eyes narrowed. "Gaul says there are three with you. You don't 
expect to be meeting up with any more, do you?" 
"I hope not," Perrin replied. Masuri was glancing their way between slashes with 
the beater; she would learn about Elyas' eyes soon enough and start trying to 
ferret out what else linked him to Perrin. "Come on; it's time I was back in my 
own camp anyway. Are you worried about meeting an Aes Sedai who knows you?" 
Elyas' days as a Warder had ended when it was learned he could talk to wolves. 
Some sisters thought it a mark of the Dark One, and he had had to kill other 
Warders to get away.
The older man waited until they were a dozen paces from the tents before he 
replied, and even then, he spoke quietly, as though he suspected someone behind 
them might have ears as good as theirs. "One who knows my name will be bad 
enough. Warders don't run off often, boy. Most Aes Sedai will free a man who 
really wants to go  --  most will  --  and anyway, she can track you down however far 
you run if she decides to hunt. But any sister who finds a renegade will spend 
her idle moments making him wish he'd never been born." He shivered slightly. 
His smell was not fear, but anticipation of pain. "Then she'll turn him over to 
his own Aes Sedai to drive the lesson home. A man's never quite the same after 
that." At the edge of the slope, he looked back. Masuri did seem to be trying to 
kill the carpet, focusing all her rage on attempting to beat a hole through it. 
Elyas shivered again, though. "Worse thing would be to run into Rina. I'd rather 
be caught in a forest fire with both legs broken."
"Rina's your Aes Sedai? But how could you run into her? The bond lets you know 
where she is." That nudged something in Perrin's memory, but whatever it was 
melted away at Elyas' reply. "A fair number can fuzz the bond, in a manner of 
speaking. Maybe they all can. You don't know much more than she's still alive, 
and I know that anyway, because I haven't gone crazy." Elyas saw the question on 
his face and barked a laugh. "Light, man, a sister's flesh-and-blood, too. Most 
are. Think about it.
Would you want somebody inside your head while you cuddled up with a likely 
wench? Sorry; I forgot you were married, now. No offense meant. I was surprised 
to hear you'd married a Saldaean, though."
"Surprised?" Perrin had never considered that about the Warder bond. Light! For 
that matter, he had never really thought about Aes Sedai that way. It seemed 
about as possible as . . . as a man talking to wolves. "Why surprised?" They 
started down through the trees on this side of the hill, not hurrying and making 
little noise. Perrin had always been a good hunter, accustomed to the forests, 
and Elyas hardly disturbed the leaves underfoot, gliding smoothly through the 
undergrowth without shifting a branch. He might have slung his bow on his back 
now, but he still carried it ready. Elyas was a wary man, especially around 
people.
"Why, because you're a quiet sort, and I thought you'd marry somebody quiet, 
too. Well, you know by now Saldaeans aren't quiet. Except with strangers and 
outsiders. Set the sun on fire one minute, and the next, it's all blown away and 
forgotten. Make Arafellin look stolid and Domani downright dull." Elyas grinned 
suddenly. "I lived a year with a Saldaean, once, and Merya shouted my ears off 
five days in the week, and maybe heaved the dishes at my head, too. Every time I 
thought about leaving, though, she'd want to make up, and I never seemed to get 
to the door. In the end, she left me. Said I was too restrained for her taste." 
His rasping laugh was reminiscent, but he rubbed at a faint, age-faded scar 
along his jaw reminiscently, too. It looked to have been made by a knife.
"Faile's not like that." It sounded like being married to Nynaeve! Nynaeve with 
sore teeth! "I don't mean she doesn't get angry now and then," he admitted 
reluctantly, "but she doesn't shout and throw things." Well, she did not shout 
very often, and instead of flaring hot and vanishing, her anger started hot and 
dragged on till it turned cold.
Elyas glanced at him sideways. "If I ever smelled a man trying to dodge hail . . 
. You've been giving her soft words all the time, haven't you? Mild as 
milk-water and never lay your ears back? Never raise your voice to her?"
"Of course not!" Perrin protested. "I love her! Why would I shout at her?"
Elyas began muttering under his breath, though Perrin could hear every word, of 
course. "Burn me, a man wants to sit on a red adder, it's his affair. Not my 
business if a man wants to warm his hands when the roof's on fire. It's his 
life. Will he thank me? No, he bloody well won't!"
"What are you going on about?" Perrin demanded. Catching Elyas' arm, he pulled 
him to a stop beneath a winterberry tree, its prickly leaves still mostly green. 
Little else nearby was, except for some struggling creepers. They had come less 
than halfway down the hill. "Faile isn't a red adder or a roof on fire! Wait 
until you meet her before you start talking like you know her."
Irritably, Elyas raked fingers through his long beard. "I know Saldaeans, boy. 
That year wasn't the only time I've been there. I've only ever met about five 
Saldaean women I'd call meek, or even mild-mannered. No, she isn't an adder; 
what she is is a leopard, I'll wager. Don't growl, burn you! I'll bet my boots 
she'd smile to hear me say it!"
Perrin opened his mouth angrily, then closed it again. He had not realized he 
was growling deep in his throat. Faile would smile at being called a leopard. 
"You can't be saying she wants me to shout at her, Elyas."
"Yes, I am. Most likely, anyway. Maybe she's the sixth. Maybe. Just hear me out. 
Most women, you raise your voice, and they go bulge-eyed or ice, and next thing 
you know, you're arguing about you being angry, never mind what put the ember 
down your back in the first place. Swallow your tongue with a Saldaean, though, 
and to her, you're saying she isn't strong enough to stand up to you. Insult her 
like that, and you're lucky she doesn't feed you your own gizzard for breakfast. 
She's no Far Madding wench, to expect a man to sit where she points and jump 
when she snaps her fingers. She's a leopard, and she expects her husband to be a 
leopard, too. Light! I don't know what I'm doing. Giving a man advice about his 
wife is a good way to get your innards spilled."
It was Elyas' turn to growl. He jerked his hat straight unnecessarily and looked 
around the slope frowning, as though considering whether to vanish back into the 
forests, then poked a finger at Perrin. "Look here. I always knew you were more 
than a stray, and putting what the wolves told me together with you just 
happening to be heading toward this Prophet fellow, I thought maybe you could 
use a friend to watch your back. Of course, the wolves didn't mention you were 
leading those pretty Mayener lancers. Neither did Gaul, till we saw them. If 
you'd like me to stay, I will. If not, there's plenty of the world I haven't 
seen yet."
"I can always use another friend, Elyas." Could Faile really want him to shout? 
He had always known he might hurt somebody if he was not careful, and he always 
tried to keep a tight rein on his temper. Words could hurt as hard as fists, the 
wrong words, words you never meant, let loose in a temper. It had to be 
impossible. It just stood to reason. No woman would stand for that, from her 
husband or any man.
A bluefinch's call brought Perrin's head up, ears pricking. It was just at the 
edge of hearing even for him, but a moment later the trill was repeated closer, 
then again, nearer still. Elyas cocked an eyebrow at him; he would know the call 
of a Borderland bird. Perrin had learned it from some Shienarans, Masema among 
them, and taught the Two Rivers men.
"We have visitors coming," he told Elyas.
They came quickly, four riders at a fast canter, arriving before he and Elyas 
reached the bottom of the hill. Berelain led the way, splashing across the 
stream with Annoura and Gallenne close behind and a woman in a pale, hooded 
dust-cloak at her side. They swept right by the Mayener camp without a glance, 
not drawing rein until they were in front of the red-and-white striped tent. 
Some of the Cairhienin servants rushed to take bridles and hold stirrups, and 
Berelain and her companions were inside before the dust of their arrival 
settled.
All in all, the arrival created quite a stir. A buzz rose among the Two Rivers 
men that Perrin could only call anticipatory. The inevitable gathering of 
Faile's young fools scratched their heads and stared at the tent, chattering 
excitedly among themselves. Grady and Neald watched the tent through the trees, 
too, now and then leaning together to talk though nobody was close enough to 
hear anything they said.
"Looks like your visitors are more than casual," Elyas said quietly. "Watch 
Gallenne; he could be trouble."
"You know him, Elyas? I'd like you to stay, but if you think he might tell one 
of the sisters who you are . . . " Perrin shrugged in resignation. "I might be 
able to stop Seonid and Masuri"  --  he thought he could  --  "but I think Annoura 
will do whatever she wants." And what did she really think about Masema?
"Oh, Bertain Gallenne doesn't know the likes of Elyas Machera," Elyas replied 
with a wry grin. " 'More fools know Jak Fool than Jak Fool knows.' I know him, 
though. He won't go against you or behind your back, but Berelain has the brains 
between them. She's kept Tear out of Mayene by playing the Tairens against the 
Illianers since she was sixteen. Berelain knows how to maneuver; all Gallenne 
knows is attack. He's good at it, but he never sees anything else, and sometimes 
he doesn't stop to think."
"I'd figured that out about both of them," Perrin muttered. At least Berelain 
had brought a messenger from Alliandre. She would not have come rushing in that 
way with a new maid. The only question was why Alliandre's reply needed a 
messenger. "I had best find out whether the news is good, Elyas. Later, we'll 
talk about what lies south. And you can meet Faile," he added before turning 
away.
"The Pit of Doom lies south," the other man called after him, "or as close to it 
as I expected to see below the Blight." Perrin imagined he heard that faint 
thunder in the west again. Now, that would be a pleasant change.
In the tent, Breane was carrying a silver tray about with a bowl of rose-scented 
water and cloths for washing faces and hands, curtsying stiffly as she presented 
it. With even stiffer curtsies, Maighdin was offering a tray holding cups of 
wine-punch  --  made with the last of the dried blueberries, by the smell  --  while 
Lini folded the newcomer's dust-cloak. There seemed something odd in the way 
Faile and Berelain stood to either side of the new woman, and Annoura hovered 
behind them, all focused on her. Somewhere in her middle years, with a cap of 
green net gathering dark hair that fell almost to her waist, she might have been 
pretty if her nose had not been so long. And if she had not carried it so high. 
Shorter than Faile or Berelain either one, she still managed to look down that 
nose at Perrin, coolly examining him from hair to boots. She did not blink at 
sight of his eyes, although nearly everyone did.
"Majesty," Berelain pronounced in a formal voice as soon as Perrin entered, "may 
I present Lord Perrin Aybara of the Two
Rivers, in Andor, the personal friend and emissary of the Dragon Reborn." The 
long-nosed woman nodded carefully, coolly, and Berelain went on with scarcely a 
pause. "Lord Aybara, give greetings and welcome to Alliandre Maritha Kigarin, 
Queen of Ghealdan, Blessed of the Light, Defender of Garen's Wall, who is 
pleased to receive you in person." Gallenne, standing near the tent wall, 
adjusted his eyepatch and raised his winecup to Perrin with a smile of triumph.
For some reason Faile shot Berelain a hard look. Perrin's mouth nearly dropped 
open. Alliandre herself? He wondered whether he should kneel, then settled for a 
bow after too long a pause. Light! He had no notion how to deal with a queen. 
Especially one who turned up out of the blue with no escort, without a jewel in 
sight. Her dark green riding dress was plain wool, lacking a single stitch of 
embroidery.
"After the recent news," Alliandre said, "I thought I should come to you, Lord 
Aybara." Her voice was calm, her face smooth, her eyes aloof. And observant, or 
he was a Taren Ferry man. Best to step warily till he knew how the path lay. 
"You may not have heard," she continued, "but four days ago Illian fell to the 
Dragon Reborn, blessed be his name in the Light. He has taken the Laurel Crown, 
though I understand it is now called the Crown of Swords."
Faile, taking a cup from Maighdin's tray, whispered under her breath, "And seven 
days gone, the Seanchan took Ebou Dar." Even Maighdin did not notice.
If Perrin had not already taken hold of himself, he truly would have gaped. Why 
did Faile tell him this way instead of waiting for it to come from the woman who 
must have told her? In a voice that everyone could hear, he repeated her words. 
A hard voice, but that was the only way to keep it from shaking. Ebou Dar, too? 
Light! And seven days ago? The day Grady and the others had seen the One Power 
in the sky. Coincidence, maybe. But would he rather it had been the Forsaken?
Annoura frowned over her cup, pursing her lips, before he finished speaking, and 
Berelain gave him a startled look that vanished quickly. They knew he had not 
known about Ebou Dar when they rode into Bethal.
Alliandre merely nodded, every bit as self-possessed as the Gray. "You seem 
remarkably well informed," she said, coming closer to him. "I doubt the first 
rumors are reaching Jehannah with the river trade, yet. I myself learned of it 
only a few days ago. Several of the merchants keep me abreast of events. I 
believe," she added dryly, "that they hope I can intercede for them with the 
Prophet of the Lord Dragon, if such becomes necessary."
At last he could pick out her scent, and his opinion of her changed, though not 
for the worse. Outwardly, the Queen was all cool reserve, but uncertainty shot 
through with fear filled the smell of her. He did not believe he could have held 
his face so calm had he felt that.
"Always best to know as much as you can," he told her, half distracted. Burn me, 
he thought, I have to let Rand know about this!
"In Saldaea we find merchants useful for information, too," Faile said. Implying 
that was how Perrin knew about Ebou Dar. "They seem to learn what happened a 
thousand miles off weeks before the rumors begin."
She did not look at Perrin, but he knew she spoke to him as much as Alliandre. 
Rand knew, she was saying. And anyway, there was no way to get word to him in 
secret. Could Faile really want him to . . .? No, it was unthinkable. Blinking, 
he realized he had missed something Alliandre had said. "Your pardon, 
Alliandre," he said politely. "I was thinking about Rand  --  the Dragon Reborn." 
Of course it was unthinkable!
Everyone stared at him, even Lini and Maighdin and Breane. Annoura's eyes had 
gone wide, and Gallenne's mouth hung open. Then it hit him. He had just called 
the Queen by name. He took a cup from Maighdin's tray, and she rose from her 
curtsy so quickly that she nearly knocked it from his hand. Waving her away 
absently, he wiped his damp hand on his coat. He had to concentrate here, not 
let his mind wander in nine directions. No matter what Elyas thought he knew, 
Faile would never . . . No! Concentrate!
Alliandre recovered her equilibrium quickly. In truth, she had appeared the 
least surprised of anyone, and her scent never wavered. "I was saying that 
coming to you in secret seemed the wisest course, Lord Aybara," she said in that 
cool voice. "Lord Telabin believes I am keeping private in his gardens, which I 
left by a seldom-used gate. Passing out of the city, I was Annoura
Sedai's maid." Brushing fingertips across one skirt of her riding dress, she 
gave a small laugh. Even that about her was cool, so at odds with what his nose 
told him. "A number of my own soldiers saw me, but with the hood of my cloak 
pulled up, none knew me.
"Times being what they are, that probably was wisest," Perrin said carefully. 
"But you will have to come into the open sooner or later. One way or another." 
Polite and to the point, that was the thing. A queen would not want to waste 
time with a man who blathered. And he did not want to disappoint Faile by acting 
the hayfoot again. "Why come at all? All you had to do was send a letter, or 
just tell Berelain your answer. Will you declare for Rand or not? Either way, 
have no fear about getting back to Bethal safely." A good point, that. Whatever 
else frightened her, being here alone must.
Faile was watching him, pretending not to, sipping her punch and directing her 
smiles at Alliandre, but he caught the quick nickers of her eyes in his 
direction. Berelain made no pretense, watching quite openly, eyes slightly 
narrowed and never leaving his face. Annoura was just as intent, just as 
thoughtful. Did they all believe he was going to trip over his own tongue again?
Instead of answering the important question, Alliandre said, "The First told me 
a great deal about you, Lord Aybara, and about the Lord Dragon Reborn, blessed 
be his name in the Light." That last sounded by rote, an addition she no longer 
had to think about. "I cannot see him before I make my decision, so I wished to 
see you, to take a measure of you. It's possible to tell much about a man by 
those he chooses to speak for him." Tilting her face down toward the cup in her 
hands, she peered at him through her lashes. From Berelain, that would have been 
flirtatious, but Alliandre was cautiously watching a wolf sure as he was 
standing in front of her. "I also saw your banners," she said quietly. "The 
First did not mention them."
Perrin scowled before he could stop himself. Berelain had told her a great deal 
about him? What had she said? "The banners are meant to be seen." Anger put a 
roughness in his voice that required some effort to force down. Now, Berelain 
was a woman who needed shouting at. "Believe me, there are no plans to set up 
Manetheren again." There; his tone was as cool as Alliandre's.
"What is your decision? Rand can have ten thousand soldiers, a hundred thousand, 
here in the blink of an eye, or near enough." And he might have to. The Seanchan 
in Amador and Ebou Dar? Light, how many were they?
Alliandre sipped delicately at her wine-punch before speaking, and again she 
dodged the question. "There are a thousand rumors, as you must know, and even 
the wildest is believable when the Dragon is Reborn, strangers appear claiming 
to be Artur Hawkwing's armies returned, and the Tower itself is broken by 
rebellion."
"A matter for Aes Sedai," Annoura said sharply. "It concerns no one else." 
Berelain flashed an exasperated look at her, which she affected not to notice.
Alliandre flinched and turned her shoulder to the sister. Queen or not, no one 
wanted to hear that tone from an Aes Sedai. "The world is turned upside down, 
Lord Aybara. Why, I've even had reports of Aiel sacking a village right here in 
Ghealdan." Abruptly Perrin realized there was more here than anxiety over 
offending Aes Sedai. Alliandre watched him, waiting. But for what? Reassurance?
"The only Aiel in Ghealdan are with me," he told her. "The Seanchan may be 
descendants of Artur Hawkwing's army, but Hawkwing is a thousand years dead. 
Rand dealt with them once already, and he will again." He remembered Falme as 
clearly as Dumai's Wells, though he had tried forgetting. Surely there had not 
been enough of them there to take Amador and Ebou Dar, even with their damane. 
Balwer claimed they had Taraboner soldiers, too. "And it might cheer you to hear 
that those rebel Aes Sedai support Rand. They will, soon, at least." That was 
what Rand said, a handful of Aes Sedai with nowhere to go except to him. Perrin 
was not so sure. Rumor in Ghealdan put an army with those sisters. Of course, 
the same rumors counted more Aes Sedai in that handful than there were in the 
world, but still . . . Light, he wished someone would reassure him! "Why don't 
we sit," he said. "I'll answer any questions you have, to help you make your 
decision, but we might as well be comfortable." Drawing one of the folding 
chairs to him, he remembered at the last instant not to just drop into it, but 
it creaked under him just the same.
Lini and the other two servants rushed about, pulling chairs into a circle with 
his, but none of the other women moved toward them. Alliandre stood looking at 
him, and the rest looked at her. Except for Gallenne, who merely poured himself 
another cup of punch from the silver pitcher.
It came to Perrin that Faile had not opened her mouth since speaking of the 
merchants. He was as grateful for Berelain's silence as he was that she had not 
decided to flutter her lashes at him in front of the Queen, but he could have 
used some help from Faile right then. A little advice. Light, she knew ten times 
what he did about what he should say and do here.
Wondering whether he should stand with the others, he set his wine-punch on one 
of the small tables and asked her to speak to Alliandre. "If anyone can make her 
see the right way to go, you can," he said. Faile gave him a pleased smile, but 
held her tongue.
Abruptly Alliandre put out her cup to one side without looking, as if expecting 
a tray to be there. One was, barely in time to catch the cup, and Maighdin, who 
held it, muttered something Perrin hoped Faile had not heard. Faile was death on 
servants using that sort of language. He started to rise as Alliandre approached 
him, but to his shock, she knelt gracefully in front of him, catching his hands 
with hers. Before he knew what she was doing, she twisted so her hands were 
back-to-back between his palms. She clung so hard her hands must have hurt; for 
sure, he was not certain he could loose himself without hurting her.
"Under the Light," she said firmly, looking up at him, "I, Alliandre Maritha 
Kigarin, pledge my fealty and service to Lord Perrin Aybara of the Two Rivers, 
now and for all time, save that he chooses to release me of his own will. My 
lands and throne are his, and I yield them to his hand. So I do swear."
For an instant there was a silence broken only by Gallenne's gasp and the muted 
thud of his winecup hitting the rug.
Then Perrin heard Faile, once more whispering so softly no one next to her could 
have made out her words. "Under the Light, I do accept your pledge and will 
defend and protect you and yours through battle's wrack and winter's blast and 
all that time may bring. The lands and throne of Ghealdan, I give to you as my 
faithful vassal. Under the Light, I do accept . . . " That must have been the 
Saldaean manner of accepting. Thank the Light she was too busy concentrating on 
him to see Berelain nodding at him furiously, urging the same. The pair of them 
looked almost as if they had expected this! Annoura, though, with her mouth 
hanging open, appeared as stunned as he, like a fish who had just seen the water 
vanish.
"Why?" he asked gently, ignoring Faile's frustrated hiss and Berelain's 
exasperated grunt alike. Burn me, he thought, I'm a bloody blacksmith! Nobody 
swore fealty to blacksmiths. Queens did not swear fealty to anyone! "I've been 
told I'm ta'veren; you might want to reconsider this in an hour."
"I hope you are ta'veren, my Lord." Alliandre laughed, but not in amusement, and 
gripped his hands even more tightly, as though fearful he might pull away. "With 
all my heart, I hope it. I fear nothing less will save Ghealdan. I all but 
reached this decision as soon as the First told me why you are here, and meeting 
you only confirmed me in it. Ghealdan needs protection I cannot give, so duty 
demands I find it. You can give it, my Lord, you and the Lord Dragon Reborn, 
blessed be his name in the Light. In truth, I would swear directly to him if he 
were here, but you are his man. Swearing to you, I also swear to him." Drawing a 
deep breath, she forced out another word. "Please." She smelled desperate, now, 
and her eyes shone with fear.
Still, he hesitated. This was everything Rand could want and more, but Perrin 
Aybara was just a blacksmith. He was! Could he still tell himself that if he did 
this thing? Alliandre stared up at him pleadingly. Did ta'veren work on 
themselves, he wondered. "Under the Light, I, Perrin Aybara, accept your pledge 
. . . " His throat was dry by the time he finished the words Faile had 
whispered. Too late to stop and think now.
With a gasp of relief, Alliandre kissed his hands. Perrin did not think he had 
ever been so embarrassed in his life. Standing hurriedly, he drew her to her 
feet. And realized he did not know what to do next. A proudly beaming Faile 
whispered no further hints. Berelain smiled, too, relief so strong on her face 
she might have just been pulled from a fire.
He was sure Annoura would speak  --  Aes Sedai always had plenty to say, especially 
when it gave an opportunity to take charge  --  but the Gray sister was holding out 
a winecup for Maighdin to refill. Annoura watched him with an unreadable 
expression, and for that matter, so did Maighdin, so much so that she continued 
tilting her pitcher until punch slopped over onto the Aes Sedai's wrist. At 
which Annoura gave a start, staring at the cup in her hand as though she had 
forgotten it was there. Faile frowned, and Lini frowned even harder, and 
Maighdin scurried for a cloth to dry the sister's hand, all the while muttering 
under her breath again. Faile was going to have fits if she ever heard those 
mutters.
Perrin knew he was taking too long. Alliandre licked her lips anxiously; she 
expected more, but what? "Now that we're done here, I have to find the Prophet 
next," he said, and winced. Too abrupt. He had no feel for dealing with nobles, 
much less queens. "I suppose you'll want to get back to Bethal before anyone 
learns you're gone."
"The last I heard," Alliandre told him, "the Prophet of the Lord Dragon was in 
Abila. That's a largish town in Amadicia, perhaps forty leagues south of here."
In spite of himself, Perrin frowned, though he smoothed his brow quickly. So 
Balwer had been right. Right in one thing did not mean right in all, but it 
might be worthwhile hearing what the man had to say about the Whitecloaks. And 
the Seanchan. How many Taraboners?
Faile glided to his side, laying a hand on his arm and directing a warm smile at 
Alliandre. "You cannot mean to send her away now, my heart. Not when she has 
just arrived. Leave us to talk here out of the sun before she must face the ride 
back. I know you have important matters to see to."
He managed not to stare, with a little effort. What could be more important than 
the Queen of Ghealdan? Certain sure, nothing anyone would let him lay hand to. 
Clearly she wanted to talk with Alliandre without him. With luck, she would tell 
him why later. With luck, she would tell him all of it. Elyas might think he 
knew Saldaeans, but Perrin had learned on his own that only a fool tried to root 
out all of his wife's secrets. Or let her know about those he had unearthed 
already.
Leaving Alliandre should no doubt involve as much ceremony as meeting her, but 
he managed a credible leg and made his bow, asking her pardon for going off, and 
she curtsied deeply, murmuring that he honored her too much, and that was that. 
Except for jerking his head at Gallenne to follow him. He doubted that Faile 
would send him off and want that one to stay. What did she want to talk about 
alone?
Outside, the one-eyed man gave Perrin a clap on the shoulder that would have 
staggered a smaller man. "Burn me, I've never heard of the like! Now I can say 
I've seen a ta'veren at work for true. What did you want with me?" And what was 
he to say to that?
Just then, he heard shouting from the Mayener camp, the sound of arguing, loud 
enough that Two Rivers men stood to peer through the trees, though the side of 
the hill hid everything.
"First let's see what all that is about," Perrin replied. That would give him 
time to think. About what to say to Gallenne, and other things.
 
Faile waited a few moments after Perrin left before telling the servants that 
she and the others would see to themselves. Maighdin was so busy staring at 
Alliandre that Lini had to pluck at her sleeve before she moved. That would have 
to be handled later. Setting her cup down, Faile followed the three women to the 
door of the tent as if hurrying them, but she paused there.
Perrin and Gallenne were striding off through the trees toward the Mayener camp. 
Good. Most of Cha Faile was squatting not far off. Catching Parelean's eye, she 
gestured low in front of her waist, where no one behind her could see. A quick 
circular motion followed by a clenched fist. Immediately the Tairens and 
Cairhien broke apart in groups of two or three and spread out. Far less 
elaborate than Maiden handtalk, Cha Faile's signals sufficed. In moments a 
scattered ring of her people had surrounded the tent, apparently at random, 
talking idly or playing at cat's cradle. But no one would come nearer than 
twenty paces without her receiving warning before they reached the threshold.
It was Perrin who worried her most. She had expected something momentous as soon 
as Alliandre appeared in the flesh, if not what came, but he had been stunned by 
her vow. If he took it into his head to return, to take another stab at making 
Alliandre feel comfortable in her decision . . . Oh, he did think with his heart 
when he should use his head. And with his head when he should use his heart! 
Guilt pricked her at the thought.
"Peculiar servants you found by the side of the road," Berelain said in tones of 
mock sympathy at her side, and Faile gave a start. She had not heard the woman 
come up behind her. Lini and the others were walking toward the carts, Lini 
shaking a finger at Maighdin, and Berelain shifted her gaze from Faile to them. 
She kept her voice low, but the mocking tone remained. "The oldest at least 
seems to know her duties instead of simply having heard about them, but Annoura 
tells me the youngest is a wilder. Very weak, Annoura says, negligible, but 
wilders always cause problems. The others will carry tales about her, if they 
know, and sooner or later, she will run away. Wilders always do, I hear. That's 
what comes of picking up your maids like stray dogs."
"They suit me well enough," Faile replied coolly. Still, a long conversation 
with Lini was definitely needed. A wilder? Even if weak, that might prove 
useful. "I always thought you were fit for hiring servants." Berelain blinked, 
uncertain what that meant, and Faile carefully did not let her satisfaction 
show. Turning away, she said, "Annoura, will you make us private with a ward 
against listeners?"
There seemed little chance that Seonid or Masuri would find any opportunity to 
eavesdrop using the Power  --  she was waiting for the explosion when Perrin found 
out just how tightly the Wise Ones had that pair haltered  --  yet the Wise Ones 
themselves might have learned. Faile was sure Edarra and the others were 
wringing Seonid and Masuri dry.
The Gray sister's beaded braids clicked softly as she nodded. "It is done, Lady 
Faile," she said, and Berelain's lips compressed briefly. Quite satisfying. The 
temerity of making the presentations here in Faile's own tent! She deserved more 
than having someone step between her and her advisor, but it was satisfying.
Childishly satisfying, Faile admitted, when she should be focused on the matter 
at hand. She almost bit her lip in aggravation. She did not doubt her husband's 
love, but she could not treat Berelain as the woman deserved, and that forced 
her, against her will, to play a game with Perrin too often as the gaming board. 
And the prize, so Berelain believed. If only Perrin did not sometimes behave as 
if he might be. Firmly she put all that out of her head. There was a wife's work 
to be done here. The practical side.
Alliandre glanced thoughtfully at Annoura when a ward was mentioned  --  she had to 
realize it meant serious talk  --  but what she said was "Your husband is a 
formidable man, Lady Faile. I mean no offense when I say his bluff exterior 
belies a shrewd mind. With Amadicia on our doorstep, we in Ghealdan play Daes 
Dae'mar of necessity, but I do not think I have ever been danced so swiftly or 
so deftly to a decision as your Lord did. The hint of a threat here, a frown 
there. A very formidable man."
This time hiding her smile took some effort on Faile's part. These southlanders 
set a great store by the Game of Houses, and she did not think Alliandre would 
appreciate learning that Perrin simply said what he believed  --  too freely by 
half, at times  --  and people with devious minds saw calculation in his honesty. 
"He spent some time in Cairhien," she said. Let Alliandre make of that what she 
would. "We can speak freely here, safe behind Annoura Sedai's warding. It is 
plain you do not want to return to Bethal yet. Is your oath to Perrin, and his 
to you, not enough to tie him to you?" Some here in the south had peculiar ideas 
of what fealty entailed.
Berelain silently took a position to Faile's right, and a moment later Annoura 
did the same on her left, so that Alliandre found herself confronted by all 
three. It surprised Faile that the Aes Sedai fell in with her plan without 
knowing what it was  --  without doubt Annoura had her own reasons, and Faile would 
have given a pretty to know what they were  --  but she felt no surprise that 
Berelain did so. One casual mocking sentence could spoil everything, especially 
about Perrin's skill in the Great Game, yet she was sure it would not come. In a 
way, that irritated her. Once she had despised Berelain; she still hated her, 
deep and hot, but grudging respect had replaced contempt. The woman knew when 
their "game" had to be put aside. If not for Perrin, Faile thought she might 
actually have liked her! Briefly, to extinguish that hateful thought, she 
pictured herself shaving Berelain bald. She was a jade and a trull! And not 
something Faile could allow to divert her now.
Alliandre studied each of the women in front of her in turn, but she gave no 
evidence of nervousness. Taking up her winecup again, she sipped casually and 
spoke with sighs and rueful smiles as if her words were not really as important 
as they sounded. "I mean to keep my oath, of course, but you must understand 
that I hoped for more. Once your husband goes, I am left as I was. Worse, 
perhaps, until some tangible aid comes from the Lord Dragon, blessed be his name 
in the Light. The Prophet could ruin Bethal or even Jehannah itself as he did 
Samara, and I cannot stop him. And if he somehow learns of my oath . . . He says 
he has come to show us how to serve the Lord Dragon in the Light, but he is the 
one who shows that way, and I cannot think he will be pleased with anyone who 
finds another."
"It is good that you will keep your oath," Faile told her dryly. "If you want 
more of my husband, perhaps you should do more. Perhaps you should accompany him 
when he goes south to meet the Prophet. Of course, you will want your own 
soldiers with you, but I suggest no more than the First has with her. Shall we 
sit?" Taking the chair Perrin had vacated, she motioned Berelain and Annoura to 
those on either side, and only then gestured toward another for Alliandre.
The Queen sat slowly, staring wide-eyed at Faile, not nervous but astounded. 
"Why in the Light would I do that?" she exclaimed. "Lady Faile, the Children of 
the Light will take any excuse to increase their depredations in Ghealdan, and 
King Ailron might decide to send an army north as well. It's impossible!"
"The wife of your liege lord asks it of you, Alliandre," Faile said firmly.
It did seem possible that Alliandre's eyes could widen further, yet they did. 
She looked to Annoura and found only imperturbable Aes Sedai calm looking back. 
"Of course," she said after a moment. Her voice was hollow. Swallowing, she 
added, "Of course, I will do as you . . . ask . . . my Lady."
Faile hid her relief behind a gracious nod of acceptance. She had expected 
Alliandre to balk. That Alliandre could swear fealty without realizing what that 
meant  --  that she felt it necessary to say that she intended to keep her oath!  --  
had only confirmed Faile's belief that the woman could not be left behind. By 
all accounts, Alliandre had dealt with Masema by yielding to him. Slowly, to be 
sure, with little other choice and only when she had to, yet submission could 
become a habit. Back in Bethal, with nothing visible changed, how soon before 
she would decide to hedge with a warning to Masema? She had felt the weight of 
her oath; now Faile could lighten her burden.
"I am happy that you will be accompanying us," she said warmly. And truly, she 
was. "My husband does not forget those who render him service. One such service 
would be to write to your nobles, telling them that a man in the south has 
raised the banner of Manetheren." Berelain's head half jerked around in 
surprise, and Annoura went so far as to blink.
"My Lady," Alliandre said urgently, "half of them will send word to the Prophet 
as soon as they receive my letter. They are terrified of him, and the Light 
alone knows what he might do." Just the response Faile had hoped for.
"Which is why you will write him also, saying that you have gathered a few 
soldiers to deal with this man personally. After all, the Prophet of the Lord 
Dragon is too important to have to turn his attention to such a minor matter."
"Very good," Annoura murmured. "No one will know who is who."
Berelain laughed in delighted approval, burn her!
"My Lady," Alliandre breathed, "I said that my Lord Perrin is formidable. May I 
add that his wife is every bit as formidable?"
Faile tried not to bask too visibly. Now she had to send word to her people in 
Bethal. In a way, she regretted that. Explaining to Perrin would have been more 
than difficult, but even he could not have kept his temper if she had kidnapped 
the Queen of Ghealdan.
 
Most of the Winged Guards appeared to be gathered on the edge of their camp, 
surrounding ten of their number on horseback. The absence of lances said the 
riders were scouts. The men afoot milled and pushed, trying to get closer. 
Perrin thought he heard thunder again, not so distant, but it only touched the 
edge of awareness. As he prepared to push his way through, Gallenne roared, 
"Make way, you mangy hounds!" Heads whipped around, and men wriggled sideways in 
the mass, opening a narrow path. Perrin wondered what would happen if he called 
the Two Rivers men mangy hounds. Probably earn him a punch in the nose. It might 
be worth a try.
Nurelle and the other officers were with the scouts. So were seven men afoot 
with their hands tied behind them and lead ropes around their necks, all 
shuffling their feet and hunching their shoulders and scowling defiance or fear 
or both. Their clothes were stiff with old filth, though some had been fine 
once. Strangely, they smelled heavily of woodsmoke. For that matter, some of the 
mounted soldiers had soot on their faces, and one or two seemed to be nursing 
burns. Aram stood studying the prisoners, frowning slightly.
Gallenne took a stance with his feet apart and fists on his hips, his one eye 
doing as good a job of glaring as most men's two. "What happened?" he demanded. 
"My scouts are supposed to bring back information, not ragpickers!"
"I will let Ortis report, my Lord," Nurelle said. "He was there. Squadman 
Ortis!"
A soldier in his middle years scrambled down from his saddle to bow, gauntleted 
hand pressed to heart. His helmet was plain, without the thin plumes and wings 
that were worked in the sides of officers' helmets. Beneath the rim, a livid 
burn stood out plainly on his face. The other cheek had a scar that pulled up 
the corner of his mouth. "My Lord Gallenne, my Lord Aybara," he said in a 
gravelly voice. "We came on these turnip-eaters about two leagues to the west, 
my Lords. Burning a farm, with the farm folk inside. A woman tried to get out a 
window, and one of these scum bashed her head in. Knowing how Lord Aybara feels, 
we put a stop to it. We were too late to save anybody, but we caught these 
seven. The rest got away."
"People are often tempted to slide back into the Shadow," one of the prisoners 
said suddenly. "They must be reminded of the cost." A tall, lean man with a 
stately air, his voice was smooth and educated, but his coat was as dirty as any 
of the others, and he had not shaved in two or three days. The Prophet did not 
seem to approve of wasting time on things like razors. Or washing. With his 
hands bound and a rope around his neck, he glared at his captors without the 
least bit of fear. He was all supercilious defiance. "Your soldiers do not 
impress me," he said. "The Prophet of the Lord Dragon, blessed be his name in 
the Light, has destroyed greater armies by far than your tag end. You may kill 
us, but we will be avenged when the Prophet spills your blood on the ground. 
None of you will survive us long. He will triumph in fire and in blood." He 
finished on a ringing tone, his back straight as an iron rod. Murmurs ran 
through the listening soldiers. They knew very well that Masema had destroyed 
larger armies than theirs.
"Hang them," Perrin said. Again, he heard that thunder. Having given the order, 
he made himself watch. Despite the murmurs, there was no lack of ready hands. 
Some of the prisoners began to weep as their lead ropes were thrown over tree 
limbs. A once-fat man whose wattles hung in folds shouted that he repented, that 
he would serve any master they named. A bald-headed fellow who looked as tough 
as Lamgwin thrashed and screamed until the rope cut off his howls. Only the 
smooth-voiced man did not kick or fight, even when the noose drew tight on his 
neck. To the end he glared defiance.
"At least one of them knew how to die," Gallenne growled as the last body went 
limp. He frowned at the men decorating the trees as if regretting they had not 
put up more fight.
"If those people were serving the Shadow," Aram began, then hesitated. "Forgive 
me, Lord Perrin, but will the Lord Dragon approve of this?"
Perrin gave a start and stared at him, aghast. "Light, Aram, you heard what they 
did! Rand would've put the ropes on their necks himself!" He thought Rand would 
have, hoped he would have. Rand was fixed on welding the nations together before 
the Last Battle, and he had done little counting of cost to do so.
Men's heads jerked up as thunder pealed loud enough for all to hear, then 
closer, and again closer still. A wind gusted, fell, rose again, tugging 
Perrin's coat as it slashed this way and that. Lightning forked in a cloudless 
sky. In the Mayener camp, horses whinnied and reared at their ties. Thunder 
tolled repeatedly, and lightning writhed in silver-blue snakes, and beneath a 
burning sun, rain fell, fat scattered drops that splashed fountains of dust 
where they hit bare ground. Perrin wiped one from his cheek and peered at damp 
fingers in amazement.
In moments the storm was gone, thunder and lightning rolling on eastward. 
Thirsty ground absorbed the raindrops that had fallen, the sun baked as fiercely 
as ever, and only flickering lights in the sky and fading booms said that 
anything had happened. Soldiers stared at each other uncertainly. Gallenne pried 
his fingers from the hilt of his sword with an obvious effort.
"This . . . this can't be the Dark One's work," Aram said, and flinched. No one 
had ever seen a natural storm like that. "It means the weather is changing, 
doesn't it, Lord Perrin? The weather is going to be right again?"
Perrin opened his mouth to tell the man not to call him that, but he closed it 
again with a sigh. "I don't know," he said. What was it Gaul had said? 
"Everything changes, Aram." He had just never thought that he would have to 
change, too.
Chapter 11
Questions and an Oath
The air in the huge stable smelled of old hay and horse dung. And blood, and 
burned flesh. With all the doors closed, the air felt thick. Two lanterns gave 
little light, and shadows filled most of the interior. In the long rows of 
stalls, horses whickered nervously. The man hanging by his wrists from a roof 
beam gave a low moan, then a ragged cough. His head fell down on his chest. He 
was a tall man, well-muscled, if rather the worse for wear.
Abruptly Sevanna realized that his chest no longer moved. The gem-studded rings 
on her fingers glittered red and green as she gestured curtly to Rhiale.
The flame-haired woman pushed the man's head up and thumbed back one eyelid, 
then pressed an ear to his chest, careless of the still-smoldering splinters 
that peppered him. With a sound of disgust, she straightened. "He is dead. We 
should have left this to the Maidens, Sevanna, or the Black Eyes. I do not doubt 
we killed him by ignorance."
Sevanna's mouth tightened, and she shifted her shawl in a clatter of bracelets. 
They ran nearly to her elbows, a noticeable weight in gold and ivory and gems, 
yet she would have worn every one she owned if she could. None of the other 
women said anything. Putting prisoners to the question was not the work of Wise 
Ones, but Rhiale knew why they had to do this themselves. The lone survivor of 
ten mounted men who thought they could defeat twenty Maidens because they rode 
horses, the man had also been the first Seanchan captured in the ten days since 
their arrival in this land.
"He would have lived if he had not fought the pain so hard, Rhiale," Someryn 
said finally, shaking her head. "A strong man for a wetlander, but he could not 
accept pain. Still, he told us much."
Sevanna eyed her sideways, trying to see whether she hid sarcasm. As tall as 
most men, Someryn wore more bracelets and necklaces than any woman there except 
Sevanna herself, layers of firedrops and emeralds, rubies and sapphires, almost 
concealing a too-full bosom that otherwise would have been half bared with her 
blouse undone almost to her skirt. Her shawl, tied around her waist, hid 
nothing. At times it was difficult for Sevanna to tell whether Someryn was 
copying her or competing with her.
"Much!" Meira exclaimed. In the light of the lantern she held, her long face was 
grimmer than usual, though that hardly seemed possible. Meira could find the 
dark side of the noonday sun. "That his people lie two days west in the city 
called Amador? We knew that. All he has told us are wild tales. Artur Hawkwing! 
Bah! The Maidens should have kept him and done what was needed."
"Would you . . . risk letting everyone learn too much too soon?" Sevanna bit her 
lip in vexation. She had almost called them "you fools." Too many already knew 
too much, in her opinion, Wise Ones among them, but she could not risk offending 
these women. That knowledge grated on her! "The people are frightened." There 
was no need to hide her contempt for that, at least. What shocked her, outraged 
her, was not that they were afraid, but how few made any effort to hide the 
fact. "Black Eyes, or Stone Dogs, or even Maidens, would have talked of what he 
said. You know they would! His lies would only have spread more fear." They had 
to be lies. In Sevanna's mind a sea was like the lakes she had seen in the 
wetlands, but with its far side beyond sight. If hundreds of thousands more of 
his people were coming, even from the other side of so large a body of water, 
the other prisoners she had questioned would have known of them. And no prisoner 
was questioned without her present.
Tion raised the second lantern and regarded her with unblinking gray eyes. 
Nearly a head shorter than Someryn, Tion was still taller than Sevanna. And 
twice as wide. Her round face often appeared placid, but thinking her so was a 
mistake. "They are right to fear," she said in a stony voice. "I am afraid, and 
take no shame in it. The Seanchan are many if they are no more than took Amador, 
and we are few. You have your sept around you, Sevanna, but where is my sept? 
Your wetlander friend Caddar and his tame Aes Sedai sent us through his holes in 
the air to die. Where are the rest of the Shaido?"
Rhiale moved to stand defiantly beside Tion, and they were quickly joined by 
Alarys, even now toying with her black hair to draw attention to it. Or perhaps 
it was to avoid meeting Sevanna's eyes. After a moment, a scowling Meira added 
herself to the cluster, and then Modarra. Modarra might have been called slim if 
she were not even taller than Someryn; as it was, lean was the best that could 
be said of her. Sevanna had thought Modarra as firmly in her grasp as any of the 
rings on her fingers. As firmly in her grasp as . . . Someryn looked at her and 
sighed, looked at the others. Slowly she walked over to stand beside them.
Sevanna was left standing on the very edge of the lantern's light. Of all the 
women tied to her by the killing of Desaine, she trusted these most. Not that 
she trusted anyone very far, of course. But Someryn and Modarra she had been 
sure were hers as tightly as if they had sworn water oath to follow where she 
led. And now they dared face her with accusing eyes. Even Alarys looked up from 
playing with her hair.
Sevanna met their stares with a cool smile just short of a sneer. Now, she 
decided, was not the time to remind them of the crime that bound their fates 
together. Not the bludgeon, this time. "I suspected Caddar might try to betray 
us," she said instead. Rhiale's blue eyes widened at the admission, and Tion 
opened her mouth. Sevanna went on, not leaving them room to speak. "Would you 
rather have remained in Kinslayer's Dagger to be destroyed? To be hunted like 
animals by four clans whose Wise Ones know how to make those holes without the 
traveling boxes? Instead, we are in the heart of a rich, soft land. Richer even 
than the lands of the treekillers. Look at what we have taken in only ten days. 
How much more will we take in a wetlander city? You fear the Seanchan because 
they have numbers? Remember that I brought every Shaido Wise One who can channel 
with me." That she could not channel herself seldom occurred to her, now. Soon 
that lack would be remedied. "We are as strong as any force these wetlanders can 
send against us. Even if they do have flying lizards." She sniffed forcefully to 
show what she thought of those! None of them had seen one, nor any of the 
scouts, but nearly every prisoner had been full of the ridiculous tales. "After 
we find the other septs, we will take this land for our own. All of it! We will 
extract a tenfold repayment from the Aes Sedai. And we will find Caddar and make 
him die screaming for mercy."
That should have rallied them, restored their hearts as she had had to do 
before. Not one woman's face changed. Not one.
"And there is the Car'a'carn" Tion said calmly. "Unless you have given up your 
plan to marry him."
"I have given up nothing," Sevanna replied irritably. The man  --  and more 
important, the power that came with him  --  would be hers someday. Somehow. 
Whatever it took. Smoothing her voice, she went on. "Rand al'Thor is hardly of 
consequence now." At least to these blind simpletons. With him in her hands, 
anything would be possible for her. "I do not intend to stand here all day 
discussing my bridal wreath. I have matters to see to that are important."
As she stalked away from them through the gloom, toward the doors of the stable, 
an unpleasant thought suddenly occurred to her. She was alone with these women. 
How far could she trust them, now? Desaine's death remained all too vivid in her 
mind; the Wise One had been . . . butchered . . . using the One Power. By the 
women behind her, among others. The thought twisted her belly tight. She 
listened for the faint rustle of straw that would announce feet following her 
and heard nothing. Were they just standing there watching? She refused to look 
over her shoulder. Keeping the same slow pace required only a little effort  --  
she would not display fear and shame herself!  --  yet when she pushed one of the 
tall doors open on its well-oiled hinges and stepped into bright midday light, 
she could not stop from drawing a relieved breath.
Efalin was pacing outside, shoufa draped around her neck, bow cased on her back, 
spears and buckler in hand. The gray-haired woman turned abruptly, the worry on 
her face fading only a little at sight of Sevanna. The leader of all the Shaido 
Maidens, and she let her distress show! She was not Jumai, but she had come with 
Sevanna using the excuse that Sevanna spoke as the chief until a new chief of 
the Shaido could be chosen. Sevanna was sure that Efalin suspected that would 
never happen. Efalin knew where the power lay. And when to keep her mouth 
closed.
"Bury him deeply and hide the grave," Sevanna told her. Efalin nodded, signaling 
the Maidens ringing the stable to their feet, and they vanished inside behind 
her. Sevanna studied the building, with its sharp-peaked red roof and blue 
walls, then turned to the field in front of it. A low stone fence with a single 
opening, right before the stable, enclosed a circle of hard-packed dirt perhaps 
a hundred paces across. The wetlanders had used it for training horses. Why it 
had been placed so far from everything else, surrounded by trees so tall that 
Sevanna still sometimes stared at them, she had not thought to ask the former 
owners, but the isolation served her purposes. The Maidens with Efalin were 
those who had captured the Seanchan. No one not here knew he existed. Or would 
know. Were the other Wise Ones talking in there? About her? In front of the 
Maidens? What were they saying? She would not wait on them or anyone!
They came out of the stable just as she started off toward the forest, Someryn 
and the others, and followed her into the trees arguing among themselves about 
the Seanchan, and Caddar, and where the rest of the Shaido had been sent. Not 
about her, but then, they would not where she could listen. What she did hear 
made her grimace. There were over three hundred Wise Ones with the Jumai, and it 
was the same whenever three or four started talking. Where were the rest of the 
septs, and had Caddar been a spear hurled by Rand al'Thor, and how many Seanchan 
were there, and even did they really ride lizards? Lizards! These women had been 
with her from the first. She had guided their feet step by step, but they 
believed they had helped plan every move, believed they knew the destination. If 
she was losing them now . . . 
The forest gave way to a huge clearing that could have swallowed the circle back 
at the stable fifty times over, and Sevanna felt ill temper slipping away as she 
stopped to look. Low hills rose to the north, and mountains a few leagues beyond 
them were capped with clouds, great masses of white streaked with dark gray. She 
had never seen so many clouds in her life. Closer at hand, thousands of Jumai 
went about the day's work. The ring of hammer on anvil rose from blacksmiths, 
and sheep and goats were being slaughtered for the evening meal, their bleating 
mixed with the laughter of the children as they ran at play. Given more time to 
prepare for their flight from Kinslayer's Dagger than the other septs, the Jumai 
had brought the flocks gathered in Cairhien, and added to them here.
Many people had set up their tents, but there was no need. Colorful structures 
nearly filled the clearing like a large wetlander village, tall barns and 
stables, a large forge and the squat roofs that had sheltered servants, all 
painted red and blue, surrounding the great roof itself. The manor house that 
was called, three floors high beneath a dark green tile roof, all of it a paler 
green trimmed with yellow, atop a broad man-made stone hill ten paces tall. 
Jumai and gai'shain climbed the long ramp that led to the great building's door 
and walked the ornately carved balconies that ringed it.
The stone walls and palaces she had seen in Cairhien had not impressed her half 
so much. This one was painted like a wagon of the Lost Ones, but even so, 
marvelous. She should have realized that with so many trees, these people could 
afford to build anything of wood. Could no one but she see how fat this land 
was? More white-clad gai'shain scurried about their tasks than any twenty septs 
had ever had before, nearly half as many as there were Jumai! No one complained 
about making wetlanders gai'shain anymore. They were so docile! A wide-eyed 
young man in rough-sewn white hurried past clutching a basket, gaping at the 
people around him and stumbling over the hem of his robe. Sevanna smiled. That 
one's father had called himself the lord of this place and blustered that she 
and her people would be hunted down  --  by children, of all things!  --  for this 
outrage, yet now he wore white and worked as hard as his son, as did his wife 
and his daughters and his other sons. The women had possessed many fine gems and 
beautiful silks, and Sevanna had only taken the first pick for herself. A fat 
land, so soft it oozed rich oils.
The women behind her had stopped short to talk among themselves at the edge of 
the trees. She caught what they were saying, and it turned her mood again.
" . . . how many Aes Sedai fight for these Seanchan," Tion was saying. "We must 
learn that." Someryn and Modarra murmured agreement.
"I do not think it matters," Rhiale put in. At least her contrariness extended 
to the others, too. "I do not think they will fight unless we attack them. 
Remember, they did nothing until we moved against them, not even to defend 
themselves."
"And when they did," Meira said sourly, "twenty-three of us died. And more than 
ten thousand algai'd'siswai did not return either. Here, we have little more 
than a third of that number even counting the Brotherless." She soaked the last 
word in scorn.
"That was Rand al'Thor's work!" Sevanna told them sharply. "Instead of thinking 
what he did against us, think what we can do when he is ours!" When he is mine, 
she thought. The Aes Sedai had been able to take and hold him as long as they 
had, and she had something the Aes Sedai had not, else they would have used it. 
"Remember instead that we had the Aes Sedai beaten until he took their side. Aes 
Sedai are nothing!"
Once again her effort to strengthen their hearts produced no visible effect. All 
they could remember was that the spears had been broken trying to capture Rand 
al'Thor, and they with them. Modarra might have been staring into the grave of 
all her sept, and even Tion frowned uneasily, doubtless recalling that she, too, 
had run like a frightened goat.
"Wise Ones," a man's voice said behind Sevanna, "I have been sent to ask for 
your judgment."
Instantly every woman's face regained its equanimity. What she could not do, he 
had done with his very presence. No Wise One would allow any but another Wise 
One to see her out of countenance. Alarys stopped stroking her hair, which she 
had pulled over her shoulder. Plainly none of them recognized him. Sevanna 
thought she did.
He regarded them gravely, with green eyes much older than his smooth face. He 
had full lips, but there was a set to his mouth, as if he had forgotten how to 
smile. "I am Kinhuin, of the Mera'din, Wise Ones. The Jumai say we may not take 
our full share from this place because we are not Jumai, but it is because they 
will have less since we are two for every Jumai algai'd'siswai. The Brotherless 
ask your judgment, Wise Ones."
Now that they knew who he was, some could not hide their dislike of the men who 
had abandoned clan and sept to come to the Shaido rather than follow Rand 
al'Thor, a wetlander and no true Car'a'carn, as they thought. Tion's face merely 
went flat, but Rhiale's eyes flashed, and Meira teetered on the edge of a scowl. 
Only Modarra showed concern, but then, she would have tried to settle a dispute 
between treekillers.
"These six Wise Ones will give judgment after hearing both sides," Sevanna told 
Kinhuin with a graveness to match his.
The other women looked at her, barely concealing their surprise that she 
intended to stand aside. It had been she who arranged for ten times the number 
of Mera'din to accompany the Jumai as went with any other sept. She really had 
suspected Caddar, if not of what he had done, and she had wanted as many spears 
around her as possible. Besides, they could always die in place of Jumai.
She affected surprise at the others' surprise. "It would not be fair for me to 
take part since my own sept is involved," she told them before turning back to 
the green-eyed man. "They will give fair judgment, Kinhuin. And I am certain 
they will speak in favor of the Mera'din."
The other women gave her hard looks before Tion motioned abruptly for Kinhuin to 
lead the way. He had to tear his eyes away from Sevanna to comply. Wearing a 
faint smile  --  he had been staring at her, not Someryn  --  she watched them vanish 
into the mass of people moving about the manor grounds. For all their misliking 
the Brotherless  --  and her making predictions to the man about their decision  --  
the chances were they would decide that way. Either way, Kinhuin would remember 
and tell the others of his so-called society. The Jumai were already in her belt 
pouch, but anything that tied the Mera'din to her was welcome.
Turning, Sevanna strode back into the trees, though not toward the stable. Now 
that she was alone, she could see to something much more important than the 
Brotherless. She checked what she had tucked into her skirt at the small of her 
back, where her shawl hid it. She would have felt if it slipped a hair, but she 
wanted to touch its smooth length with her fingers. No Wise One would dare think 
her less than they, once she used that, perhaps today. And one day, it would 
give her Rand al'Thor. After all, if Caddar had lied in one thing, maybe he had 
lied in others.
Through a blur of tears Galina Casban glared at the Wise One shielding her. As 
if there were any need for the slender woman's shield. Right then she could not 
have so much as embraced the Source. Sitting cross-legged on the ground between 
two squatting Maidens, Belinde adjusted her shawl and gave a thin smile, as if 
she knew Galina's thoughts. Her face was narrow and foxlike, and her hair and 
eyebrows had been bleached nearly white by the sun. Galina wished she had 
crushed her skull instead of merely slapping her.
It had not been an attempt at escape, merely more frustration than she could 
bear. Her days began and ended with exhaustion, every day more than the last. 
She could not remember how long since they had stuffed her into that coarse 
black robe; the days ran together like an everlasting stream. A week? A month? 
Maybe not that long. Surely not more. She wished she had never touched Belinde. 
If the woman had not stuffed rags into her mouth to silence her sobbing, she 
would have begged to be allowed to carry rocks again, or move a pile of pebbles 
stone by stone, or any of the tortures they filled her hours with. Anything 
rather than this.
Only Galina's head stuck out of the leather sack that hung suspended from the 
stout limb of an oak. Directly beneath the sack, coals glowed in a bronze 
brazier, a slow burn, heating the air inside the sack. She huddled in that 
sweltering heat with her thumbs tied to her toes, sweat slicking her nakedness. 
Her hair clung damply to her face, and she panted, nostrils flaring for air, 
when she was not sobbing. Even so, this would have been better than the endless, 
senseless, backbreaking labor they subjected her to except for one thing. Before 
snugging the neck of the sack beneath her chin, Belinde had emptied a pouch of 
some fine powder over her, and as she had begun to sweat, it had begun to burn 
like pepper flung in the eyes. It seemed to coat her from the shoulders down, 
and, oh, Light, it burned!
That she called on the Light measured her desperation, but they had not broken 
her for all their trying. She would get free  --  she would!  --  and once she did, 
she would make these savages pay in blood! Rivers of blood! Oceans! She would 
have them all skinned alive! She would . . .! Flinging back her head, she 
howled; the wadded rags in her mouth muffled the sound, but she howled, and she 
did not know whether it was a shriek of rage or a scream for mercy.
When her howls died and her head fell forward, Belinde and the Maidens were on 
their feet, and Sevanna was with them. Galina attempted to stifle her sobbing in 
front of the golden-haired woman, but she could as soon have plucked the sun 
from the sky with her fingers.
"Listen to her whine and snivel," Sevanna sneered, coming to look up at her. 
Galina tried to put an equal contempt in her own stare. Sevanna decked herself 
with enough jewelry for ten women! She wore her blouse unlaced to nearly bare 
her bosom, except for all those mismatched necklaces, and breathed deep when men 
looked at her! Galina tried, but contempt was hard to manage with tears rolling 
down her cheeks along with her sweat. She shook with weeping, making the sack 
sway.
"This da'tsang is tough as an old ewe," Belinde cackled, "but I always found 
even the toughest old ewe was made tender if cooked slowly, with the right 
herbs. When I was a Maiden, I softened Stone Dogs with enough cooking." Galina 
closed her eyes. Oceans of blood, to pay for . . .!
The sack lurched, and Galina's eyes popped open as it began to settle. The 
Maidens had undone the rope running over the limb, and the pair of them were 
lowering her slowly. Frantically she thrashed about, trying to look down, and 
almost began sobbing anew, with relief, when she saw that the brazier had been 
moved aside. With Belinde's talk of cooking . . . That would be Belinde's fate, 
Galina decided. Tied to a spit and turned over a fire until her juices dripped! 
That to begin!
With a thud that made Galina grunt, the leather bag hit the ground and toppled 
over. As unconcerned as if they were handling a sack of potatoes, the Maidens 
tumbled her out onto the brown weeds, sliced the cords that held her thumbs and 
toes, plucked the gag from between her teeth. Dirt and dead leaves stuck to the 
sweat coating her.
She very much wanted to stand, to meet them all eye-to-eye and glare-for-glare. 
Instead, she rose only as far as hands and knees, then dug her fingers into the 
mulch of the forest floor, dug her toes in. Any further, and she would not be 
able to stop her hands from flying to soothe her red, flaming skin. Her sweat 
felt like the juice of ice peppers. All she could do was crouch there and 
quiver, try to work some moisture back into her mouth and daydream of what she 
would do to these savages.
"I believed you were stronger than this," Sevanna said above her in thoughtful 
tones, "but perhaps Belinde is right. Perhaps you are soft enough, now. If you 
swear to obey me, you can stop being da'tsang. Perhaps you will not even have to 
be gai'shain. Will you swear to obey me in all things?"
"Yes!" The hoarse word flew from Galina's tongue without hesitation, though she 
had to swallow before speaking more. "I will obey you! I swear it!" And so she 
would obey. Until they gave the opening she needed. Was this all that had been 
necessary? An oath she would have made the first day? Sevanna would learn what 
it was like to hang over hot coals. Oh, yes, she . . . 
"Then you will not object to swearing your oath on this," Sevanna said, tossing 
something down in front of her.
Galina's scalp crawled as she stared at it. A white rod like polished ivory, a 
foot long and no thicker than her wrist. Then she saw the flowing marks carved 
into the end toward her, numerals used in the Age of Legends. One hundred 
eleven. She had thought it was the Oath Rod, somehow stolen from the White 
Tower. That also was marked, but with the numeral three, which some thought 
stood for the Three Oaths. Maybe this was not what it seemed. Maybe. Yet no 
hooded viper from the Drowned Lands coiled there could have frozen her so still.
"A fine oath, Sevanna. When did you intend to tell the rest of us?"
That voice jerked Galina's head up. It could have pulled her eyes away from a 
hooded viper, too.
Therava appeared among the trees leading a dozen cold-faced Wise Ones. When they 
stopped behind her, confronting Sevanna, every woman present except for the 
Maidens had been there when Galina was sentenced to wear the black robe. A word 
from Therava, a short nod from Sevanna, and the Maidens departed swiftly. Sweat 
still oozed from Galina, but suddenly the air seemed cold.
Sevanna glanced at Belinde, who avoided her eye. Sevanna's lip curled, half 
sneer, half snarl, and she planted fists on hips. Galina did not understand 
where she found the nerve, a woman who could not channel at all. Some of these 
women possessed not inconsiderable strength. No, she could not afford to think 
of them only as wilders if she was to escape and have her revenge. Therava and 
Someryn were stronger than any woman in the Tower, and any of them could have 
been Aes Sedai easily.
But Sevanna faced them defiantly. "It seems you rendered justice quickly," she 
said in a voice dry as dust.
"The matter was simple," Tion replied calmly. "The Mera'din received the justice 
they deserved."
"And they were told they received it in spite of your attempt to sway us," 
Rhiale added with some heat. Sevanna nearly did snarl at that.
Therava would not be diverted from her purpose, though. In one swift step she 
reached Galina, gripped a handful of her hair and jerked her up to her knees, 
bent her head back. Therava was not the tallest of these women by at least a 
head, yet she loomed taller than most men, staring down with a hawk's eyes, 
driving away every thought of revenge or defiance. The white streaks touching 
her dark red hair only made her face more commanding. Galina's hands clenched 
into fists on her thighs, nails digging into her palms. Even the burning of her 
skin paled under that stare. She had daydreamed about breaking every one of 
these women, making them plead for death, laughing as she denied their begging. 
About every one except Therava. At night, Therava filled her dreams and all 
Galina could do was try to flee; the only escape was to wake screaming. Galina 
had broken strong men and strong women, but she stared up at Therava wide-eyed 
and whined.
"This one has no honor to shame." Therava almost spat the words. "If you want 
her broken, Sevanna, let me have her. When I am done, she will obey without the 
need for your friend Caddar's toy."
Sevanna spoke up heatedly, denying friendship with this Caddar, whoever he was, 
and Rhiale barked that Sevanna had brought him to the others, and others began 
arguing about whether the "binder" would work any better than the "traveling 
box."
A small part of Galina's mind seized on mention of the traveling box. She had 
heard it spoken of before, longed to lay hands on it if only for a moment. With 
a ter'angreal that enabled her to Travel, however imperfectly it seemed to work, 
she would be able to . . . Even hope of escape could not stand against thoughts 
of what Therava would do to her if the others decided to give in to the woman's 
request. When the hawk-eyed Wise One loosed her hair to join the argument, 
Galina hurled herself at the rod, landing flat on her belly. Anything, even 
having to obey Sevanna, was better than being handed over to Therava. If she had 
not been shielded, she would have channeled to operate the rod herself.
No sooner did her fingers close on the smooth rod than Therava's foot came down 
on it hard, trapping her hands painfully against the ground. None of the Wise 
Ones so much as glanced at her where she lay writhing, trying futilely to pull 
free. She could not make herself pull too hard; dimly she could recall making 
rulers pale with fear, but she did not dare disturb this woman's foot.
"If she is to swear," Therava said, staring hard at Sevanna, "it should be to 
obey all of us here." The others nodded, some voicing agreement, all but 
Belinde, and she pursed her lips thoughtfully. Sevanna stared back just as hard. 
"Very well," she acceded finally. "But me first among us. I am not only a Wise 
One; I speak as the clan chief."
Therava smiled thinly. "So you do. Two among us first, Sevanna. You and I." Not 
a whisper of defiance faded from Sevanna's face, but she nodded. Grudgingly. 
Only then did Therava move her foot. The light of saidar surrounded her, and a 
flow of Spirit touched the numerals at the end of the rod in Galina's hands. 
Just as was done with the Oath Rod.
For an instant, Galina hesitated, flexing mashed fingers. It felt the same as 
the Oath Rod, too; not quite like ivory, not quite like glass, distinctly cool 
on her palms. If it was a second Oath Rod, it could be used to remove any oath 
she swore now. If she were given the opportunity. She did not want to take the 
chance, did not want to swear to Therava in any case. Always before this in her 
life, she had commanded; life since her capture had been misery, but Therava 
would make her a lapdog! Yet if she did not, would they let Therava break her? 
She could not find the smallest particle of doubt that the woman would do just 
that. Utterly.
"Under the Light and by my hope of salvation and rebirth"  --  she no longer 
believed in the Light or a hope of salvation, and there was no need to speak 
more than a simple promise, but they expected a strong oath  --  "I swear to obey 
every Wise One present here in all things, and first among them, Therava and 
Sevanna." The last hope that this "binder" was something else vanished as Galina 
felt the oath settle on her, as if she suddenly wore a garment that covered her 
far too tightly from her scalp to the soles of her feet. Throwing back her head, 
she screamed. In part that was because it suddenly seemed as if the burning of 
her skin was being pressed deep into her flesh, but mainly, it was pure despair. 
"Be quiet!" Therava said sharply. "I do not want to listen to you wailing!" 
Galina's teeth clicked shut, nearly biting her tongue, and she struggled to 
swallow her sobs. Nothing but obedience was possible, now. Therava frowned at 
her. "Let us see if this truly works," she muttered, bending closer. "Have you 
planned violence against any Wise One here? Answer truthfully, and ask to be 
punished if you have. The penalty for violence against a Wise One," she added 
like an afterthought, "can be to be killed like an animal." She drew a finger 
expressively across her throat then gripped her belt knife with the same hand.
Gulping air in horrified panic, Galina shied back from the woman. She could not 
take her eyes away from Therava's, though, and she could not stop the words that 
chattered through her teeth. "I d-did, ag-g-gainst all of you! P-please p-punish 
me f-for it!" Would they kill her, now? After all of this, was she to die here?
"It seems this binder does as your friend claimed after all, Sevanna." Plucking 
the rod from Galina's limp hands, Therava tucked it behind her belt as she 
straightened. "It also seems that you will wear white after all, Galina Casban." 
For some reason, she gave a pleased smile at that. But she issued other 
commands, too. "You will behave meekly, as a gai'shain should. If a child tells 
you to jump, you will jump unless one of us has said otherwise. And you will not 
touch saidar or channel unless one of us tells you. Release the shield on her, 
Belinde."
The shield vanished, and Galina knelt there, staring hollowly. The Source shone 
just out of sight, tantalizing. And she could have sprouted wings as easily as 
she could stretch out for it.
Bracelets clattered as Sevanna shifted her shawl in anger. "You take too much on 
yourself, Therava. That is mine; give it to me!" She held out her hand, but 
Therava merely folded her arms beneath her breasts.
"There have been meetings among the Wise Ones," the stern-eyed woman told 
Sevanna. "We have reached certain decisions." The women who had come with her 
gathered behind her, all of them facing Sevanna, and Belinde hurried to join 
them.
"Without me?" Sevanna snapped. "Do any of you dare reach a decision without me?" 
Her tone remained as strong as ever, but her eyes flickered to the rod in 
Therava's belt, and Galina thought there was a touch of uneasiness there. 
Another time, she would have been delighted to see it.
"One decision had to be reached without you," Tion said in a flat voice.
"As you so often point out, you speak as the clan chief," Emerys added, a 
mocking light in her big gray eyes. "Sometimes, Wise Ones must talk without a 
clan chief listening. Or someone who speaks as a chief."
"We decided," Therava said, "that just as a clan chief must have a Wise One to 
advise him, so must you have a Wise One's advice. I will advise you."
Gathering her shawl around her, Sevanna studied the women confronting her. Her 
expression was unreadable. How did she do it? They could crush her like an egg 
beneath a hammer. "And what advice do you offer me, Therava?" she said at last 
in an icy voice.
"My strong advice is that we move without delay," Therava replied, as cool as 
Sevanna. "These Seanchan are too close and too many. We should move north into 
these Mountains of Mist and establish a hold. From there, we can send parties to 
find the other septs. It may take long to reunite the Shaido, Sevanna. Your 
wetlander friend may have scattered us to the nine corners of the world. Until 
we do that, we are vulnerable."
"We will move tomorrow." If Galina had not been sure she knew Sevanna inside and 
out, she would have thought the woman sounded petulant as well as angry. Those 
green eyes flashed. "But east. That also is away from the Seanchan, and the 
lands to the east are in turmoil, ripe for plucking."
There was a long silence, then Therava nodded. "East." She said the word softly, 
the softness of silk laid over steel. "But remember that clan chiefs have lived 
to regret rejecting a Wise One's advice too often. You may, as well." The threat 
on her face was plain as that in her voice, yet Sevanna laughed!
"You remember, Therava! All of you remember! If I am left for the vultures, so 
will you be! I have made assurance of that."
The other women exchanged worried glances, all but Therava, and Modarra and 
Norlea frowned.
Slumped on her knees, whimpering and trying in vain to soothe her skin with her 
hands, Galina found herself wondering what these threats meant. It was a small 
thought, worming its way through bitterness and self-pity. Anything she could 
use against these women would be welcome. If she dared use it. A bitter thought.
Abruptly she realized that the sky was turning dark. Billowing clouds were 
rolling down from the north, streaked gray and black, obscuring the sun. And 
beneath the clouds fell flurries of snow, swirling in the air. None reached the 
ground  --  few fell as far as the treetops  --  but Galina gaped. Snow! Had the Great 
Lord loosened his grip on the world for some reason?
The Wise Ones stared at the sky, too, mouths hanging open as if they had never 
seen clouds, much less snow.
"What is this, Galina Casban?" Therava demanded. "Speak if you know!" She did 
not look away from the sky until Galina told her it was snow, and when she did 
it was to laugh. "I always thought the men who ran down Laman Treekiller lied 
about snow. This could not hamper a mouse!"
Galina clamped her jaws shut on explaining about snowfalls, aghast that her 
instinct had been to curry favor. Aghast as well at the small pang of pleasure 
that keeping the information back gave. I am the Highest of the Red Ajah! she 
reminded herself. I sit on the Supreme Council of the Black Ajah! They sounded 
like lies. This was not fair!
"If we are done here," Sevanna said, "I will take the gai'shain back to the 
great roof and see her put in white. You can remain and stare at the snow if you 
wish." Her tone was so smooth, like butter in the tub, that no one would have 
thought her at daggers' points only moments earlier. She looped her shawl over 
her elbows and adjusted some of her necklaces; nothing in the world concerned 
her more.
"We will take care of the gai'shain" Therava told her just as smoothly. "Since 
you speak as the chief, you have a long day and most of the night ahead of you 
if we are to move tomorrow." For an instant, Sevanna's eyes flashed again, but 
Therava merely snapped her fingers and gestured sharply at Galina before turning 
to go. "Come with me," she said. "And stop pouting."
Head down, Galina scrambled to her feet and scurried after Therava and the other 
women who could channel. Pouting? She might have been scowling, but never 
pouting! Her thoughts scrabbled like rats in a cage, finding no hope of escape. 
There had to be one! There had to be! One thought that surfaced in the middle of 
that turmoil almost made her begin weeping again. Were gai'shain robes softer 
than the scratchy black wool she had been forced to wear so far? There had to be 
a way out! A hasty glance back through the trees showed Sevanna still standing 
there, glaring after them. Overhead, the clouds swirled, and the falling snow 
melted like Galina's hopes.
Chapter 12
New Alliances
Graendal wished there had been even a simple transcriber among the things she 
had removed from Illian after Sammael's death. This Age was frightful usually, 
primitive and uncomfortable. Still, some of it suited her. In a large bamboo 
cage at the far end of the room a hundred brightly plum-aged birds sang 
melodiously, almost as beautiful in their multicolored flitting as her two pets 
in transparent robes who waited on either side of the door, their gazes locked 
on her, eager to serve her pleasure. If oil lamps did not give the same light as 
glowbulbs, aided by large mirrors on the walls they produced a certain barbaric 
splendor with the gilded fish-scale ceiling. It would have been nice to need 
only speak the words, but actually putting them on paper with her own hand 
produced a pleasure akin to that she felt in sketching. The script of this Age 
was quite simple, and learning to duplicate another's style had been no more 
difficult.
Signing with a flourish  --  not her own name, of course  --  she sanded the thick 
page, then folded it and sealed it with one of the signet rings of various sizes 
that made a decorative line across the writing table. The Hand and Sword of Arad 
Doman impressed on an irregular circle of blue-and-green wax.
"Take this to Lord Ituralde with all speed," she said, "and say only what I told 
you."
"As fast as horses can carry me, my Lady." Nazran bowed as he took the letter, 
one finger stroking thin black mustaches above a winning smile. Square and 
deeply brown in a well-fitting blue coat, he was handsome; just not sufficiently 
handsome. "I received this from the Lady Tuva, who died of her wounds after 
telling me that she was a courier from Alsalam and had been attacked by a Gray 
Man."
"Make sure there is human blood on it," she admonished. She doubted anyone in 
this time could tell human blood from any other, but she had found too many 
surprises to take an unnecessary chance. "Enough for realism; not enough to 
spoil what I wrote."
His black eyes lingered warmly on her as he bowed again, but as soon as he 
straightened he hurried to the door, boots thudding on the pale yellow marble 
floor. He did not notice the servants with their eyes fixed ardently on her, or 
affected not to notice, though he had once been a friend of the young man. Only 
a touch of Compulsion had been needed to make Nazran nearly as avid to obey as 
they, not to mention certain that he might yet taste her charms again. She 
laughed softly. Well, he believed he had tasted them; just a little prettier, 
and he might have. Of course, he would have been useless for anything else then. 
He would ride horses to death reaching Ituralde, and if that message, delivered 
by Alsalam's close cousin, supposedly coming from the King himself and with Gray 
Men trying to stop it, did not satisfy the Great Lord's command to increase 
chaos, nothing would, short of balefire. And it would serve her own ends very 
nicely as well. Her own ends.
Graendal's hand went to the only ring on the table that was not a signet, a 
plain golden band too small for any but her little finger. It had been a 
pleasant surprise to find an angreal attuned to women among Sammael's 
possessions. A pleasant surprise to have time to find much of anything useful 
with al'Thor and those puppies who called themselves Asha'man constantly in and 
out of Sammael's chambers in the Great Hall of the Council. They had stripped it 
bare of what she had not taken. Dangerous puppies, all of them, especially 
al'Thor. And she had not wanted to risk anyone being able to draw a line from 
Sammael to her. Yes, she must increase the pace of her own plans, and distance 
herself from Sammael's disaster.
Abruptly a vertical slash of silver appeared at the far end of the room, bright 
against the tapestries hanging between the heavy gilded mirrors, and a 
crystalline chime rang loud. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. Someone remembered 
the courtesies of a more civilized Age, it seemed. Standing, she forced the 
plain band of gold down against the ruby ring on her smallest finger and 
embraced saidar through it before channeling the web that would sound an 
answering chime for whoever wanted to open a gateway. The angreal did not offer 
much, yet anyone who thought they knew her strength would find a shock.
The gateway opened, and two women in nearly identical red-and-black silk dresses 
stepped through warily. At least, Moghedien moved cautiously, dark eyes 
flickering in search of traps, hands smoothing her wide skirts; the gateway 
winked out after a moment, but she held on to saidar. A sensible precaution, 
though Moghedien had always been a great one for precautions. Graendal did not 
let go of the Source, either. Moghedien's companion, a short young woman with 
long silver hair and vivid blue eyes, stared about her coldly, hardly more than 
glancing in Graendal's direction. By her demeanor, she might have been a Prime 
Counselor forced to endure the company of common laborers and intent on ignoring 
their existence. A foolish girl, to imitate the Spider. Red and black did not 
suit her coloring, and she should have made better use of such an impressive 
bosom.
"This is Cyndane, Graendal," Moghedien said. "We are . . . working together." 
She did not smile when she named the haughty young woman, but Graendal did. A 
pretty name for a more than pretty girl, but what twist of fate had led some 
mother of this time to give her daughter a name that meant "Last Chance"? 
Cyndane's face remained cold and smooth, but her eyes flared. A beautiful doll 
carved from ice, with hidden fires. It seemed she knew the meaning and did not 
like it.
"What brings you and your friend, Moghedien?" Graendal asked. The Spider was the 
very last she had expected to come out from the shadows. "Have no fear of 
speaking in front of my servants." She gestured, and the pair by the door sank 
to their knees, pressed their faces to the floor. They would not quite fall dead 
by her simple command, but close.
"What interest can you find in them when you destroy anything that might make 
them interesting?" Cyndane demanded, striding arrogantly across the floor. She 
held herself very straight, striving for every hair of height. "Do you know that 
Sammael is dead?"
Graendal kept her own face smooth, with a little effort. She had supposed this 
girl some Friend of the Dark whom Moghedien had picked up to run errands, 
perhaps a noble who thought her title counted, but now that she was close . . . 
The girl was stronger in the One Power than she herself! Even in her own Age, 
that had been uncommon among men, and very rare indeed among women. On the 
instant, on instinct, she changed her intention to deny any contact with 
Sammael.
"I suspected," she replied, directing a false smile over the young woman's head 
at Moghedien. How much did she know? Where had the Spider found a girl so much 
stronger than she, and why was she traveling with her? Moghedien had always been 
jealous of anyone with more strength. Or more of anything. "He used to visit me, 
importuning my help in one mad plan or another. I never rejected him outright; 
you know Sammael is  --  was a dangerous man to reject. He appeared every few days 
without fail, and when he stopped, I assumed something dire had happened to him. 
Who is this girl, Moghedien? A remarkable find."
The young woman stepped closer, staring up at her with eyes like blue fire. "She 
told you my name. That is all you need know." The girl knew she spoke to one of 
the Chosen, and yet her tone remained frost. Even given her strength, this was 
no simple Friend of the Dark. Unless she was insane. "Have you paid attention to 
the weather, Graendal?"
Abruptly, Graendal realized that Moghedien was letting the girl do all the 
talking. Hanging back until a weakness became apparent. And Graendal had been 
letting her! "I do not suppose you came to tell me of Sammael's death, 
Moghedien," she said sharply. "Or to talk about weather. You know I seldom go 
outside." Nature was unruly, lacking order. There were not even windows in this 
room, nor in most that she used. "What do you want?" The dark-haired woman was 
edging sideways along the wall; the glow of the One Power still surrounded her. 
Graendal stepped casually so that both remained in her sight.
"You make a mistake, Graendal." A chilly smile barely curved Cyndane's full 
lips; she was enjoying this. "I lead between us. Moghedien is in a bad odor with 
Moridin for her recent mistakes."
Wrapping her arms around herself, Moghedien shot the silver-haired little woman 
a scowl as good as any spoken confirmation. Suddenly Cyndane's big eyes opened 
even wider, and she gasped, shuddering.
Moghedien's glare turned malicious. "You lead for the moment," she sneered. 
"Your place in his eyes is not far better than mine." And then she gave a start 
and shivered, biting her lip.
Was she being toyed with, Graendal wondered. The pure hatred for each other on 
the two women's faces seemed unfeigned. Either way, she would see how they 
enjoyed being played. Unconsciously rubbing her hands together, rubbing the 
angreal on her finger, she moved to a chair without taking her eyes from the 
pair. The sweetness of saidar flowing into her was a comfort. Not that she 
needed comfort, but there was something odd here. The high straight back, 
thickly carved and gilded, made the chair seem a throne, though it was no 
different from any other in the room. Such things affected even the most 
sophisticated on levels they never knew consciously.
She sat leaning back with her leg's crossed, one foot kicking idly, the picture 
of a woman at her ease, and made her voice bored. "Since you lead, child, tell 
me, when this man who calls himself Death is in his skin, who is he? What is 
he?"
"Moridin is Nae'blis." The girl's voice was calm and cold and arrogant. "The 
Great Lord has decided it is time for you to serve the Nae'blis, too."
Graendal jerked upright. "This is preposterous." She could not keep the anger 
from her voice. "A man I've never heard of has been named the Great Lord's 
Regent on Earth?" She did not mind when others tried to manipulate her  --  she 
always found a way to turn their schemes against them  --  but Moghedien must take 
her for a half-wit! She had no doubt that Moghedien was directing this obnoxious 
girl, whatever they claimed, whatever looks they stabbed at each other. "I serve 
the Great Lord and myself, no other! I think the two of you should go, now, and 
play your little game elsewhere. Demandred might be diverted by it. Or 
Semirhage? Be careful how you channel in leaving; I have set a few inverted 
webs, and you would not want to trigger one."
That was a lie, but a very believable one, so it came as a shock when Moghedien 
suddenly channeled and every lamp in the room went out, plunging them into 
darkness. Instantly Graendal flung herself from the chair so as not to be where 
they had last seen her, and she also channeled even as she moved, weaving a web 
of light that hung to one side, a sphere of pure white that cast lurid shadows 
about the room. And revealed the pair clearly. Without hesitation, she channeled 
again, drawing the full strength of the little ring. She did not need it all, or 
even most, but she wanted every advantage she could find. Attack her, would 
they! A net of Compulsion tightened on each of them before they could twitch. 
She had spun the nets strong, for anger's sake, nearly strong enough to do harm, 
and the women stood staring at her adoringly, eyes wide and mouths hanging open 
in adulation, intoxicated with worship. They were hers to command, now. If she 
told them to cut their own throats, they would. Suddenly Graendal realized that 
Moghedien was no longer embracing the Source. This much Compulsion might have 
shocked her into letting go. The servants by the door had not moved, of course.
"Now," she said a touch breathlessly, "you will answer my questions." She had a 
number, including who was this Moridin fellow, if there was such a man, and 
where had Cyndane come from, but one piqued her more than the rest. "What did 
you hope to gain by this, Moghedien? I may decide to knot those webs on you. You 
can pay for your game by serving me."
"No, please," Moghedien groaned, wringing her hands. She actually began to weep! 
"You will kill us all! Please, you must serve the Nae'blis! That is what we came 
for. To bring you to Moridin's service!" The silver-haired little woman's face 
was a shadowed mask of terror in the pale light, her bosom heaving as she gulped 
breath.
Suddenly uneasy, Graendal opened her mouth. This made less and less sense by the 
moment. She opened her mouth, and the True Source vanished. The One Power 
vanished from her, and blackness swallowed the room again. Abruptly the caged 
birds broke into a frenzy of chirruping; their wings fluttered frantically 
against the bamboo bars.
Behind her, a voice rasped like rock being ground to dust. "The Great Lord 
thought you might not take their word, Graendal. The time when you could go your 
own way has passed." A ball of . . . something . . . appeared in the air, a dead 
black globe, but a silver light filled the room. The mirrors did not shine; they 
seemed to dull in that light. The birds went still, silent; somehow, Graendal 
knew they had frozen in terror.
She gaped at the Myrddraal standing there, pale and eyeless and clothed in black 
deeper than the ball, but larger than any she had ever seen. It had to be the 
reason she could not sense the Source, but that was impossible! Except . . . 
Where had that strange sphere of black light come from if not from it? She had 
never felt the same fear others did at a Myrddraal's gaze, not to the same 
degree, yet her hands rose on their own, and she had to snatch them down to keep 
from covering her face. Glancing toward Moghedien and Cyndane, she flinched. 
They had adopted the same pose as her servants, crouching on their knees, heads 
to the floor toward the Myrddraal.
She had to work moisture into her mouth. "You are a messenger from the Great 
Lord?" Her voice was steady, but weak. She had never heard of such a thing, the 
Great Lord sending a message by Myrddraal, and yet . . . Moghedien was a 
physical coward, but still one of the Chosen, and she groveled as assiduously as 
the girl. And there was the light. Graendal found herself wishing her dress were 
not cut so low. Ridiculous, of course; Myrddraal's appetites for women were well 
known, but she was one of the . . . Her eyes drifted to Moghedien once more.
The Myrddraal strode by her sinuously, seeming not to pay her any heed. Its long 
black cloak hung undisturbed by its movements. Aginor had thought the creatures 
were not quite in the world in the same way everything else was; "slightly out 
of phase with time and reality," he had called it, whatever that meant.
"I am Shaidar Haran." Stopping by her servants, the Myrddraal bent to grip them 
by the backs of their necks, one hand to each. "When I speak, you may consider 
that you hear the voice of the Great Lord of the Dark." Those hands tightened to 
the surprisingly loud sound of cracking bone. The young man spasmed as he died, 
kicking out; the young woman merely went limp. They had been two of her 
prettiest. The Myrddraal straightened from the corpses. "I am his hand in this 
world, Graendal. When you stand before me, you stand before him."
Graendal considered carefully, if quickly. She was afraid, an emotion she was 
far more used to inspiring in others, but she knew how to control her fear. 
While she had never commanded armies as some of the others had, she was neither 
a stranger to hazard nor a coward, yet this was more than a mere threat. 
Moghedien and Cyndane still knelt with their heads to the marble floor, 
Moghedien actually trembling visibly. Graendal believed this Myrddraal. Or 
whatever it truly was. The Great Lord was taking a more direct hand in events, 
as she had feared. And if he learned of her scheming with Sammael . . . If he 
chose to take action, that was; betting that he did not know was a foolish wager 
at this point.
She knelt smoothly before the Myrddraal. "What would you have me do?" Her voice 
had regained its strength. A necessary flexibility was not cowardice; those who 
did not bend for the Great Lord were bent. Or snapped in two. "Should I call you 
Great Master, or would you prefer another title? I would not feel comfortable 
addressing even the Great Lord's hand as I would him."
Shockingly, the Myrddraal laughed. It sounded like ice crumbling. Myrddraal 
never laughed. "You are braver than most. And wiser. Shaidar Haran will do for 
you. So long as you remember who I am. So long as you do not let bravery 
overcome your fear too far."
As it issued its commands  --  a visit to this Moridin was first, it seemed; she 
would need to be on her guard against Moghedien, and perhaps Cyndane also, 
taking revenge for her brief use of Compulsion; she doubted the girl was any 
more forgiving than the Spider  --  she decided to keep to herself the letter she 
had sent to Rodel Ituralde. Nothing she was told indicated that her actions 
would be displeasing to the Great Lord, and she still had to consider her own 
position. Moridin, whoever he was, might be Nae'blis today, but there was always 
tomorrow.
 
Bracing herself against the rocking of Arilyn's coach, Cadsuane moved one of the 
leather window curtains far enough to see out. A light rain fell on Cairhien 
from a gray sky full of blustering clouds and rough, swirling winds. Not only 
the sky was full of wind. Howling gusts rocked the coach more than did its 
forward motion. Tiny droplets stung her hand, cold as ice. If the air cooled a 
little more, there would be snow. She drew her woolen cloak closer; she had been 
pleased to find it, shoved to the bottom of her saddlebags. The air would cool.
The city's steep slate roofs and stone-paved streets glistened wetly, and though 
the rain was not hard, few were willing to brave the strong winds. A woman 
guiding an ox-cart with taps of a long goad moved as patiently as her ox, but 
most people afoot clutched cloaks tightly, hoods pulled down, and stepped 
quickly as the bearers of a sedan chair rushed by, its stiff con fluttering. 
Others beside the woman and her ox saw no reason for haste, though. In the 
middle of the street a towering Aielman stood gaping at the sky in disbelief 
while the drizzle soaked him, so absorbed that a daring cutpurse sliced away his 
belt pouch and darted off unnoticed by his victim. A woman whose elaborately 
curled, high-piled hair marked her as noble walked along slowly, her cloak 
flapping wildly, and its long hood as well. This might have been the first time 
ever that she had actually walked in the streets, but she was laughing as the 
rain slicked her cheeks. From the doorway of a perfumer's shop, the shopkeeper 
stared out disconsolately; she would do little business today. Most of the 
hawkers had vanished for the same reason, but a handful still hopefully cried 
hot tea and meat pies from barrows beneath makeshift awnings. Though anyone who 
bought a meat pie in the street these days deserved the bellyache she would get.
A pair of starving dogs ran out from an alley, stiff-legged and hackles up, 
barking and snarling at the coach. Cadsuane let the curtain fall. Dogs seemed to 
know women who could channel as easily as cats did, but dogs appeared to think 
the women were cats, if unnaturally large ones. The pair of women seated across 
from her were still in conversation.
"Forgive me," Daigian was saying, "but the logic is inescapable." She ducked her 
head apologetically, making the moonstone dangling on a fine silver chain from 
her long black hair sway across her forehead. Her fingers plucked the white 
slashes in her dark skirts, and she spoke rapidly, as though afraid of being 
interrupted. "If you accept that the lingering heat was the Dark One's work, the 
change must be by some other agency. He would not have relented. You might say 
that he has decided to freeze or drown the world instead of baking it, but why? 
Had the heat continued through spring, the dead might well have outnumbered the 
living, no different than if snow falls into the summer. Therefore, logically, 
some other hand is at work." The plump woman's diffidence was trying at times, 
but as always, Cadsuane found her logic impeccable. She just wished she knew 
whose hand and to what end.
"Peace!" Kumira muttered. "I would rather an ounce of hard proof than a 
hundredweight of your White Ajah logic." She was Brown, herself, though little 
given to their usual failings. A handsome woman with short-cut hair, she was 
hardheaded and practical, a keen observer, and never lost herself so deeply in 
thought that she lost sight of the world around her as well. No sooner had 
Kumira spoken than she patted Daigian's knee with a graceful hand, and gave a 
smile that changed her blue eyes from sharp to warm. Shienarans were a polite 
people, by and large, and Kumira took care not to offend. By accident, at least. 
"Put your mind to what we can do about the sisters held by the Aiel. I know 
you'll reason out something if anyone can."
Cadsuane snorted. "They deserve whatever happens to them." She had not been 
allowed near the Aiel tents herself, nor had any of her companions, but some of 
the fools who had sworn fealty to the al'Thor boy had ventured out to the 
sprawling encampment and come back white-faced and torn between outrage and 
sicking up. Normally, she also would have been furious over the affront to Aes 
Sedai dignity, whatever the circumstances; not now. To achieve her goal, she 
would have run the entire White Tower through the streets naked. How could she 
concern herself with the discomfort of women who might have ruined everything?
Kumira opened her mouth to protest despite knowing her feelings, but Cadsuane 
went on, calm yet relentless. "Perhaps they'll weep enough to atone for the 
dog's dinner they made of matters, but I doubt it. They are out of our hands, 
and if they were in mine, I might just give them to the Aiel. Forget them, 
Daigian, and put that fine mind of yours on the track I set you."
The Cairhienin woman's pale cheeks flushed red at the compliment. Thank the 
Light she was not this way except with other sisters. Kumira sat silently, very 
smooth-faced, her hands in her lap. She might be subdued now, but little could 
subdue Kumira for long. They were exactly the pair Cadsuane wanted with her 
today.
The coach tilted as the team started up the long ramp leading to the Sun Palace. 
"Remember what I told you," she told the other two firmly. "And have a care!"
They murmured that they would, as well they might, and she nodded. If need 
demanded, she would use them both for mulch, and others too, but she did not 
intend to lose either because they grew careless.
There was no bother or delay in letting the coach through the Palace gates. The 
guards recognized Arilyn's sigil on the doors, and they knew who would be riding 
inside. That coach had been to the Palace often enough in the past week. The 
moment the horses halted, an anxious-eyed footman in unadorned black opened the 
coach door, holding out a broad flat parasol of dark oiled cloth. Rain dripped 
from the edge onto his bare head, but then, it was not intended for his shelter.
Quickly touching the ornaments dangling from the bun atop her head to be sure 
they were all there  --  she had never lost one, but that was because she was 
careful of them  --  Cadsuane gathered the handles of her square wicker sewing 
basket from beneath her seat and stepped down. Half a dozen footmen stood 
waiting behind the first, parasols at the ready. So many passengers would have 
crowded the coach beyond comfort, but the footmen were not about to be caught 
short, and the extra did not hurry away until it was plain there were only the 
three of them.
Obviously the coach had been seen coming. Dark-garbed serving men and women made 
a neat array on the deep blue and gold tiles of the great entry hall with its 
square-vaulted ceiling five spans high. They leaped forward, taking cloaks, 
offering small, warm linen towels in case anyone needed to dry face or hands, 
proffering Sea Folk porcelain goblets of mulled wine that gave off a heady scent 
of spices. A winter drink, yet the sudden drop in temperature made it suitable. 
And after all, it was winter. Finally.
Three Aes Sedai stood waiting to one side among the massive square columns of 
dark marble, in front of tall, pale friezes depicting battles no doubt important 
to Cairhien, but Cadsuane ignored the women for the time being. One of the young 
serving men had a small red-and-gold figure embroidered on the left breast of 
his coat, what people were calling a Dragon. Corgaide, the grave-faced, 
gray-haired woman who ordered the servants in the Sun Palace, wore no ornament 
save for the large ring of heavy keys at her waist. Nor did anyone else have any 
decoration on their clothes, and despite the young man's apparent enthusiasm, it 
was Corgaide, the Holder of the Keys, who would set the mood among the servants. 
Still, she had allowed the young fellow his embroidery; a point to remember. 
Cadsuane spoke to her quietly, asking after a room where she might work her 
embroidery hoop undisturbed, and the woman did not blink at the request. But 
then, doubtless she had heard stranger, serving in this place.
As the servants with the cloaks and trays bowed and curtsied themselves off, 
Cadsuane finally turned to the three sisters among the columns. They were all 
looking at her, ignoring Kumira and Daigian. Corgaide remained, but she stayed 
well back, giving the Aes Sedai privacy. "I hardly expected to find you 
strolling about at your ease," Cadsuane said. "I thought the Aiel worked their 
apprentices hard."
Faeldrin barely reacted, merely a slight jerk of her head that softly rattled 
the colored beads in her thin braids, but Merana colored with embarrassment, and 
her hands clenched in her skirts. Events had shaken Merana so deeply that 
Cadsuane was unsure she would ever recover. Bera, of course, was very nearly 
unflappable.
"Most of us were given a freeday because of the rain," Bera replied calmly. A 
sturdy woman in plain wool  --  fine and well-cut, but decidedly plain  --  you might 
have thought her more at home on a farm than in a palace. You might if you were 
a fool; Bera had a keen mind, a strong will, and Cadsuane did not believe she 
ever made the same mistake twice. Like most sisters, she had not entirely gotten 
over meeting Cadsuane Melaidhrin, alive and in the flesh, yet she did not let 
awe rule her. After only the slightest of deep breaths, she went on. "I cannot 
understand why you keep coming back, Cadsuane. Clearly, you want something from 
us, but unless you tell us what it is, we cannot help you. We know what you did 
for the Lord Dragon"  --  she stumbled a little over the title; they still were not 
quite sure what to call the boy  --  "but it's obvious you came to Cairhien because 
of him, and until you tell us why and what you intend, you must understand that 
you'll find no aid from us." Faeldrin, another Green, gave a start at Beta's 
bold tone, but she was nodding agreement before Bera finished.
"You must understand this, too," Merana added, her serenity regained. "If we 
decide we must oppose you, we will." Beta's face did not change, but Faeldrin's 
mouth tightened briefly. Perhaps she disagreed, and perhaps she did not want to 
reveal too much.
Cadsuane favored them with a thin smile. Tell them why and what? If they 
decided? So far they had managed to stuff themselves into young al'Thor's 
saddlebags tied hand and foot, even Bera. Small recommendation for letting them 
decide so much as what to wear in the morning! "I did not come to see you," she 
said. "Though I suppose Kumira and Daigian would enjoy a visit, since you have a 
freeday. You will excuse me."
Motioning Corgaide to lead on, she followed the woman across the entry hall. She 
only glanced back once. Bera and the others had already gathered up Kumira and 
Daigian and were hustling them away, but hardly like welcome guests. More like 
herded geese. Cadsuane smiled. Most sisters considered Daigian little better 
than a wilder and treated her little better than a servant. In that company, 
Kumira hardly stood much higher. The most suspicious could not think they were 
there to try to convince anyone of anything. So Daigian would pour the tea and 
sit quietly except when addressed  --  and apply her excellent mind to everything 
she heard. Kumira would let everyone except Daigian speak before her  --  and sort 
and file away every word, every gesture and grimace. Bera and the rest would 
keep their oaths to the boy, of course  --  that went without saying  --  but how 
assiduously was another question. Even Merana might be unwilling to go too far 
beyond bare obedience. That was bad enough, yet it left considerable room for 
them to maneuver. Or be maneuvered.
Dark-liveried servants hurrying at their tasks along the broad, tapestry-hung 
hallways darted aside for Cadsuane and Corgaide, and the two of them progressed 
to a flurry of deep bows and curtsies made over baskets and trays and armloads 
of towels. From the way eyes watched Corgaide, Cadsuane suspected the deference 
was as much for the Holder of the Keys as for an Aes Sedai. There were a few 
Aiel about, too, huge men like cold-eyed lions and women like colder-eyed 
leopards. Some of those gazes followed her icily enough to bring on the snow 
threatened by the rain outside, but other Aiel nodded to her gravely, and here 
and there one of the fierce-eyed women went so far as to smile. She had never 
claimed to be responsible for saving their Car'a'carn, but tales became twisted 
in retelling, and the belief granted her more respect than any other sister, and 
certainly more freedom of movement around the Palace. She wondered how they 
would feel if they knew that had she had the boy in front of her right then, she 
would have been hard-pressed to stop herself from blistering his hide for him! 
Barely more than a week since he nearly got himself killed, and not only had he 
managed to elude her completely, he had made her task even more difficult, if 
half what she heard was true. A pity he had not been raised in Far Madding. But 
then, that might have led to its own catastrophe.
The room Corgaide took her to was comfortably warm, with fires blazing in marble 
fireplaces at either end of the chamber and lamps lit, mirrored flames in glass 
towers that chased the day's gloom. Plainly Corgaide had sent orders ahead to 
prepare while she was waiting in the entry hall. A serving woman appeared almost 
as soon as they, with both hot tea and spiced wine on a tray, and small cakes 
glazed with honey.
"Will there be anything else, Aes Sedai?" Corgaide asked as Cadsuane set her 
sewing basket beside the tray on a table with edge and legs thickly gilded. 
Rigidly carved, too, as was the wide cornice, also covered with gilt. Cadsuane 
always felt she was in a golden fish weir when she visited Cairhien. Despite the 
light and warmth inside, rain dripping outside the tall narrow windows and the 
gray sky outside heightened the sensation.
"The tea will do nicely," she said. "If you will, tell Alanna Mosvani that I 
want to see her. Tell her, without delay."
Corgaide's keys jingled as she curtsied, murmuring respectfully that she would 
find "Alanna Aes Sedai" herself. Her grave expression never altered as she left. 
Very likely she was examining the request for subtleties. Cadsuane preferred to 
be direct, when possible. She had tripped up any number of clever people who had 
not believed she meant exactly what she said.
Opening the lid of her sewing basket, she took out her embroidery hoop with a 
less than half-done piece of work wrapped around it. The basket had pockets 
woven inside to hold items that had nothing to do with sewing. Her ivory hand 
mirror and hairbrush and comb, a pen case and tightly stoppered ink bottle, a 
number of things that she had found useful to have at hand over the years, 
including some that would have surprised anyone with nerve enough to search the 
basket. Not that she often left it out of her sight. Setting the polished silver 
thread box carefully on the table, she selected the skeins she needed and sat 
with her back to the door. The major image on her piece of embroidery was 
finished, a man's hand clutching the ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai. Cracks ran 
across the black-and-white disc, and there was no telling whether the hand was 
trying to hold it together or crush it. She knew what she intended, but time 
would tell what was truth.
Threading a needle, she set to work on one of the surrounding images, a bright 
red rose. Roses and starblaze and sunburst alternated with daisies and 
heartsblush and snowcap, all separated by bands of stark nettles and 
long-thorned briars. It would be a disturbing piece, when completed.
Before she had finished half a petal on the rose, a flash of motion reflected on 
the flat lid of the thread box caught her eye. It had been carefully placed to 
reflect the doorway. She did not raise her head from the hoop. Alanna stood 
there glaring at her back. Cadsuane continued the slow work of her needle, but 
she watched that reflection from the corner of her eye. Twice Alanna half turned 
as if to go, then finally drew herself up, visibly steeling herself.
"Come in, Alanna." Still not raising her head, Cadsuane pointed to a spot in 
front of her. "Stand there." She smiled wryly as Alanna jumped. There were 
advantages to being a legend; people seldom noticed the obvious when dealing 
with a legend.
Alanna stalked into the room in a swish of silk skirts and took the place 
Cadsuane had indicated, but there was a sulky twist to her mouth. "Why do you 
persist in badgering me?" she demanded. "I cannot tell you any more than I have. 
And if I could, I don't know that I would! He belongs to  -- !" She cut off 
abruptly, biting her lower lip, but she might as well have finished. The al'Thor 
boy belonged to her; her Warder. She had the gall to think that!
"I have kept your crime to myself," Cadsuane said quietly, "but only because I 
saw no reason to complicate matters." Lifting her eyes to the other woman, she 
kept her voice soft. "If you think that means I won't core you like a cabbage, 
think again."
Alanna stiffened. The light of saidar suddenly shone around her.
"If you wish to be truly foolish." Cadsuane smiled, a cold smile. She made no 
move to embrace the Source herself. One of her dangling hair ornaments, 
intertwined golden crescents, was cool on her temple. "You keep a whole hide at 
present, but my sufferance is not infinite. In fact, it dangles by a thread."
Alanna struggled with herself, unconsciously smoothing blue silk. Abruptly the 
glow of the Power winked out, and she turned her head away from Cadsuane so 
swiftly that her long black hair swung. "I don't know any more to tell." The 
sullen words rushed out of her breathily. "He was injured, and then not, but I 
don't think a sister Healed him. The wounds no one could Heal are still there. 
He leaps about, Traveling, but he's still in the south. Somewhere in Illian, I 
think, but at this distance, he could be in Tear for all I know. He's full of 
rage, and pain, and suspicion. There isn't any more, Cadsuane. There isn't!"
Careful of the silver pitcher's heat, Cadsuane poured a cup of tea, testing the 
thin green porcelain cup for warmth. As might have been expected in silver, the 
tea had cooled quickly. Channeling briefly, she heated it again. The dark tea 
tasted too much of mint; Cairhienin used mint entirely too freely in her 
opinion. She did not offer a cup to Alanna. Traveling. How could the boy have 
rediscovered what had been lost to the White Tower since the Breaking? "You will 
keep me fully informed, however, won't you, Alanna." That was not a question. 
"Look at me, woman! If you dream of him, I want every detail!"
Unshed tears glistened in Alanna's eyes. "In my place, you would have done the 
same!"
Cadsuane scowled over the cup at her. She might have. There was no difference 
between what Alanna had done and a man forcing himself on a woman, but, the 
Light help her, she might have, had she believed it would help her reach her 
goal. Now, she no longer considered even making Alanna pass the bond to her. 
Alanna had proved how useless that was in controlling him.
"Do not keep me waiting, Alanna," she said in an icy tone. She had no sympathy 
for the other woman. Alanna was another in a line of sisters, from Moiraine to 
Elaida, who had bungled and worsened what they should have been mending. While 
she herself had been off chasing first Logain Ablar and then Mazrim Taim. Which 
did not soothe her mood.
"I will keep you fully informed," Alanna sighed, pouting like a girl. Cadsuane 
itched to slap her. Alanna had worn the shawl almost forty years; she should 
have grown up more than this. Of course, she was Arafellin. In Far Madding, few 
girls of twenty sulked and pouted as much as an Arafellin could on her aged 
deathbed.
Abruptly, Alanna's eyes widened in alarm, and Cadsuane saw another face 
reflected in the lid of her thread box. Setting the cup back on the tray and her 
embroidery hoop on the table, Cadsuane stood and turned to the door. She did not 
hurry, but she did not dally or play games as she had with Alanna, either.
"Are you done with her, Aes Sedai?" Sorilea asked, stepping into the room. The 
leathery, white-haired Wise One spoke to Cadsuane, but her eyes remained on 
Alanna. Ivory and gold clicked softly at her wrists as she planted hands on her 
hips, and her dark shawl slid to her elbows.
When Cadsuane said that she was indeed done, Sorilea gestured curtly to Alanna, 
who stalked from the room. Flounced might have been a better word, with sullen 
irritation on her face. Sorilea frowned after her. Cadsuane had encountered the 
woman before, and interesting encounters they had been, if brief. She had not 
met many people she considered formidable, but Sorilea was one. Perhaps even a 
match for herself, in some ways. She also suspected the woman was as old as she 
was, maybe older, and that, she had never expected to find.
No sooner had Alanna vanished than Kiruna appeared in the doorway, kicking gray 
silk skirts in her hurry and peering down the hall in the direction Alanna had 
gone. And carrying an intricately worked golden tray that held an even more 
elaborate golden pitcher with a high neck, and, incongruously, two small, 
white-glazed pottery cups. "Why is Alanna running?" she said. "I would have been 
faster, Sorilea, but  --  " She saw Cadsuane then, and her cheeks went the deepest 
possible crimson. Embarrassment looked quite odd on the statuesque woman.
"Put the tray on the table, girl," Sorilea said, "and go to Chaelin. She will be 
waiting to give you your lessons."
Stiffly, Kiruna set her burden down, avoiding Cadsuane's eyes. As she turned to 
go, Sorilea caught her chin in sinewy fingers. "You have begun to make a true 
effort, girl," the Wise One told her firmly. "If you continue, you will do very 
well. Very well. Now, go. Chaelin is not as patient as I."
Sorilea waved toward the corridor, but Kiruna stood staring at her for a long 
moment, a strange expression on her face. If Cadsuane had had to make a wager, 
she would have called Kiruna pleased at the praise and surprised at being 
pleased. The white-haired woman opened her mouth, and Kiruna gave herself a 
shake and hurried from the room. A remarkable show.
"Do you really think she will learn your ways of weaving saidar?" Cadsuane 
asked, hiding her incredulity. Kiruna and the others had told her of these 
lessons, but many of the Wise Ones' weaves were very different from those taught 
in the White Tower. The first way you learned the weave for a particular thing 
imprinted itself on you; learning a second was all but impossible, and even when 
you could learn, the second-learned weave almost never worked nearly as well. 
That was one reason some sisters did not welcome wilders to the Tower at any 
age; too much might have been learned already, and could not be unlearned.
Sorilea shrugged. "Perhaps. Learning a second way is hard enough without all the 
hand-waving you Aes Sedai do. The main thing Kiruna Nachiman must learn is that 
she owns her pride; it does not own her. She will be a very strong woman once 
she learns that." Pulling a chair around to face the one Cadsuane had been 
sitting in, she eyed it doubtfully, then sat down. She appeared almost as stiff 
and uncomfortable as Kiruna had, but she motioned authoritatively for Cadsuane 
to sit, a strong-willed woman used to command.
Cadsuane swallowed a rueful chuckle as she took her chair. It was well to be 
reminded that, wilders or not, the Wise Ones were far from ignorant savages. Of 
course they would know the difficulties. As for hand-waving . . . Few had 
channeled where she could see, but she had noticed that they created some weaves 
without the gestures that sisters used. The hand movements were not truly part 
of the weave, but in a way they were, because they had been part of learning the 
weave. Perhaps, once, there had been Aes Sedai who could, say, hurl a ball of 
fire without some sort of throwing motion, but if so, they were long dead, and 
their teachings with them. Today, some things just could not be done without the 
appropriate gestures. There were sisters who claimed they could tell who had 
taught another sister by which motions she used for which weaves.
"Teaching any of our new apprentices anything has been difficult at best," 
Sorilea went on. "I do not speak to offend, but you Aes Sedai give oath, it 
seems, and immediately try to find a way around it. Alanna Mosvani is 
particularly difficult." Suddenly her clear green eyes were very sharp on 
Cadsuane's face. "How can we punish her willful failings if it means harming the 
Car'a'carn'?"
Cadsuane folded her hands in her lap. Masking surprise was not easy. So much for 
the secret of Alanna's crime. But why had the woman let her know that she knew? 
Perhaps one revelation called for another. "The bond does not work in that 
fashion," she said. "If you kill her, he will die, then or soon after. Short of 
that, he will be aware of what happens to her, but he will not really feel it. 
As far away as he is now, he will only be vaguely aware, at that."
Sorilea nodded slowly. Her fingers touched the golden tray on the table, then 
came away. Her expression was as hard to read as the face of a statue, but 
Cadsuane suspected that Alanna would find an unpleasant surprise the next time 
she let her temper flare, or threw one of her Arafellin sulks. That was 
unimportant, though. Only the boy was important.
"Most men will take what is offered, if it seems attractive and pleasant," 
Sorilea said. "Once, we thought of Rand al'Thor so. Unfortunately, it is too 
late to change the path we walk. Now, he suspects whatever is offered freely. 
Now, if I wanted him to accept something, I would pretend I did not want him to 
have it. If I wanted to stay close to him, I would pretend indifference to 
whether I ever saw him again." Once more, those eyes focused on Cadsuane, green 
augers. Not trying to see what lay inside her head. The woman knew. Some, at 
least. Enough, or too much.
Still, Cadsuane felt a rising thrill of possibility. If she had had any doubts 
that Sorilea wanted to feel her out, they were gone. And you did not feel out 
someone in this manner unless you hoped for some agreement. "Do you believe a 
man must be hard?" she asked. She was taking a chance. "Or strong?" By her tone, 
she left no doubt she saw a difference.
Again Sorilea touched the tray; the smallest of smiles might have quirked her 
lips for an instant. Or not. "Most men see the two as one and the same, Cadsuane 
Melaidhrin. Strong endures; hard shatters."
Cadsuane drew breath. A chance she would have scoured anyone else for taking. 
But she was not anyone else, and sometimes chances had to be taken. "The boy 
confuses them," she said. "He needs to be strong, and makes himself harder. Too 
hard, already, and he will not stop until he is stopped. He has forgotten how to 
laugh except in bitterness; there are no tears left in him. Unless he finds 
laughter and tears again, the world faces disaster. He must learn that even the 
Dragon Reborn is flesh. If he goes to Tarmon Gai'don as he is, even his victory 
may be as dark as his defeat."
Sorilea listened intently, and kept silent even after Cadsuane finished. Those 
green eyes studied her. "Your Dragon Reborn and your Last Battle are not in our 
prophecies," Sorilea said at last. "We have tried to make Rand al'Thor know his 
blood, but I fear he sees us as only another spear. If one spear breaks in your 
hand, you do not pause to mourn before taking up another. Perhaps you and I aim 
at targets not too far apart."
"Perhaps we do," Cadsuane said cautiously. Targets even a hand apart might be 
not at all alike.
Abruptly, the glow of saidar surrounded the leather-faced woman. She was weak 
enough to make Daigian look at least moderately strong. But then, Sorilea's 
strength did not lie in the Power. "There is a thing you may find useful," she 
said. "I cannot make it work, but I can weave the flows to show you." She did 
just that, laying feeble skeins that fell into place and melted, too poor to do 
what they were intended for. "It is called Traveling," Sorilea said.
This time, Cadsuane's jaw dropped. Alanna and Kiruna and the rest denied 
teaching the Wise Ones how to link, or a number of other skills they suddenly 
seemed to have, and Cadsuane had assumed the Aiel had managed to wring them out 
of the sisters held in the tents. But this was . . . 
Impossible, she would have said, yet she did not believe Sorilea was lying. She 
could hardly wait to try the weave herself. Not that it was of much use 
immediately. Even if she knew exactly where the wretched boy was, she had to 
make him come to her. Sorilea was right about that. "A very great gift," she 
said slowly. "I have nothing I can give you to compare."
This time, there was no doubt of the brief smile that flashed across Sorilea's 
lips. She knew very well that Cadsuane was in her debt. Taking up the heavy 
golden pitcher with both hands, she carefully filled the small white cups. With 
plain water. She did not spill a drop.
"I offer you water oath," she said solemnly, picking up one of the cups. "By 
this, we are bound as one, to teach Rand al'Thor laughter and tears." She 
sipped, and Cadsuane imitated her.
"We are bound as one." And if their targets turned out not to be the same at 
all? She did not underestimate Sorilea as ally or opponent, but Cadsuane knew 
which target had to be struck, at any cost.
Chapter 13
Floating Like Snow 
The northern horizon was purple with the fierce rain that had hammered the east 
of Illian through the night. Overhead, a morning sky of dark boiling clouds 
threatened, and strong winds flung cloaks about, made banners snap and crack 
like whips on the crest of the ridge, the white Dragon Banner and the crimson 
Banner of Light, and the bright standards of nobility from Illian and Cairhien 
and Tear. The nobles kept to their own kind, three widely spaced knots awash in 
gilt and silver-plated steel, silks and velvets and laces, but in common they 
looked around uneasily. Even the best-trained of their horses tossed heads and 
stamped hooves on the muddy ground. The wind was cold, and colder seeming for 
the heat it had replaced so abruptly, just as the rain had been a shock after so 
long without. From whatever nation, they had prayed for the baking drought to 
break, but none knew what to make of unrelenting storms in answer to their 
prayers. Some glanced at Rand when they thought he would not notice. Perhaps 
wondering if he had answered them so. The thought made him laugh softly, 
bitterly.
He patted his black gelding's neck with a leather-gauntleted hand, glad that 
Tai'daishar did not show nerves. The massive animal might have been a statue, 
awaiting the pressure of reins or knees to move. It was good that the Dragon 
Reborn's horse seemed as cold as he did, as though they floated in the Void 
together. Even with the One Power raging through him, fire and ice and death, he 
was barely aware of the wind, though it flailed his gold-embroidered cloak about 
and cut through his coat, green silk thickly worked with gold and not intended 
for wear in such weather. The wounds in his side ached and throbbed, the old and 
the new cutting across it, the wounds that would never heal, but that was 
distant, too, another man's flesh. The Crown of Swords might have been pricking 
someone else's temples with the sharp points of the tiny blades among its golden 
laurel leaves. Even the filth woven through saidin seemed less obtrusive than it 
once had; still vile, still loathsome, but no longer worth notice. The nobles' 
eyes on his back were palpable, though.
Shifting his sword hilt, he leaned forward. He could see the tight cluster of 
low, wooded hills half a mile to the east as clearly as if he were using a 
looking glass. The land was flat, here, the only prominences those forested 
hills and this long ridge, thrusting up from the heath. The next thicket dense 
enough to truly deserve the name lay close to ten miles off. Only storm-battered 
half-leafless trees and tangles of undergrowth were visible on the hills, but he 
knew what they hid. Two, perhaps three thousand of the men Sammael had gathered 
to try to stop him from taking Illian.
That army had disintegrated once they learned that the man who had summoned them 
was dead, that Mattin Stepaneos had vanished, perhaps into the grave as well, 
and that there was a new king in Illian. Many had scattered back to their homes, 
yet just as many clung together. Usually no more than twenty here, thirty there, 
but a great army if they came together again, and countless armed bands 
otherwise. Either way, they could not be allowed to roam the countryside. Time 
weighed down on his shoulders like lead. There was never enough time, but maybe 
this once . . . Fire and ice and death.
What would you do? he thought. Are you there? And then, doubtfully, hating the 
doubt, Were you ever there? Silence answered, deep and dead in the emptiness 
that surrounded him. Or was there mad laughter somewhere in the recesses of his 
mind?
Did he imagine it, like the feel of someone looking over his shoulder, someone 
just on the brink of touching his back? Or the colors that swirled just out of 
sight, more than colors, and were gone? A thing of madmen. His gloved thumb slid 
along the carvings that serpentined the Dragon Scepter. The long green-and-white 
tassels below the polished spearpoint fluttered in the wind. Fire and ice, and 
death would come.
"I will go talk to them myself," he announced. Which produced a furor.
Lord Gregorin, the green sash of the Council of Nine slanted across his ornately 
gilded breastplate, hurried his fine-ankled white gelding forward from the 
Illianers, followed closely by Demetre Marcolin, First Captain of the 
Companions, on a solid bay. Marcolin was the only man among them without silk or 
a speck of lace, the only man in plain if brightly burnished armor, though the 
conical helmet resting on his saddle's high pommel did bear three thin golden 
plumes. Lord Marac lifted his reins, then let them fall uncertainly when he saw 
no others of the Nine move. A wide man with a stolid manner, and new to the 
Council, he often seemed more craftsman than lord despite the rich silks beneath 
his lavish armor and the falls of lace spilling over. High Lords Weiramon and 
Tolmeran spurred together from the Tairens, as crusted with gold and silver as 
any of the Nine, and Rosana, newly raised to High Lady and wearing a breastplate 
worked with the Hawk-and-Stars of her House. There, too, others half made as if 
to follow then hung back, looking worried. Blade-slender Aracome and blue-eyed 
Maraconn and bald-headed Gueyam were dead men; they did not know that, but 
however much they wanted to be at the center of power, they feared Rand would 
kill them. Only Lord Semaradrid came from the Cairhienin, on a gray that had 
seen better days, his armor battered, its gilding chipped. His face was gaunt 
and hard, the front of his head shaved and powdered like a common soldier, and 
his dark eyes shone with contempt for the taller Tairens.
There was plenty of contempt to go around. Tairens and Cairhienin hated one 
another. Illianers and Tairens despised each other. Only Cairhienin and 
Illianers got along to any degree, and there was a certain amount of prickle 
even there. Their two nations might not have near the long history of bad blood 
shared by Tear and Illian, yet the Cairhienin still were foreigners, armed and 
armored on Illian's soil, welcomed halfheartedly at best and only that much 
because they followed Rand. But despite all the frowning and bristling and 
trying to talk at once as they milled about Rand in a flurry of windblown 
cloaks, they had a common goal now. After a fashion.
"Majesty," Gregorin said hastily, bowing in his gold-tooled saddle, "I do beg 
you let me go in your stead, or First Captain Marcolin." The square-cut beard 
that left his upper lip bare framed a round face creased with worry. "These men 
must know you are King  --  the proclamations do be read in every village, at every 
crossroads, as we do speak  --  yet they may no show proper respect for your 
crown." Lantern-jawed Marcolin, clean-shaven, studied Rand with dark, deep-set 
eyes, giving no hint what lay behind his impassive face. The Companions' loyalty 
was to the crown of Illian, and Marcolin was old enough to remember when Tarn 
al'Thor had been Second Captain over him, but only he knew what he thought of 
Rand al'Thor as King.
"My Lord Dragon," Weiramon intoned as he made his bow, not waiting for Gregorin 
to finish. The man always intoned, and even on horseback he seemed to strut. His 
worked velvets and striped silks and falls of lace almost overwhelmed his armor, 
and his pointed gray beard gave off a flowery scent of perfumed oils. "This 
rabble is too petty to concern the Lord Dragon personally. Set dogs to catch 
dogs, I say. Let the Illianers root them out. Burn my soul, they've done nothing 
so far to serve you but talk." Trust him to turn agreement with Gregorin into an 
insult. Tolmeran was lean enough to make Weiramon appear bulky and somber enough 
to dim the luster of his garb; he was no fool, and rival to Weiramon besides, 
yet he nodded slowly in agreement. No love lost there for Illianers, at all.
Semaradrid curled a lip at the Tairens but addressed himself to Rand, cutting in 
hard on Weiramon's heels. "This gathering is ten times as large any other we 
have found so far, my Lord Dragon." He cared nothing for the King of Illian, and 
little enough for the Dragon Reborn, except that the throne of Cairhien was 
Rand's to give, and Semaradrid hoped it would be given to one he could follow 
instead of fight. "Their loyalties must be to Brend, or so many would not have 
held together. I fear talking to them is a waste of time, but if you must talk, 
let me ring their position openly with steel so they know the price of putting a 
foot out of line."
Rosana glared right back at Semaradrid, a lean woman, not tall yet nearly as 
tall as he, with eyes like blue ice. She did not wait for him to finish, either, 
and she, too, spoke to Rand. "I've come too far and invested too much in you to 
see you die now, for nothing," she said bluntly. No more a fool than Tolmeran, 
Rosana had claimed a place in the councils of the High Lords, though Tairen High 
Ladies seldom did, and blunt was the word for her. Despite the armor most of the 
noblewomen wore, none actually led their armsmen into battle, yet Rosana carried 
a flanged mace on her saddle, and sometimes Rand thought she would like a chance 
to use it. "I doubt those Illianers lack for bows," she said, "and it takes only 
one arrow to kill even the Dragon Reborn." Pursing his lips thoughtfully, 
Marcolin nodded before catching himself, then exchanged startled looks with 
Rosana, each more surprised than the other to find themselves of like mind with 
an ancient enemy.
"These peasants could never have found the mettle to stay under arms without 
encouragement," Weiramon continued smoothly, ignoring Rosana. He was skilled at 
ignoring who, and what, he did not want to see or hear. He was a fool. "May I 
suggest my Lord Dragon look to these so-called Nine for the source?"
"I do protest this Tairen pig's insults, Majesty!" Gregorin growled right atop 
him, one hand darting to his sword. "I do protest most heartily!"
"There are too many this time," Semaradrid said at the same instant. "Most will 
turn against you as soon as your back is to them in any case." By his pointed 
frown, he might have been speaking of the Tairens as well as the men on the 
wooded hills. Perhaps he was. "Better to kill them and be done!"
"Did I ask for opinions?" Rand snapped harshly. Babble became silence, except 
for the crack of cloaks and banners flapping in the wind. Suddenly 
expressionless faces regarded him, more than one going gray. They did not know 
he held the Power, but they knew him. Not all of what they knew was truth, but 
it was just as well they believed. "You will come with me, Gregorin," he said in 
a more normal voice. Still hard, though. Steel was all they understood; go soft, 
and they would turn on him. "And you, Marcolin. The rest stay here. Dashiva! 
Hopwil!"
Everyone not named reined their horses back hurriedly as the two Asha'man rode 
to join Rand, and the Illianers eyed the black-coated men as though they would 
have liked to remain behind, too. Aside from anything else, Corlan Dashiva was 
glowering and muttering under his breath as he so often did. Everyone was aware 
that saidin drove men mad sooner or later, and plain-faced Dashiva certainly 
looked the part, lank untrimmed hair flying in the wind, licking his lips and 
shaking his head. For that matter, Eben Hopwil, just sixteen and still with a 
few scattered blotches on his cheeks, wore a staring frown that gazed beyond 
anything in sight. At least Rand knew the why of that.
As the Asha'man drew near, Rand could not help cocking his head to listen, 
though what he listened for was inside his head. Alanna was there, of course; 
neither the Void nor the Power altered that a whisker. Distance wore that 
awareness down to just that  --  awareness that she existed, somewhere far to the 
north  --  yet there was something more today, something he had felt several times 
recently, dim and barely on the edge of notice. A whisper of shock, perhaps, or 
outrage, a breath of something sharp he could not quite grasp. She must feel 
whatever it was very strongly for him to be even that conscious of it at this 
distance. Maybe she was missing him. A wry thought. He did not miss her. 
Ignoring Alanna was easier than it had been once. She was there, but not the 
voice that used to shout of death and killing whenever an Asha'man came into 
sight. Lews Therin was gone. Unless that feel of someone staring at the back of 
his head, brushing his shoulder blades with a finger, was him. Was there a 
madman's hoarse laughter deep in his thoughts? Or was it his own? The man had 
been there! He had!
He became aware of Marcolin staring at him, and Gregorin trying very hard not 
to. "Not yet," he told them wryly, and almost laughed when they clearly 
understood right away. Relief was too plain on their faces for anything else. He 
was not insane. Yet. "Come," he told them, and started Tai'daishar down the 
slope at a trot. Despite the men following, he felt alone. Despite the Power, he 
felt empty.
Between the ridge and the hills lay patches of thick scrub and long stretches of 
dead grass, a glistening mat of brown and yellow beaten flat by the rain. Only a 
few days ago the ground had been so parched that he had thought it could drink a 
river without changing. Then the torrents came, sent by the Creator finding 
mercy at last, or maybe by the Dark One in a fit of black humor; he did not know 
which. Now the horses' hooves splashed mud at every second step. He hoped this 
did not take long. He had some time, by what Hopwil had reported, but not 
forever. Perhaps weeks, if he was lucky. He needed months. Light, he needed 
years he would never have!
His hearing heightened by the Power, he could make out some of what the men 
behind him were saying. Gregorin and Marcolin rode knee-to-knee, trying to hold 
their cloaks against the wind and speaking in low tones about the men ahead, 
about their fears the men might fight. Neither doubted they would be crushed if 
they resisted, but they feared the effect on Rand, and his on Illian, if 
Illianers fought him now that Brend was dead. They still could not bring 
themselves to give Brend his true name, Sammael. The very notion that one of the 
Forsaken had ruled in Illian frightened them even more than the fact that the 
Dragon Reborn ruled there now.
Dashiva, slumped in his gray's saddle like a man who had never seen a horse 
before, muttered angrily under his breath. In the Old Tongue, which he spoke and 
read as fluently as a scholar. Rand knew a little, though not enough to 
understand what the fellow was mumbling. Probably complaints about the weather; 
despite being a farmer, Dashiva disliked being out-of-doors unless the skies 
were clear.
Only Hopwil rode in silence, frowning at something beyond the horizon, his hair 
and cloak whipping about as wildly as Dashiva's. Now and then he clutched the 
hilt of his sword unconsciously. Rand had to speak three times, the last 
sharply, before Hopwil gave a surprised jerk and booted his lanky dun up beside 
Tai'daishar.
Rand studied him. The young man  --  not a boy any longer, no matter his age  --  had 
filled out since Rand first saw him, though his nose and ears still seemed made 
for a bigger man. A Dragon, red-enameled gold, now balanced the silver Sword on 
his high collar, just like Dashiva's. Once, he had said he would laugh a year 
for joy when the Dragon was his, but he stared unblinking at Rand as though 
looking through him.
"What you learned was good news," Rand told him. Only an effort kept him from 
trying to crush the Dragon Scepter in his fist. "You did well." He had expected 
the Seanchan to return, but not so soon. He had hoped not so soon. And not 
leaping out of nowhere, swallowing cities at a gulp. When he found out that 
merchants in Illian had known for days before any of them thought to inform the 
Nine  --  the Light forbid they should lose a chance at profit because too many 
knew too much!  --  he had been within a hair of scouring the city to its 
foundations. But the news was good, or as good as it could be in the 
circumstances. Hopwil had Traveled to Amador, to the countryside nearby, and the 
Seanchan appeared to be waiting. Perhaps digesting what they had consumed. The 
Light send they choked on it! He forced his grip to loosen on the length of 
Dragon-carved spearhead. "If Morr brings half as good, I have time to settle 
Illian before dealing with them." Ebou Dar, as well! The Light burn the 
Seanchan! They were a distraction, one he did not need and could not afford to 
ignore.
Hopwil said nothing, only looked.
"Are you upset because you had to kill women?" Desora, of the Musara Reyn, and 
Lamelle, of the Smoke Water Miagoma, and . . . Rand forced down the instinctive 
litany even as it began floating across the Void. New names had appeared on that 
list, names he did not remember adding. Laigin Arnault, a Red sister who had 
died trying to take him a prisoner to Tar Valon. Surely she had no right to a 
place, but she had claimed one. Colavaere Saighan, who had hanged herself rather 
than accept justice. Others. Men had died in thousands, by his order or by his 
hand, but it was the faces of the women that haunted his dreams. Each night, he 
made himself confront their silently accusing eyes. Maybe it was their eyes he 
had felt of late.
"I told you about damane and sul'dam" he said calmly, but inside of him, rage 
flared, fire spiderwebbing around the emptiness of the Void. The Light burn me, 
I've killed more women than all your nightmares could hold! My hands are black 
with the blood of women! "If you hadn't wiped out that Seanchan patrol, they'd 
have killed you for sure." He did not say that Hopwil should have avoided them, 
avoided the need to kill them. Too late for that. "I doubt that damane even knew 
how to shield a man. You had no choice." And better they were all dead than some 
escaping with word of a man who could channel, scouting them.
Absently, Hopwil touched his left sleeve, where the black color disguised 
fire-scarred wool. The Seanchan had not died easily or fast, "I piled the bodies 
in a hollow," he said in a flat voice. "The horses, everything. I burned it all 
to ash. White ash that floated in the wind like snow. It didn't bother me at 
all."
Rand heard the lie on the man's tongue, but Hopwil had to learn. After all, he 
had. They were what they were, and that was all there was to it. All there was. 
Liah, of the Cosaida Chareen, a name written in fire. Moiraine Damodred, another 
name that seared to the soul rather than merely burning. A nameless Dark-friend, 
represented only by a face, who had died by his sword near . . . 
"Majesty," Gregorin said loudly, pointing ahead. A lone man came out of the 
trees at the foot of the nearest hill to stand waiting in an attitude of 
defiance. He carried a bow, and wore a pointed steel cap and a belted mail shirt 
that hung nearly to his knees.
Rand spurred Tai'daishar to meet him seething with the Power. Saidin could 
protect him from men.
Up close, the bowman did not make so brave a sight. Rust streaked his helmet and 
mail, and he looked sodden, mud to his thighs, damp hair trailing down a narrow 
face. Coughing hollowly, he scrubbed at a long nose with the back of his hand. 
His bowstring appeared taut, though; that, he had protected from the rain. And 
the fletchings on the arrows in his quiver looked dry, too.
"Are you the leader here?" Rand demanded.
"You might say I do speak for him," the narrow-faced man replied warily. "Why?" 
As the others galloped up behind Rand, he shifted his feet, dark eyes like a 
cornered badger's. Badgers were dangerous, cornered.
"Watch your tongue, man!" Gregorin snapped. "You do speak to Rand al'Thor, the 
Dragon Reborn, Lord of the Morning and King of Illian! Kneel to your King! What 
do your name be?"
"He do be the Dragon Reborn?" the fellow said doubtfully. Eyeing Rand from the 
crown on his head to his boots, lingering a moment on the gilded Dragon buckling 
his sword belt, the man shook his head as if he had expected someone older, or 
grander. "And Lord of the Morning, you do say? Our King did never style himself 
so." He made no move toward kneeling, or giving his name. Gregorin's face 
darkened at the man's tone, and maybe at the man's oblique denial of Rand as 
King. Marcolin gave a slight nod, as though he had expected no more.
Damp rustlings stirred in the undergrowth among the trees. Rand heard easily, 
and abruptly he felt saidin fill Hopwil. No longer staring at nothing, Hopwil 
studied the woodline intently, a wild light in his eyes. Dashiva, silent, raking 
dark hair out of his face, looked bored. Leaning forward in his saddle, Gregorin 
opened his mouth angrily. Fire and ice, but not yet death.
"Peace, Gregorin." Rand did not raise his voice, but he wove flows to carry his 
words, Air and Fire, so they boomed against the wall of trees. "My offer is 
generous." The long-nosed man staggered at the sound, and Gregorin's horse 
shied. Those hidden men would hear clearly. "Lay down your arms, and those who 
want to return home, can. Those who want to follow me instead, can do that. But 
no man leaves here under arms unless he does follow me. I know most of you are 
good men, who answered the call of your King and the Council of Nine to defend 
Illian, but I am your King, now, and I'll not have anyone tempted to turn 
bandit." Marcolin nodded grimly.
"What about your Dragonsworn burning farms?" a man's frightened voice shouted 
from the trees. "They do be flaming bandits!"
"What about your Aiel?" another called. "I do hear they carry off whole 
villages!" More voices from unseen men joined in, all shouting the same things, 
Dragonsworn and Aiel, murderous brigands and savages. Rand ground his teeth.
When the shouting faded, narrow-face said, "You do see?" He paused to cough, 
then hawked and spat, maybe for his chest and maybe for emphasis. A pitiful 
sight, all wet and rust, but his backbone was as tight as his bowstring. He 
ignored Rand's glare as easily as he did Gregorin's. "You do ask us to go home 
unarmed, unable to defend ourselves or our families, while your people do burn 
and steal and kill. They do say the storm be coming," he added, and looked 
surprised that he had, surprised and confused for a moment.
"The Aiel you've heard about are my enemies!" Not spider-webs of flame this 
time, but solid sheets of fury that wrapped tight around the Void. Rand's voice 
was ice, though; it roared like the crack of winter. The storm was coming? 
Light, he was the storm! "My Aiel are hunting them down. My Aiel hunt the 
Shaido, and they and Davram Bashere and most of the Companions hunt bandits, 
whatever they call themselves! I am the King of Illian, and I will allow no one 
to disrupt the peace of Illian!"
"Even if what you say do be true," narrow-face began.
"It is!" Rand snapped. "You have until midday to decide." The man frowned 
uncertainly; unless the roiling clouds cleared, he might have a difficult time 
knowing midday. Rand gave him no relief. "Decide wisely!" he said. Whirling 
Tai'daishar about, he spurred the gelding to a gallop back toward the ridge 
without waiting for the others.
Reluctantly he let go of the Power, forced himself not to hang on like a man 
clutching salvation with his fingernails as life and filth drained from him 
together. For an instant, he saw double; the world seemed to tilt dizzily. That 
was a recent problem, and he worried it might be part of the sickness that 
killed men who channeled, but the dizziness never lasted more than moments. It 
was the rest of letting go that he regretted. The world seemed to dull. No, it 
did dull, and became somehow less. Colors were washed-out, the sky smaller, 
compared to what they had been before. He wanted desperately to seize the Source 
again and wring the One Power out of it. Always it was so when the Power left 
him.
No sooner had saidin gone, though, than rage bubbled in its place, white-hot and 
searing, nearly as hot as the Power had been. The Seanchan were not enough, and 
brigands hiding behind his name? Deadly distractions he could not afford. Was 
Sammael reaching out from the grave? Had he sown the Shaido to sprout like 
thorns wherever Rand laid a hand? Why? The man could not have believed he would 
die. And if half the tales Rand heard were true, there were more in Murandy and 
Altara and the Light alone knew where! Many among the Shaido already taken 
prisoner had spoken of an Aes Sedai. Could the White Tower be involved somehow? 
Would the White Tower never give him peace? Never? Never.
Battling fury, he was blind to Gregorin and the rest catching up. When they 
topped the ridge among the waiting nobles, he drew rein so abruptly that 
Tai'daishar reared, pawing the air and flinging mud from his hooves. The nobles 
edged their mounts back, from his gelding, from him.
"I gave them to midday," he announced. "Watch them. I don't want this lot 
breaking into fifty smaller bands and slipping away. I'll be in my tent." Except 
for wind-tossed cloaks they might have been stone, rooted to one spot as if he 
meant the command to watch for them personally. At that moment, he did not care 
if they stayed there till they froze or melted.
Without another word he trotted down the back slope of the ridge, followed by 
the two black-coated Asha'man and his Illianer banner-bearers. Fire and ice, and 
death was coming. But he was steel. He was steel.
Chapter 14
Message from the M'Hael
A mile west of the ridge, the camps began, men and horses and cook fires, 
wind-flailed banners and a few scattered tents clumped by nationality, by House, 
each camp a lake of churned mud separated from the others by stretches of brushy 
heath. Men mounted and afoot watched Rand's streaming banners pass, and peered 
toward other camps to gauge reactions. When the Aiel had been present, these men 
had made a single huge camp, driven together by one of the few things they truly 
shared in common. They were not Aiel, and feared them however much they denied 
it. The world would die unless he succeeded, but he had no illusions that they 
shared any loyalty to him, or even believed that the fate of the world could not 
be made to accommodate their own concerns, their own desires for gold or glory 
or power. A handful did, perhaps, a bare handful, but for the most part, they 
followed because they feared him far more than they did the Aiel. Maybe more 
than they did the Dark One, in whom some did not really believe, not in the 
depths of their hearts, not that he could and would touch the world harder than 
he had already. Rand stood before their faces, and they believed in that. He 
accepted it, now. He had too many battles ahead of him to waste effort on one he 
could not win. So long as they followed and obeyed, it had to be enough.
The largest of the camps was his own, and here Illianer Companions in green 
coats with yellow cuffs rubbed shoulders with Tairen Defenders of the Stone in 
fat-sleeved coats striped black-and-gold and an equal number of Cairhienin drawn 
from forty-odd Houses, in dark colors, some with con stiff above their heads. 
They cooked at different fires, slept apart, picketed their horses apart, and 
eyed one another warily, but they mingled. The safety of the Dragon Reborn was 
their responsibility, and they took the job seriously. Any of them might betray 
him, but not while the others were there to watch. Old hatreds and new dislikes 
would bring betrayal of any plot before the betrayer stopped to think.
A ring of steel stood guard around Rand's tent, a huge peaked thing of green 
silk embroidered all over with bees in thread-of-gold. It had belonged to his 
predecessor, Mattin Stepaneos, and had come with the crown, in a manner of 
speaking. Companions in burnished conical helmets stood side by side with 
Defenders in helmets ridged and rimmed, and Cairhienin in bell-shaped helms, 
ignoring the wind, barred faceguards hiding their features, halberds slanted 
precisely. Not one moved a hair when Rand drew rein, but a bevy of servants came 
running to attend to him and the Asha'man. A bony woman in the green-and-yellow 
vest of a groom from the Royal Palace in Illian took his bridle, while his 
stirrup was held by a bulbous-nosed fellow in the black-and-gold livery of the 
Stone of Tear. They tugged forelocks to him, and cast only one sharp look at one 
another. Boreane Carivin, a stout pale little woman in a dark dress, 
self-importantly offered him a silver tray of damp cloths from which steam rose. 
Cairhienin, she watched the other two, though more as if making sure they did 
their tasks properly than with the animosity for each other they barely hid. But 
with care, still. What worked with the soldiers worked with the servants as 
well.
Drawing off his gauntlets, Rand waved away Boreane's tray. Darner Flinn had 
risen from an ornately carved bench in front of the tent as Rand dismounted. 
Bald except for a ragged white fringe, Flinn looked more a grandfather than an 
Asha'man. A leather-tough grandfather with a stiff leg, who had seen more of the 
world than a farm. The sword at his hip looked as if it belonged, as well it 
should on a former soldier of the Queen's Guard. Rand trusted him more than 
most. Flinn had saved his life, after all.
Flinn saluted, fist to chest, and when Rand acknowledged him with a nod, limped 
closer and waited until the grooms left with the horses before speaking in a low 
voice. "Torval's here. Sent by the M'Hael, he says. He wanted to wait in the 
council tent. I told Narishma to watch him." That had been Rand's command, 
though he was not sure why he had given it; no one who came from the Black Tower 
was to be left alone. Hesitating, Flinn fingered the Dragon on his black collar. 
"He wasn't happy to hear you'd raised all of us."
"Wasn't he, now," Rand said softly, tucking his gloves behind his sword belt. 
And because Flinn still looked uncertain, he added, "You all earned it." He had 
been about to send one of the Asha'man to Taim  --  the Leader, the M'Hael, as the 
Asha'man all called him  --  but now Torval could carry the message. In the council 
tent? "Have refreshments sent," he told Flinn, then motioned Hopwil and Dashiva 
to follow.
Flinn saluted again, but Rand was already striding away, black mud squelching 
around his boots. No cheers rose for him in the blustering wind. He could recall 
when there had been. If that was not one of Lews Therin's memories. If Lews 
Therin had ever been real. A flash of color just beyond the edge of sight, the 
feel of someone about to touch him from behind. With an effort, he focused 
himself.
The council tent was a large red-striped pavilion that had once sat on the 
Plains of Maredo, now pitched in the middle of Rand's encampment, surrounded by 
thirty paces of bare ground. There were never guards here, not unless Rand was 
meeting with the nobles. Anyone trying to slip in would have been seen instantly 
by a thousand prying eyes. Three banners on tall poles formed a triangle around 
the tent, the Rising Sun of Cairhien, the Three Crescents of Tear, and the 
Golden Bees of Illian, and above the crimson roof, higher than the rest, stood 
the Dragon Banner, and the Banner of Light. The wind made them all stand out, 
rippling and snapping, and the tent walls shivered in the gusts. Inside, 
colorful, fringed carpets made a floor, and the only furniture was a huge table, 
thickly carved and gilded, inlaid with ivory and turquoise. A jumble of maps 
almost hid the tabletop.
Torval lifted his head from the maps, plainly ready to give the rough side of 
his tongue to whoever had barged in on him. Close to his middle years and tall 
beside anyone save Rand or an Aiel, he stared coldly down a sharp nose that 
practically quivered with indignation. The Dragon and the Sword glistened on his 
coat collar in the light of the stand-lamps. A silk coat, shining black, cut 
fine enough for a lord. His sword had silver mountings washed with gold, and a 
glittering red gem capped the hilt. Another gleamed darkly on a finger ring. You 
could not train men to be weapons without expecting a certain amount of 
arrogance, yet Rand did not like Torval. But then, he had no need of Lews 
Therin's voice to be suspicious of any man in a black coat. How far did he truly 
trust even Flinn? Yet he had to lead them. The Asha'man were his making, his 
responsibility.
When Torval saw Rand, he straightened casually and saluted, but his expression 
barely changed. He had had a sneering mouth the first time Rand ever saw him. 
"My Lord Dragon," he said in the accents of Tarabon, and he might have been 
greeting an equal. Or being gracious to an inferior. His swaggering bow took in 
Hopwil and Dashiva as well. "I give congratulations on the conquest of Illian. A 
great victory, yes? There would have been wine to greet you, but this young . . 
. Dedicated . . . does not seem to understand orders."
In the corner, silver bells on the ends of Narishma's two long dark braids made 
a faint sound as he shifted. He had tanned darkly in the southern sun, but some 
things about him had not changed. Older than Rand, his face made him seem 
younger than Hopwil, but the red that rose in his cheeks was anger, not 
embarrassment. His pride in the new-won Sword on his collar was quiet, yet deep. 
Torval smiled at him, a slow smile both amused and dangerous. Dashiva laughed, a 
short bark, and was still.
"What are you doing here, Torval?" Rand asked roughly. He tossed the Dragon 
Scepter and his gauntlets down atop the maps and followed them with his sword 
belt and scabbarded sword. The maps that Torval had no reason to be studying. No 
need of Lews Therin's voice.
With a shrug, Torval produced a letter from his coat pocket and handed it to 
Rand. "The M'Hael, he sent this." The paper was snowy white and thick, the seal 
a dragon impressed in a large oval of blue wax that glittered with golden 
flecks. It might almost have been thought to come from the Dragon Reborn. Taim 
did think well of himself. "The M'Hael said to tell you the tales of Aes Sedai 
in Murandy with an army, they are true. Rumor says they are rebels against Tar 
Valon"  --  Torval's sneer thickened with disbelief  --  "but they are marching toward 
the Black Tower. Soon, they may become a danger, yes?"
Rand cracked the magnificent seal to bits between his fingers. "They're going to 
Caemlyn, not the Black Tower, and they're no threat. My orders were clear. Leave 
Aes Sedai alone unless they come after you."
"But how can you be sure they are not a threat?" Torval persisted. "Perhaps they 
are going to Caemlyn, as you say, but if you are wrong, we'll not know before 
they attack us."
"Torval might be right," Dashiva put in thoughtfully. "I can't say I'd trust 
women who put me in a box, and these haven't sworn any oaths. Or have they?"
"I said leave them alone!" Rand slapped the tabletop, hard, and Hopwil jumped in 
surprise. Dashiva frowned with irritation before hurriedly smoothing it over, 
but Rand was not interested in Dashiva's moods. By chance  --  he was sure it was 
chance  --  his hand had come down on the Dragon Scepter. His arm trembled with the 
desire to take it up and stab Torval through the heart. No need for Lews Therin 
at all. "The Asha'man are a weapon to be aimed where I say, not to flutter 
around like hens every time Taim gets frightened over a handful of Aes Sedai 
having dinner at the same inn. If I must, I can come back to make myself 
clearer."
"I am sure there is no need of that," Torval said quickly. At last something had 
wiped the wry twist from his mouth. Eyes tight, he spread his hands, close to 
diffident, very nearly apologetic. And plainly frightened. "The M'Hael, he 
merely wanted you informed. Your orders are read aloud every day at Morning 
Directives, after the Creed."
"That's good, then." Rand kept his voice cool, kept a scowl from his face by 
main effort. It was his precious M'Hael the man feared, not the Dragon Reborn. 
Afraid Taim would take it amiss if something he had said brought Rand's anger on 
Taim's head. "Because I'll kill any one of you who goes near those women in 
Murandy. You cut where I direct."
Torval bowed rigidly, murmuring, "As you say, my Lord Dragon." His teeth were 
bared in an attempted smile, but his nose was pinched, and he struggled to avoid 
meeting anyone's eyes while seeming to avoid nothing. Dashiva yelped another 
laugh, and Hopwil wore a small grin.
Narishma was not enjoying Torval's discomfort, though, or paying it attention. 
He looked at Rand without blinking, as though he sensed deep currents that the 
rest missed. Most women and no few men thought him just a pretty boy, but those 
too-big eyes sometimes seemed more knowing than any others.
Rand pulled his hand from the Dragon Scepter and smoothed open the letter. His 
hands did not quite shake. Torval smiled weakly, sourly, noticing nothing. 
Against the tent wall, Narishma shifted, relaxing.
The refreshments arrived, then, borne by a stately procession following Boreane, 
a line of Illianers and Cairhienin and Tairens in their various liveries. There 
was a servant bearing a silver tray and pitcher for each kind of wine, and two 
more with trays of silver mugs for hot punch and spiced wines and fine blown 
goblets for the others. A pink-faced fellow in green-and-yellow carried a tray 
on which to do the pouring, and a dark woman in black-and-gold was there to 
actually handle the pitchers. There were nuts and candied fruits, cheeses and 
olives, each sort requiring a serving man or woman. Under Boreane's direction, 
they flowed in a formal dance, bowing, curtsying, one giving way to another as 
they made their offerings.
Accepting spiced wine, Rand hoisted himself onto the edge of the table and sat 
the steaming mug beside him untouched as he busied himself with the letter. 
There was no address, no preamble of any kind. Taim hated giving Rand any sort 
of title, though he tried to hide the fact.
 
    I have the honor to report that twenty-nine Asha'man, ninety-seven Dedicated 
    and three hundred twenty-two Soldiers are now enrolled at the Black Tower. 
    There have been a handful of deserters, unfortunately, whose names have been 
    stricken, but losses in training remain acceptable.
    I now have as many as fifty recruiting parties in the field at any given 
    time, with the result that three or four men are added to the rolls almost 
    every day. In a few months, the Black Tower will equal the White, as I said 
    it would. In a year, Tar Valon will tremble at our numbers.
    I harvested that blackberry bush myself. A small bush, and thorny, but a 
    surprising number of berries for the size.
    Mazrim Taim M'Hael
     
Rand grimaced, putting the . . . the blackberry bush . . . out of his mind. What 
had to be done, had to be done. The whole world paid a price for his existence. 
He would die for it, but the whole world paid.
There were other things to grimace over, anyway. Three or four new men a day? 
Taim was optimistic. In a few months, at that rate, there would be more men who 
could channel than Aes Sedai, true, but the newest sister had years of training 
behind her. And part of that specifically taught how to deal with a man who 
could channel. He did not want to contemplate any encounter between Asha'man and 
Aes Sedai who knew what they were facing; blood and regret could be the only 
outcome, whatever happened. The Asha'man were not aimed at the White Tower, 
though, no matter what Taim thought. It was a convenient belief, however, if it 
made Tar Valon step warily. An Asha'man only needed to know how to kill. If 
there were enough to do that at the right place and time, if they lived long 
enough to, that was all they had been created for.
"How many deserters, Torval?" he said quietly. He picked up the wine mug and 
took a swallow, as if the answer were unimportant. The wine should have been 
warming, but the ginger and sweet serrel and mace tasted bitter on his tongue. 
"How many losses in training?"
Torval was recovering himself over the refreshments, rubbing his hands and 
arching an eyebrow at the choice of wines, making a great show of knowing the 
best, making a show of lording it. Dashiva had accepted the first offered, and 
stood glowering into his twist-stemmed goblet as though it held swill. Pointing 
to one of the trays, Torval cocked his head thoughtfully, but he had the words 
ready on his tongue. "Nineteen deserters, so far. The M'Hael, he has ordered 
them killed whenever they are found, and their heads brought back for examples." 
Plucking a bit of glazed pear from the proffered tray, he popped it into his 
mouth and smiled brightly. "Three heads hang like fruit on the Traitor's Tree at 
this moment."
"Good," Rand said levelly. Men who ran now could not be trusted not to run 
later, when lives depended on them standing. And these men could not be allowed 
to go their own way; those fellows back on the hills, if they escaped in a body, 
were less dangerous than one man trained in the Black Tower. The Traitor's Tree? 
Taim was a great one for naming things. But men needed the trappings, the 
symbols and the names, the black coats and the pins, to help hold them together. 
Until it was time to die. "The next time I visit the Black Tower, I want to see 
every deserter's head."
A second piece of candied pear, halfway to Torval's mouth, dropped from his 
fingers and streaked the front of his fine coat. "It might interfere with 
recruiting, making that sort of effort," he said slowly. "The deserters, they do 
not announce themselves."
Rand held the other man's gaze until it fell. "How many losses in training?" he 
demanded. The sharp-nosed Asha'man hesitated. "How many?"
Narishma leaned forward, staring intently at Torval. So did Hopwil. The servants 
continued their smooth, silent dance, offering their trays to men who no longer 
saw them. Boreane took advantage of Narishma's preoccupation to make sure his 
silver mug held more hot water than spiced wine.
Torval shrugged, too casually. "Fifty-one, all told. Thirteen burned out, and 
twenty-eight dead where they stood. The rest . . . The M'Hael, he adds something 
to their wine, and they do not wake." Abruptly his tone turned malicious. "It 
can come suddenly, at any time. One man began screaming that spiders were 
crawling beneath his skin on his second day." He smiled viciously at Narishma 
and Hopwil, and nearly so at Rand, but it was to the other two he addressed 
himself, swinging his head between them. "You see? Not to worry if you slide 
into madness. You'll not hurt yourselves or a soul. You go to sleep . . . 
forever. Kinder than gentling, even if we knew how. Kinder than leaving you 
insane and cut off, yes?" Narishma stared back, taut as a harp-string, his mug 
forgotten in his hand. Hopwil was once more frowning at something only he could 
see.
"Kinder," Rand said in a flat voice, setting the mug back beside him on the 
table. Something in the wine. My soul is black with blood, and damned. It was 
not a hard thought, not biting or edged; a simple statement of fact. "A mercy 
any man might wish for, Torval."
Torval's cruel smile faded, and he stood breathing hard. The sums were easy; one 
man in ten destroyed, one man in fifty mad, and more surely to come. Early days 
yet, and no way till the day you died to know you had beaten the odds. Except 
that the odds would beat you, one way or another, in the end. Whatever else, 
Torval stood under that threat, too.
Abruptly Rand became aware of Boreane. It took a moment before he recognized the 
expression on her face, and when he did, he bit back cold words. How dare she 
feel pity! Did she think Tarmon Gai'don could be won without blood? The 
Prophecies of the Dragon demanded blood like rain!
"Leave us," he told her, and she quietly gathered the servants. But she still 
carried compassion in her eyes as she herded them out.
Casting around for a way to change the mood, Rand found nothing. Pity weakened 
as surely as fear, and they had to be strong. To face what they had to face, 
they all must be steel. His making, his responsibility.
Lost in his own thoughts, Narishma peered into the steam rising from his wine, 
and Hopwil still tried to stare through the side of the tent. Torval cast 
sideways glances at Rand and struggled to put the scornful twist back on his 
mouth. Dashiva alone appeared unaffected, with his arms folded, studying Torval 
as a man might study a horse offered for sale.
Into the painfully stretching silence burst a husky, windblown young man in 
black, with the Sword and Dragon on his collar.
Of an age with Hopwil, still not old enough to marry most places, Fedwin Morr 
wore intensity more closely than his shirt; he moved on his toes, and his eyes 
had the look of a hunting cat that knew itself hunted in turn. He had been 
different, once, and not so long ago. "The Seanchan will move from Ebou Dar 
soon," he said as he saluted. "They mean to come against Illian next." Hopwil 
gave a start and a gasp, jolted out of his dark study. Once again, Dashiva's 
response was to laugh, mirthlessly this time.
Nodding, Rand took up the Dragon Scepter. After all, he carried it for 
remembrance. The Seanchan danced to their own tune, not the song he wished for.
If Rand received the announcement in silence, Torval did not. Finding his sneer, 
he raised a contemptuous eyebrow. "Did they tell you all that, now?" he said 
mockingly. "Or have you learned to read minds? Let me tell you something, boy. I 
have fought, against Amadicians and Domani both, and no army takes a city then 
packs itself up to march a thousand miles! More than a thousand miles! Or do you 
think they can Travel?"
Morr met Torval's derision calmly. Or if it unsettled him at all, the only sign 
he gave was running a thumb down his long sword hilt. "I did talk to some of 
them. Most were Taraboners, and more landing by ship every day, or near enough." 
Shouldering past Torval to the table, he favored the Taraboner with a level 
look. "All stepping right quick whenever anybody with a slurring way of speech 
opened a mouth." The older man opened his, angrily, but the younger pressed on 
hurriedly, to Rand. "They're putting soldiers all along the Venir Mountains. 
Five hundred, sometimes a thousand together. All the way to Arran Head already. 
And they're buying or taking every wagon and cart within twenty leagues of Ebou 
Dar, and the animals to draw them."
"Carts!" Torval exclaimed. "Wagons! Is it that they mean to hold a market fair, 
do you think? And what fool would march an army through mountains when there are 
perfectly good roads?" He noticed Rand watching him, and cut off with a small 
frown, suddenly uncertain.
"I told you to stay low, Morr." Rand let anger touch his voice. The young 
Asha'man had to step back as he jumped down from the table. "Not to go asking 
the Seanchan their plans. To look and stay low."
"I was careful; I didn't wear my pins." Morr's eyes did not change for Rand, 
still hunter and hunted in one. He seemed to be boiling inside. Had Rand not 
known better, he would have thought Morr held the Power, struggling to survive 
saidin even as it gave him life ten times over. His face seemed to want to 
sweat. "If any of the men I talked to knew where they're going next, they didn't 
say, and I didn't ask, but they were willing to complain over a mug of ale about 
marching all the time and never standing still. In Ebou Dar, they were soaking 
up all the ale in the city as fast as they could, because they say they have to 
march again. And they're gathering wagons, just like I said." That all came out 
in a rush, and he clamped his teeth at the end as though to trap more words that 
wanted to fly from his tongue.
Smiling suddenly, Rand clapped him on the shoulder. "You did well. The wagons 
would have been enough, but you did well. Wagons are important," he added, 
turning to Torval. "If an army feeds off the country, it eats what it finds. Or 
not, if it doesn't." Torval had not flickered an eyelid at hearing of Seanchan 
in Ebou Dar. If that tale had reached the Black Tower, why had Taim not 
mentioned it? Rand hoped his smile did not look a snarl. "It's harder to arrange 
supply trains, but when you have one you know there's fodder for the animals and 
beans for the men. The Seanchan organize everything."
Sorting through the maps, he found the one he wanted and spread it out, weighted 
at one side with his sword and at the other with the Dragon Scepter. The coast 
between Illian and Ebou Dar stared up at him, rimmed for most of its length by 
hills and mountains, dotted with fishing villages and small towns. The Seanchan 
did organize. Ebou Dar had been theirs barely more than a week, but the 
merchants' eyes-and-ears wrote of repairs well under way on the damage done to 
the city in its taking, of clean sickhouses set up for the ill, of food and work 
arranged for the poor and those driven from their homes by troubles inland. The 
streets and the surrounding countryside were patrolled so that no one need fear 
footpads or bandits, day or night, and while merchants were welcome, smuggling 
had been cut to a trickle if not less. Those honest Illianer merchants had been 
surprisingly glum about the smuggling. What were the Seanchan organizing now?
The others gathered around the table as Rand perused the map. There were roads 
hard along the coast, but poor straggling things, marked as little more than 
cart paths. The broad trade roads lay inland, avoiding the worst of the terrain 
and the worst of what the Sea of Storms had to offer. "Men raiding out of those 
mountains could make passage difficult for anyone trying to use the inland 
roads," he said finally. "By controlling the mountains, they make the roads safe 
as a city street. You're right, Morr. They are coming to Illian."
Leaning on his fists, Torval glared at Morr, who had been right when he was 
wrong. A grievous sin, perhaps, in Torval's book. "Even so, it will be months 
before they can trouble you here," he said sullenly. "A hundred Asha'man, fifty, 
placed in Illian, could destroy any army in the world before one man crosses the 
causeways."
"I doubt an army with damane is destroyed as easily as one kills Aiel committed 
to an attack and caught by surprise," Rand said quietly, and Torval stiffened. 
"Besides, I have to defend all of Illian, not just the city."
Ignoring the man, Rand traced lines across the map with a finger. Between Arran 
Head and the city of Illian lay a hundred leagues of open water, across the 
mouth of Kabal Deep, where, ship captains in Illian said, their longest sounding 
lines could find no bottom just a mile or so from the shore. The waves there 
could overturn ships as they surged north to pound the coast with breakers 
fifteen paces high. In this weather, it would be worse. Marching around the Deep 
was a route of two hundred leagues to reach the city, even keeping to the 
shortest ways, but if the Seanchan pressed on from Arran Head, they could reach 
the border in two weeks despite the rainstorms. Maybe less. Better to fight 
where he chose, not where they did. His finger slid along the south coast of 
Altara, along the Venir range, until the mountains dwindled to hills short of 
Ebou Dar. Five hundred here, a thousand there. A tantalizing string of beads 
dropped along the mountains. A sharp rap might roll them back to Ebou Dar, might 
even pen them there while they tried to figure out what he was up to. Or . . . 
"There was something else," Morr said abruptly, rushing again. "There was talk 
about some sort of Aes Sedai weapon. I found where it was used, a few miles from 
the city. The ground was all burned over, seared clean in the middle, a good 
three hundred paces wide or more, and ruined orchards further. The sand was 
melted to sheets of glass. Saidin was worst, there."
Torval waved a hand at him dismissively. "There could have Aes Sedai near when 
the city fell, yes? Or maybe the Seanchan themselves did it. One sister with an 
angreal could  --  "
Rand cut in. "What do you mean, saidin was worst there?" Dashiva moved, eyeing 
Morr oddly, reaching as though to seize the young man. Rand fended him off 
roughly. "What do you mean, Morr?"
Morr stared, mouth shut tight, running his thumb up and down the length of his 
sword hilt. The heat inside of him seemed ready to burst out. There really was 
sweat beading on his face now. "Saidin was . . . strange," he said hoarsely. His 
words came in rapid bursts. "Worst there  --  I could . . . feel it . . . in the 
air all around me  --  but strange everywhere around Ebou Dar. And even a hundred 
miles away. I had to fight it; not like always; different. Like it was alive. 
Sometimes . . . Sometimes, it didn't do what I wanted. Sometimes, it . . . did 
something else. It did. I'm not mad! It did!" The wind gusted, howling for a 
moment, shivering and snapping the tent walls, and Morr fell silent. Narishma's 
bells chimed at a jerk of his head, then were still.
"That isn't possible," Dashiva muttered into the silence, but nearly under his 
breath. "It is not possible."
"Who knows what's possible?" Rand said. "I don't! Do you?" Dashiva's head came 
up in surprise, but Rand turned to Morr, moderating his tone. "Don't worry, 
man." Not a mild tone  --  he could not manage that  --  yet heartening, he hoped. His 
making, his responsibility. "You'll be with me to the Last Battle. I promise 
it."
The young man nodded, and scrubbed at his face with his hand as though surprised 
to find it damp, but he glanced at Torval, who had gone as still as stone. Did 
Morr know about the wine? It was a mercy, given the alternatives. A small and 
bitter mercy.
Rand picked up Taim's missive, folded the page, and thrust it into his coat 
pocket. One in fifty mad already, and more to come. Was Morr next? Dashiva was 
surely close. Hopwil's stares took on a new meaning, and even Narishma's 
habitual quiet. Madness did not always mean screaming about spiders. He had 
asked once, warily, where he knew the answers would be true, how to cleanse the 
taint from saidin. And got a riddle for answer. Herid Pel had claimed the riddle 
stated "sound principles, in both high philosophy and natural philosophy," but 
he had not seen any way to apply it to the problem at hand. Had Pel been killed 
because he might have puzzled out the riddle? Rand had a hint at the answer, or 
thought he might, a guess that could be disastrously wrong. Hints and riddles 
were not answers, yet he had to do something. If the taint was not cleansed 
somehow, Tarmon Gai'don might find a world already ruined by madmen. What had to 
be done, had to be done.
"That would be wondrous," Torval said in a near whisper, "but how could anyone 
short of the Creator or . . .?" He trailed off uneasily.
Rand had not realized he had spoken any of his thoughts aloud. Narishma's eyes, 
and Morr's, and Hopwil's, belonged in one face, shining with sudden hope. 
Dashiva looked poleaxed. Rand hoped he had not said too much. Some secrets had 
to be kept. Including what he would do next.
In short order, Hopwil was running for his horse to ride to the ridge with 
orders for the nobles, Morr and Dashiva to find Flinn and the other Asha'man, 
and Torval was striding off to Travel back to the Black Tower with commands for 
Taim. Narishma was last, and thinking of Aes Sedai and Seanchan and weapons, 
Rand sent him away as well, with careful instructions that made the young man's 
mouth tighten.
"Speak to no one," Rand finished softly, gripping Narishma's arm hard. "And 
don't fail me. Not by a hair."
"I won't fail," Narishma said, unblinking. With a quick salute, he was gone, 
too.
Dangerous, a voice whispered in Rand's head. Oh, yes, very dangerous, maybe too 
dangerous. But it might work; it might. In any event, you must kill Torval now. 
You must.
Weiramon entered the council tent, shouldering aside Gregorin and Tolmeran, 
trying to shoulder aside Rosana and Semaradrid, the lot of them eager to tell 
Rand that the men in the trees had decided wisely after all. They found him 
laughing till tears rolled down his face. Lews Therin had come back. Or else he 
really was mad already. Either way, it was reason to laugh.
Chapter 15
Stronger than Written Law
In the dim, cold dark of deep night, Egwene woke groggily from restless sleep 
and troubling dreams, the more troubling because she could not remember them. 
Her dreams were always open to her, as clear as printed words on a page, yet 
these had been murky and fearful. She had had too many of those, lately. They 
left her wanting to run, to escape, never able to recall what from, but always 
queasy and uncertain, even trembling. At least her head was not hurting. At 
least she could recall the dreams she knew must be significant, though not how 
to interpret them. Rand, wearing different masks, until suddenly one of those 
false faces was no longer a mask, but him. Perrin and a Tinker, frenziedly 
hacking their way through brambles with axe and sword, unaware of the cliff that 
lay just ahead. And the brambles screamed with human voices they did not hear. 
Mat, weighing two Aes Sedai on a huge set of balance scales, and on his decision 
depended . . . She could not say what; something vast; the world, perhaps. There 
had been other dreams, most tinged with suffering. Recently, all of her dreams 
about Mat were pale and full of pain, like shadows cast by nightmares, almost as 
though Mat himself were not quite real. That made her afraid for him, left 
behind in Ebou Dar, and gave her agonies of grief for sending him there, not to 
mention poor old Thom Merrilin. But the unremembered dreams were worse, she was 
sure.
The sound of low voices arguing had wakened her, and the full moon was still up 
outside, casting enough light for her to make out two women confronting one 
another at the tent's entrance.
"The poor woman's head pains her all day, and she gets little rest at night," 
Halima whispered fiercely, fists on her hips. "Let this wait till morning."
"I don't propose to argue with you." Siuan's voice was winter itself, and she 
tossed back her cloak with a mittened hand as though preparing to fight. She was 
dressed for the weather, in stout wool no doubt worn over as many shifts as she 
could fit underneath. "You stand aside, and right quick, or I'll have your guts 
for bait! And put on some decent clothes!"
With a soft laugh, Halima drew up and if anything planted herself more squarely 
in Siuan's way. Her white nightgown clung, but was decent enough for its 
purpose. Though it did seem a wonder she evaded freezing in that thin silk. The 
coals in the tripod braziers had died down long since, and neither much-mended 
tent canvas nor layered carpets on the ground held in warmth any longer. Both 
women's breath was pale mist.
Throwing off the blankets, Egwene sat up wearily on her narrow cot. Halima was a 
country woman with a skim of sophistication, and often she did not seem to 
realize the deference due to Aes Sedai, or indeed seem to think she need defer 
to anyone. She spoke to Sitters as she might to the goodwives in her own 
village, with a laugh and a level eye and a straightforward earthiness that 
sometimes shocked. Siuan spent her days giving way to women who had jumped at 
her word a year earlier, smiling and curtsying for nearly every sister in the 
camp. Many still laid much of the Tower's troubles at her feet and thought she 
had hardly suffered enough to atone. Sufficient to keep anyone's pride at a 
stiff prickle. Together, the pair were a lantern tossed into the back of an 
Illuminator's wagon, but Egwene hoped to avoid an explosion. Besides, Siuan 
would not have come in the middle of the night unless it was necessary.
"Go back to bed, Halima," Smothering a yawn, Egwene bent to fumble her shoes and 
stockings from beneath the cot. She did not channel a lamp alight. Better if no 
one noticed that the Amyrlin was awake. "Go on; you need your rest."
Halima protested, perhaps more strongly than she should have to the Amyrlin 
Seat, but soon enough she was back on the tiny cot that had been squeezed into 
the tent for her. Very little room remained to move in, with a washstand, a 
stand-mirror and a real armchair, plus four large chests stacked atop one 
another. Those held the constant flow of clothes from Sitters who had not yet 
realized that however young Egwene might be, she was not young enough to be 
dazzled or diverted by silks and laces. Halima lay curled up, watching in the 
darkness, while Egwene hastily dragged an ivory comb through her hair, donned 
stout mittens, and pulled a fox-lined cloak over her nightgown. A thick woolen 
nightgown, and she would not have minded thicker in this weather. Halima's eyes 
seemed to pick up the faint moonlight and shine darkly, unblinking.
Egwene did not think the woman jealous of her place near the Amyrlin Seat, 
casual as it was, and the Light knew she did not carry gossip, but Halima had an 
innocent curiosity about everything, whether or not it was any of her business. 
Reason enough to hear Siuan out elsewhere. Everyone knew now that Siuan had 
thrown in her lot with Egwene, after a fashion, as they thought, sullenly and 
grudgingly. A figure of some amusement and occasional pity, Siuan Sanche, 
reduced to attaching herself to the woman who held the title once hers, and that 
woman no more than a puppet once the Hall finished fighting over who would pull 
her cords. Siuan was human enough to harbor sparks of resentment, but so far 
they had managed to keep secret that her advice was far from grudging. So she 
endured pity and snickers as best she could, and everyone believed her as 
changed by her experiences as her face. That belief had to be maintained, or 
Romanda and Lelaine and very likely the rest of the Hall, too, would find ways 
to separate her  --  and her advice  --  from Egwene.
The cold outside slapped Egwene in the face and flooded under her cloak; her 
nightgown might as well have been Halima's for all the protection it offered. 
Despite stout leather and good wool, her feet felt as if they were bare. 
Tendrils of frosty air curled around her ears, mocking the thick fur lining her 
hood. Yearning for her bed as she was, ignoring the iciness took all the 
concentration she could muster. Clouds scudded across the sky, and moon-shadows 
floated over the gleaming white that covered the ground, a smooth sheet broken 
by the dark mounds of tents and the taller shapes of canvas-topped wagons that 
now had long wooden runners in place of wheels. Many of the wagons were no 
longer parked apart from the tents, but left where they had been unloaded; no 
one had the heart to make the wagon drivers put out even that much extra effort 
at the end of the day. Nothing moved except those pale sliding shadows. The wide 
runnels that had been trampled through the camp for paths lay empty. The silence 
was crisp and so deep that she almost regretted breaking it.
"What is it?" she asked softly, casting a wary glance at the small tent nearby 
shared by her maids, Chesa, Meri, and Selame. That was as still and dark as the 
others. Exhaustion made as thick a blanket over the camp as the snow. "Not 
another revelation like the Kin, I hope." She clicked her tongue in vexation. 
She was spent, too, by long freezing days in the saddle and not enough real 
sleep, or she would not have said that. "I'm sorry, Siuan."
"No need to apologize, Mother." Siuan kept her voice down as well, and glanced 
about to see whether anyone might be watching from the shadows besides. Neither 
wanted to find herself discussing the Kin with the Hall. "I know I should have 
told you beforehand, but it seemed a small thing. I never expected those girls 
to even speak to one of them. There's so much to tell you. I have to try to pick 
and choose what's important."
With an effort, Egwene managed not to sigh. That was almost word for word the 
apology Siuan had offered before. Several times. What she meant was that she was 
trying to force-feed Egwene over twenty years of experience as Aes Sedai, more 
than ten of that as Amyrlin, and do it in months. At times Egwene felt like a 
goose being fattened for market. "Well, what's important tonight?"
"Gareth Bryne's waiting in your study." Siuan did not raise her voice, but it 
took on an edge, as always when she spoke of Lord Bryne. She tossed her head 
angrily inside the deep hood of her cloak, and made a sound like a cat spitting. 
"The man came in dripping snow, scooped me out of my bedding, and barely gave me 
time to dress before hauling me up behind his saddle. He told me nothing; just 
tossed me down at the edge of camp and sent me to fetch you like I was a serving 
girl!"
Firmly, Egwene stifled a rising hope. There had been too many disappointments, 
and whatever had brought Bryne in the middle of the night was much more likely 
to be a potential disaster than what she wished for. How far yet to the border 
with Andor? "Let's see what he wants."
Starting off toward the tent everyone named the Amyrlin's Study, she held her 
cloak close. She did not shiver, but refusing to let heat or cold touch you did 
not make them go away. You could ignore them right up to the moment sunstroke 
cooked your brain or frostbite rotted your hands and feet. She considered what 
Siuan had said.
"You weren't sleeping in your own tent here?" she said carefully. The other 
woman's relation to Lord Bryne was that of a servant, in a very peculiar way, 
but Egwene hoped Siuan was not letting her stubborn pride lead her into letting 
him take advantage. She could not imagine it, of him or her, yet not so long ago 
she could not have imagined Siuan accepting any part of the situation. She still 
could not understand why.
Snorting loudly, Siuan kicked her skirts, and nearly fell as her shoes skidded. 
Snow beaten down by countless feet had quickly become a rough sheet of ice. 
Egwene was picking her own way cautiously. Every day brought broken bones that 
travel-weary sisters had to Heal. Half abandoning her cloak, she offered an arm 
as much for the support she might receive as give. Siuan took it, muttering.
"By the time I finished cleaning the man's spare boots and second saddle, it was 
too late to tramp back through this. Not that he offered more than blankets in a 
corner; not Gareth Bryne! Made me dig them out of the chest myself, while he 
went off the Light knows where! Men are a trial, and that one the worst!" 
Without a pause for breath, she changed the subject. "You shouldn't let that 
Halima sleep in your tent. She's another pair of ears you have to be careful of, 
and snoopy with it. Besides, you're lucky you don't walk in to find her 
entertaining some soldier."
"I am very glad that Delana can spare Halima nights," Egwene said firmly. "I 
need her. Unless you think Nisao's Healing might do better with my headaches a 
second time around." Halima's fingers seemed to draw the pain out through her 
scalp; without that, she would not be able to sleep at all. Nisao's effort had 
had no effect whatsoever, and she was the only Yellow Egwene dared approach with 
the problem. As for the rest . . . She made her voice sterner still. "I am 
surprised you're still listening to that gossip, daughter. The fact that men 
like looking at a woman doesn't mean she invites it, as you should know well. 
I've seen more than a few looking at you and grinning." Taking that tone came 
easier than it once had.
Siuan gave her a startled sidelong glance and, after a moment, grumbled an 
apology. It might have been sincere. Egwene accepted it, either way. Lord Bryne 
was very bad for Siuan's temper, and tossing Halima into the bargain, Egwene 
thought it a good job she was not pushed into taking a stricter stance. Siuan 
herself had said that she should not put up with nonsense, and she surely could 
not afford to put up with it from Siuan, of all people.
Trudging arm-in-arm, they went on in silence, the cold fogging their breath and 
seeping through their flesh. The snow was a curse and a lesson. She could still 
hear Siuan going on about what she called the Law of Unintended Consequences, 
stronger than any written law. Whether or not what you do has the effect you 
want, it will have three at least you never expected, and one of those usually 
unpleasant.
The first, feeble rains had brought astonishment, for all Egwene had already 
informed the Hall that the Bowl of the Winds had been found and used. That was 
almost as much as she could risk letting them know of what Elayne had told her 
in Tel'aran'rhiod; too much of what had happened in Ebou Dar was just the thing 
to cut her feet out from under her here, and her position was precarious enough 
as it was. An explosion of joy erupted at those first sprinkles. They had halted 
the march at midday, and there had been bonfires and feasting in the drizzle, 
prayers of thanksgiving among the sisters and dancing among the servants and the 
soldiers. For that matter, some of the Aes Sedai had danced, too.
A few days later, the soft rains became downpours, and then howling tempests. 
The temperature slid downward, plummeted, and tempests became blizzards. Now, 
the distance once covered in a day, with Egwene gritting her teeth over how 
slowly they moved, took five when the sky held only clouds, and when the snows 
fell, they did not move at all. Easy enough to think of three unintended 
consequences, or more, and the snow might well be the least unpleasant.
As they approached the small, patched tent called the Amyrlin's Study, a shadow 
moved beside one of the tall wagons, and Egwene's breath caught. The shadow 
became a figure who slipped back her hood enough to reveal Leane's face, then 
pulled back into darkness.
"She'll keep a watch and let us know if anybody comes," Siuan said softly.
"That's good," Egwene muttered. The woman could have told her in advance. She 
had half been afraid it was Romanda or Lelaine!
The Amyrlin's Study was dark, but Lord Bryne stood waiting patiently inside, 
wrapped in his cloak, a shadow among shadows. Embracing the Source, Egwene 
channeled, not to light the lantern hanging from the centerpole or one of the 
candles, but to make a small sphere of pale light that she suspended in the air 
over the folding table she used as a writing desk. Very small, and very pale; 
unlikely to be noticed from outside, and quick as thought to extinguish. She 
could not afford discovery.
There had been Amyrlins who reigned in strength, Amyrlins who managed an even 
balance with the Hall, and Amyrlins who had had as little power as she, or less 
upon rare occasions, well-hidden in the secret histories of the White Tower. 
Several had frittered away power and influence, falling from strength to 
weakness, but in over three thousand years, precious few had managed to move in 
the other direction. Egwene very much wished she knew how Myriam Copan and the 
rest of that bare handful had managed. If anyone had ever thought to write that 
down, the pages were long lost.
Bowing respectfully, Bryne showed no surprise at her caution. He knew what she 
put at hazard, meeting him secretly. To a very large degree, she trusted this 
sturdy, heavily graying man with the bluff, weathered face, and not only because 
she had to. His cloak was thick red wool, lined with marten and bordered with 
the Flame of Tar Valon, a gift from the Hall, yet he had made plain a dozen 
times in the past weeks that whatever the Hall thought  --  and he was not blind 
enough to have missed that!  --  she was the Amyrlin, and he followed the Amyrlin. 
Oh, he had never said so right out, but with carefully worded hints that left no 
doubts. Expecting more would have been expecting too much. There were nearly as 
many undercurrents in the camp as there were Aes Sedai, some strong enough to 
pull him down. Several strong enough to mire her deeper than she was, if the 
Hall learned of this meeting. She trusted him further than anyone except Siuan 
and Leane, or Elayne and Nynaeve, maybe further than any of the sisters who had 
sworn fealty to her in secret, and she wished she had the courage to trust him 
more. The ball of white light cast weak, fitful shadows.
"You have news, Lord Bryne?" she asked, stifling hope. She could think of a 
dozen possible messages that might bring him in the night, each with its own set 
of pitfalls and snares. Had Rand decided to add more crowns to that of Illian, 
or the Seanchan somehow captured still another city, or the Band of the Red Hand 
suddenly moved on its own instead of shadowing the Aes Sedai, or . . . 
"An army lies north of us, Mother," he replied calmly. His leather-gauntleted 
hands rested lightly atop his long sword hilt. An army to the north, a little 
more snow, all the same. "Andorans, mainly, but with a goodly number of 
Murandians. My deep scouts brought the news less than an hour ago. Pelivar 
leads, and Arathelle is with him, the High Seats of two of the strongest Houses 
in Andor, and they've brought twenty more at least. They're pushing south hard, 
it seems. If you keep on as you are, which I advise against, we should meet 
head-on in two days, three at the outside."
Egwene kept her face smooth, suppressing her relief. What she had been hoping 
for, waiting for; what she had begun to fear might never come. Surprisingly, it 
was Siuan who gasped, and clapped a mittened hand over her mouth too late. Bryne 
cocked at eyebrow at her, but she recovered quickly, putting on Aes Sedai 
serenity so thick you almost forgot her youthful face.
"Do you have qualms at fighting your fellow Andorans?" she demanded. "Speak up, 
man. I'm not your washwoman here." Well, there was a small crack in that 
serenity.
"As you command, Siuan Sedai." Bryne's tone held no scrap of mockery, yet 
Siuan's mouth began to tighten, her outward coolness evaporating fast. He made 
her a small bow, workmanlike but acceptable. "I will fight whoever the Mother 
wishes me to fight, of course." Even here, he would not be more forthcoming. Men 
learned caution around Aes Sedai. So did women. Egwene thought caution had 
become a second skin for her.
"And if we don't keep on?" she said. So much planning, just her and Siuan and 
sometimes Leane, and now she still had to feel out each step as carefully as on 
those icy paths outside. "If we stop here?"
He did not hesitate. "If you have a way to bring them around without fighting, 
all well and good, but some time tomorrow they'll reach an excellent position to 
defend, one flank held by the River Armahn, the other by a large peat bog, and 
small streams in front to break up attacks. Pelivar will settle in there to 
wait; he knows the work. Arathelle will have her part if there's talking, but 
she'll leave the pikes and swords to him. We can't reach it ahead of him, and 
anyway, the terrain is no use to us there, with him to the north. If you mean to 
fight, I advise making for that ridge we crossed two days back. We can reach it 
in good order ahead of them if we start at dawn, and Pelivar would think twice 
about coming at us there if he had three times the numbers he does."
Wriggling near-frozen toes inside her stockings, Egwene let out an annoyed sigh. 
There was a difference between not letting cold touch you and not feeling it. 
Picking her way carefully, not letting herself be distracted by the chill, she 
asked, "Will they talk, offered the chance?"
"Probably, Mother. The Murandians hardly count; they're just there for whatever 
advantage they can wring out of the situation, same as their countrymen under 
me. It's Pelivar and Arathelle who matter. If I had to wager, I'd say they only 
mean to keep you out of Andor." He shook his head grimly. "But they'll fight if 
they have to, if they must, maybe even if it means facing Aes Sedai instead of 
just soldiers. I expect they've heard the same tales we have about that battle 
out east somewhere."
"Fish guts!" Siuan growled. So much for calm. "Half-baked rumors and raw gossip 
are no proof there was any battle, you lummox, and if there was, sisters 
wouldn't have gotten themselves mixed up in it!" The man truly was an occasion 
of sin for her.
Strangely, Bryne smiled. He often did when Siuan showed her temper. Anywhere 
else, on anyone else, Egwene would have called the smile fond. "Better for us if 
they believe," he told Siuan mildly. Her face darkened so, you might have 
thought he had sneered at her.
Why did a normally sensible woman let Bryne get under her skin? Whatever the 
reason, Egwene had no time for it tonight. "Siuan, I see someone forgot to take 
away the mulled wine. It can't have soured in this weather. Warm it for us, 
please." She did not like setting the other woman down in front of Bryne, but 
she had to be reined in, and this seemed the gentlest way to do it. Really, they 
should not have left the silver pitcher on her table.
Siuan did not quite flinch, but from her stricken expression, quickly smoothed 
over, you would never have believed she washed the man's smallclothes. Without 
comment she channeled slightly to reheat the wine in the silver pitcher, quickly 
filled two clean worked-silver cups, and handed the first to Egwene. She kept 
the second, staring at Lord Bryne as she sipped and leaving him to pour for 
himself.
Warming her mittened fingers on her own cup, Egwene felt a flash of irritation. 
Maybe it was part of Siuan's long-delayed reaction to the death of her Warder. 
She still became weepy for no visible reason now and then, though she tried to 
hide it. Egwene put the matter out of her head. Tonight, that was an anthill 
beside mountains.
"I want to avoid a battle if I can, Lord Bryne. The army is for Tar Valon, not 
fighting a war here. Send to arrange a meeting as soon as possible for the 
Amyrlin Seat with Lord Pelivar and Lady Arathelle and anyone else you think you 
should be present. Not here. Our ragged camp won't impress them very much. As 
soon as possible, mind. I wouldn't object to tomorrow, if it could be set."
"That's sooner than I can manage, Mother," he said mildly. "If I send riders out 
as soon as I return to camp, I doubt they can be back with an answer much before 
tomorrow night."
"Then I suggest you return quickly." Light, but her hands and feet felt cold. 
And the pit of her stomach, too. But her voice kept its calm. "And I want you to 
keep that meeting, and the existence of their army, from the Hall as long as 
possible."
This time, she was asking him to take as great a risk as she did. Gareth Bryne 
was one of the best generals living, but the Hall chafed that he did not run the 
army to suit them. They had been grateful for his name in the beginning, for it 
helped draw soldiers to their cause. Now the army had more than thirty thousand 
armed men, with more coming even since the snows had started, and they thought 
that maybe they did not need Lord Gareth Bryne any longer. And of course, there 
were those who believed they never had needed him. They would not simply send 
him away for this. If the Hall chose to act, he might well go to the headsman 
for treason.
He did not blink, and he did not ask questions. Perhaps he knew she would not 
give answers. Or maybe he thought he knew them. "There isn't much traffic 
between my camp and yours, but too many men know already to keep a secret long. 
I will do what I can, though."
As simple as that. The first step down a road that would see her on the Amyrlin 
Seat in Tar Valon, or else deliver her firmly into the grasp of the Hall, with 
nothing left to decide except whether it was Romanda or Lelaine who told her 
what to do. Somehow, such a pivotal moment should have been accompanied by 
fanfares of trumpets, or at the least, thunder in the sky. It was always that 
way in stories.
Egwene let the ball of light vanish, but as Bryne turned to leave, she caught 
his arm. It was like catching a thick tree branch through his coat. "A thing I 
have been meaning to ask you, Lord Bryne. You can't want to take men worn down 
by marching right into a siege of Tar Valon. How long would you want to rest 
them before you began?"
For the first time, he paused, and she wished she still had the light to see his 
face. She thought he frowned. "Even leaving people in the pay of the Tower out 
of it," he said at last, slowly, "news of an army flies as fast as a falcon. 
Elaida will know to the day when we'll arrive, and she won't give us an hour. 
You know she's increasing the Tower Guard? To fifty thousand men, apparently. 
But a month, if I could, to rest and recover. Ten days would do, but a month 
would be better."
She nodded, releasing him. That casual question about the Tower Guard hurt. He 
was aware that the Hall and the Ajahs told her what they wanted her to know and 
no more. "I suppose you're right," she said evenly. "There'll be no time for 
rest once we reach Tar Valon. Send your fastest riders. There won't be any 
difficulty, will there? Pelivar and Arathelle will hear them out?" She did not 
feign the touch of anxiety. More than her plans might be ruined if they had to 
fight now.
Bryne's tone did not alter a whit that she could tell, but somehow, he sounded 
soothing. "So long as there is light enough for them to see the white feathers, 
they'll recognize a truce and listen. I'd better go, Mother. It's a long way and 
hard riding, even for men with extra horses."
As soon as the tentflap fell behind him, Egwene let out a long breath. Her 
shoulders were tight, and she expected her head to start aching any moment. 
Bryne usually made her feel relaxed, absorbing his sureness. Tonight, she had 
had to manipulate him, and she thought he knew it. He was very observant for a 
man. But too much was at stake to trust him more, until he made an open 
declaration. Maybe an oath like the one Myrelle and the others had given. Bryne 
followed the Amyrlin, and the army followed Bryne. If he thought she was going 
to throw men away uselessly, a few words from him could hand her to the Hall 
trussed like a pig on a platter. She drank deeply, feeling the warmth of the 
spiced wine spread through her.
"Better for us if they believed," she muttered. "I wish there was something for 
them to believe. If I do nothing else, Siuan, I hope at least I can free us from 
the Three Oaths."
"No!" Siuan barked. She sounded scandalized. "Even trying could be disastrous, 
and if you succeeded . . . The Light help us, if you succeeded, you would 
destroy the White Tower."
"What are you talking about? I try to follow the Oaths, Siuan, since we're stuck 
with them  --  for now  --  but the Oaths won't help us against the Seanchan. If 
sisters have to be in danger of their lives before they can fight back, it's 
only a matter of time before we are all dead or collared." For a moment she 
could feel the a'dam around her throat again, turning her into a dog on a leash. 
A well-trained and obedient dog. She was glad of the darkness, now, hiding her 
trembles. Shadows obscured Siuan's face, save for a soundlessly working jaw.
"Don't you look at me like that, Siuan." It was easier to be angry than afraid, 
easy to mask fear in anger. She would never be collared like that again! "You've 
taken every advantage since you were freed from the Oaths. If you hadn't lied in 
your teeth, we'd all be in Salidar, without an army, sitting on our hands and 
waiting for a miracle. Well, you would be. They'd never have summoned me to be 
Amyrlin without your lie about Logain and the Reds. Elaida would reign supreme, 
and in a year, nobody would remember how she usurped the Amyrlin Seat. She'd 
destroy the Tower, for sure. You know she'd mishandle everything about Rand. I 
would not be surprised if she had tried to kidnap him by now, except that she's 
concerned with us. Well, maybe not kidnap, but she'd have done something. 
Likely, Aes Sedai would be fighting Asha'man today, and never mind Tarmon 
Gai'don waiting over the horizon."
"I have lied when it seemed necessary," Siuan breathed. "When it seemed 
expedient." Her shoulders hunched, and she sounded as though she were confessing 
crimes she did not want to admit to herself. "Sometimes I think it's become too 
easy for me to decide that it's necessary and expedient. I've lied to almost 
everyone. Except you. But don't think it hasn't occurred to me. To nudge you 
toward a decision, or away from one. It wasn't wanting to keep your trust that 
stopped me." Siuan's hand stretched out in the dark, pleading. "The Light knows 
what your trust and friendship mean to me, but it wasn't that. It wasn't knowing 
that you'd have the hide off me in strips, or send me away, if you found out. I 
realized that I had to hold on to the Oaths with somebody, or I'd lose myself 
completely. So I don't lie to you, or to Gareth Bryne, whatever it costs. And as 
soon I can, Mother, I will swear the Three Oaths on the Oath Rod again."
"Why?" Egwene asked quietly. Siuan had considered lying to her? She would have 
had her hide for that. But her anger was gone. "I don't condone lying, Siuan. 
Not normally. It's just that sometimes, it really is necessary." Her time with 
the Aiel flashed through her mind. "So long as you're willing to pay for it, 
anyway. I've seen sisters take on penance for smaller things. You are one of the 
first of a new sort of Aes Sedai, Siuan, free and unbound. I believe you when 
you say you won't lie to me." Or to Lord Bryne? Odd, that. "Why give up your 
freedom?"
"Give up?" Siuan laughed. "I'll be giving up nothing." Her back straightened, 
and her voice began to gain strength, and then passion. "The Oaths are what make 
us more than simply a group of women meddling in the affairs of the world. Or 
seven groups. Or fifty. The Oaths hold us together, a stated set of beliefs that 
bind us all, a single thread running through every sister, living or dead, back 
to the first to lay her hands on the Oath Rod. They are what make us Aes Sedai, 
not saidar. Any wilder can channel. Men may look at what we say from six sides, 
but when a sister says, 'This is so,' they know it's true, and they trust. 
Because of the Oaths. Because of the Oaths, no queen fears that sisters will lay 
waste to her cities. The worst villain knows he's safe in his life with a sister 
unless he tries to harm her. Oh, the Whitecloaks call them lies, and some people 
have strange ideas about what the Oaths entail, but there are very few places an 
Aes Sedai cannot go, and be listened to, because of the Oaths. The Three Oaths 
are what it is to be Aes Sedai, the heart of being Aes Sedai. Throw that on the 
rubbish heap, and we'll be sand washing away in the tide. Give up? I will be 
gaining."
Egwene frowned. "And the Seanchan?" What it was to be Aes Sedai. Almost from the 
day she first arrived in Tar Valon, she had worked to be Aes Sedai, but she had 
never really thought about what it was that made a woman Aes Sedai.
Once more Siuan laughed, though this time it was a touch wry, and weary. She 
shook her head, and darkness or no, looked tired. "I don't know, Mother. The 
Light help me, I don't. But we survived the Trolloc Wars, and Whitecloaks, and 
Artur Hawkwing, and everything in between. We can find a way to deal with these 
Seanchan. Without destroying ourselves."
Egwene was not so sure. Many of the sisters in camp thought the Seanchan were 
such a danger that besieging Elaida should wait. As if waiting would not cement 
Elaida on the Amyrlin Seat. Many others seemed to think that simply uniting the 
White Tower again, at whatever price, would make the Seanchan vanish. Survival 
lost some of its attraction if it was survival on a leash, and Elaida's would 
not be much less confining than the Seanchan's. What it was to be Aes Sedai.
"There's no need to keep Gareth Bryne at arm's length," Siuan said suddenly. 
"The man's a walking tribulation, it's true. If he doesn't count as penance for 
my lies, being flayed alive wouldn't do. One of these days, I'll box his ears 
every morning and twice at evenings, on general principle, but you can tell him 
everything. It would help, if he understood. He's taking you on trust, and it 
ties his stomach in knots, wondering whether you know what you're doing. He 
doesn't let on, but I see."
Suddenly, pieces clicked in Egwene's mind like a blacksmith's puzzle coming 
undone. Shocking pieces. Siuan was in love with the man! Nothing else made 
sense. Everything she knew between them altered. Not necessarily for the better. 
A woman in love often put her brains on the shelf when she was around the man in 
question. As she herself was all too well aware. Where was Gawyn? Was he well? 
Was he warm? Enough of that. Too much, in light of what she had to say. She put 
on her best Amyrlin's voice, sure and in command. "You can box Lord Bryne's ears 
or bed him, Siuan, but you will watch yourself with him. You will not let slip 
things he mustn't know yet. Do you understand me?"
Siuan jerked stiffly erect. "I'm not in the habit of letting my tongue flap like 
a torn sail, Mother," she said heatedly.
"I'm very glad to hear it, Siuan." Despite their looking only a few years apart, 
Siuan was old enough to be her mother yet at that moment Egwene felt as though 
their ages had been reversed. This might be the first time that Siuan had ever 
had to manage with a man not as Aes Sedai, but as a woman. A few years of 
thinking I loved Rand, Egwene thought wryly, a few months of dangling by my toes 
for Gawyn, and I know all there is to know.
"I think we're done here," she went on, slipping an arm through Siuan's. 
"Almost. Come."
The walls of the tent had seemed little protection, yet stepping outside brought 
a renewed assault by winter's teeth. The moonlight was almost bright enough to 
read by, reflected off the snow, but that glow seemed cold. Bryne had vanished 
as if he had never been. Leane appeared long enough to say she had seen no one, 
her slimness swallowed in layers of wool, then hurried off into the night 
looking about her. No one knew of any connection between Leane and Egwene, and 
everyone thought Leane and Siuan were practically at daggers' points.
Gathering her cloak as best she could one-handed, Egwene focused on ignoring the 
icy chill as she and Siuan walked in the opposite direction from Leane. Ignoring 
the chill, and keeping an eye out for anyone who happened to be out. Not that 
anyone who was outside now was likely to be there by happenstance.
"Lord Bryne was right," she told Siuan, "about it being better if Pelivar and 
Arathelle believed those stories. Or at least if they were uncertain. Too 
uncertain to fight, or do anything except talk. Do you think they would welcome 
a visit from Aes Sedai? Siuan, are you listening to me?"
Siuan gave a start, and stopped staring into the distance ahead of them. She had 
been walking ahead without missing a step, but now she slipped and nearly sat 
down in the frozen path, barely regaining her balance in time to keep from 
pulling Egwene down. "Yes, Mother. Of course I'm listening. They might not be 
exactly welcoming, but I doubt they'll turn sisters away."
"Then I want you to wake Beonin, Anaiya, and Myrelle. They are to ride north 
inside the hour. If Lord Bryne expects a reply as soon as tomorrow evening, time 
is short." A pity she had not found out exactly where this other army was 
located, but asking Bryne might have roused suspicion. Finding it should not be 
too hard for Warders, and those three sisters had five between them.
Siuan listened in silence to her instructions. Not only those three were to be 
rooted out of their sleep. Come dawn, Sheriam and Carlinya, Morvrin and Nisao 
would all know what to say over breakfast. Seeds had to be planted, seeds that 
could not have been placed earlier for fear of them sprouting too soon, but now 
they had all too little time to grow.
"It will be a pleasure to haul them out of their blankets," Siuan said when she 
was done. "If I have to tramp around in this . . . " Releasing Egwene's arm, she 
started to turn away, then stopped, her face serious, even grim. "I know you 
want to be a second Gerra Kishar  --  or maybe Sereille Bagand. You have it in you 
to match either. But be careful you don't turn out to be another Shein Chunk. 
Good night, Mother. Sleep well."
Egwene stood watching her go, a cloak-shrouded figure sometimes skidding on the 
path and muttering angrily almost loud enough to make out. Gerra and Sereille 
were remembered as among the greatest Amyrlins. Both had raised the influence 
and prestige of the White Tower to levels seldom equaled since before Artur 
Hawkwing. Both controlled the Tower itself, too, Gerra by skillfully playing one 
faction in the Hall against another, Sereille by the sheer force of her will. 
Shein Chunk was another matter, one who had squandered the power of the Amyrlin 
Seat, alienating most of the sisters in the Tower. The world believed that Shein 
had died in office, close on four hundred years ago, but the deeply hidden truth 
was that she had been deposed and sent into exile for life. Even the secret 
histories treaded lightly in certain areas, yet it was fairly obvious that, 
after the fourth plot to restore her to the Amyrlin Seat was uncovered, the 
sisters guarding Shein had smothered her in her sleep with a pillow. Egwene 
shivered, and told herself it was the cold.
Turning, she began making her slow way back to her tent alone. Sleep well? The 
fat moon hung low in the sky, and there were hours yet till sunrise, but she was 
not sure she was going to be able to sleep at all.
Chapter 16
Unexpected Absences
Before the sun made a rim on the horizon the next morning, Egwene convened the 
Hall of the Tower. In Tar Valon, that would have been accompanied by 
considerable ceremony, and even since leaving Salidar they had held to some 
despite the difficulties of travel. Now, Sheriam simply went from Sitter's tent 
to Sitter's tent while it was still dark to announce that the Amyrlin Seat had 
called the Hall to Sit. In fact, they did not sit at all. In the grayness just 
before true sunrise, eighteen women stood in a semicircle on the snow to hear 
Egwene, all bundled against the cold that misted their breath.
Other sisters began appearing behind them to listen, only a few at the start, 
but when no one told them to leave, the group thickened and spread out to a soft 
buzz of talk. A very muted buzz. Few sisters would risk bothering a lone Sitter, 
much less the entire Hall. The Accepted in banded dresses and cloaks who had 
appeared behind the Aes Sedai were quieter, of course, and even quieter the 
gathering novices who had no chores, though there were a good many more of them. 
The camp now held half again as many novices as sisters, so many that few 
possessed a proper white cloak and most made do with a simple white skirt 
instead of a novice dress. Some sisters still believed they should go back to 
the old ways and let girls seek them out, but most regretted the lost years, 
when Aes Sedai numbers dwindled. Egwene herself almost shivered whenever she 
thought of what the Tower could have been. This was one change not even Siuan 
could object to.
In the midst of all the gathering, Carlinya came around the corner of a tent and 
stopped short at the sight of Egwene and the Sitters. Normally composure to her 
toenails, the White sister gaped, and her pale face reddened before she hurried 
away, looking back over her shoulder. Egwene stifled a grimace. Everyone was too 
concerned with what she herself was about this morning to have noticed, but 
sooner or later, someone was going to, and wonder.
Flinging back her delicately embroidered cloak to reveal the narrow blue stole 
of the Keeper, Sheriam made Egwene as much of a formal curtsy as her bulky 
garments allowed before taking a place at her side. Wrapped in layers of fine 
wool and silk, the flame-haired woman was the very picture of equanimity. At 
Egwene's nod, she took one step forward to intone the ancient formula in a 
clear, high voice.
"She comes; she comes! The Watcher of the Seals, the Flame of Tar Valon, the 
Amyrlin Seat. Attend you all, for she comes!" It seemed a little out of place 
here, and besides, she was already there, not coming. The Sitters stood in 
silence, waiting. A few frowned impatiently, or fiddled restlessly with cloaks 
or skirts.
Egwene pushed back her own cloak, uncovering the seven-striped stole draped 
around her neck. These women needed any reminder she could give that she was 
indeed the Amyrlin Seat. "Everyone is weary from travel in this weather," she 
announced, not quite so loudly as Sheriam, but loud enough that everyone could 
hear. She felt a tingle of anticipation, an almost lightheaded thrill. It was 
not much different from being queasy. "I have decided to stop here for two days, 
perhaps three." That brought heads up and sparked interest. She hoped Siuan was 
in the listening crowd. She did try to hold to the Oaths. "The horses need rest, 
too, and many of the wagons badly need repairs. The Keeper will see to the 
necessary arrangements." It truly was begun, now.
She expected neither argument nor discussion, and there was none. What she had 
told Siuan was no exaggeration. Too many sisters hoped for a miracle, so they 
would not have to march on Tar Valon with the world watching. Even among those 
convinced in their souls that Elaida must be ousted for the good of the Tower, 
despite everything they had done, too many would grasp any chance of delay, any 
chance for that miracle to appear.
One of those last, Romanda, did not wait for Sheriam to speak the closing lines. 
As soon as Egwene finished speaking, Romanda, looking quite youthful with her 
tight gray bun hidden by her hood, simply strode away. Cloaks flapping, Magla, 
Saroiya, and Varilin scurried after her. As well as anyone could scurry, when 
every other step sank ankle-deep. They did a good job of it anyway; Sitters or 
no, they hardly seemed to breathe without Romanda's permission. When Lelaine saw 
Romanda leaving, she gathered up Faiselle, Takima, and Lyrelle from the 
semicircle with a gesture and went without a backward glance, like a swan with 
three anxious goslings. If they were not so firmly in Lelaine's grasp as the 
other three were in Romanda's, they did not fall far short. For that matter, the 
rest of the Sitters barely waited on the final "Depart now in the Light" to 
leave Sheriam's lips. Egwene turned to go with her Hall of the Tower already 
scattering in every direction. That tingle was stronger. And very like being 
queasy.
"Three days," Sheriam murmured, offering Egwene a hand to help her down into one 
of the rutted paths. The corners of her tilted green eyes crinkled quizzically. 
"I'm surprised, Mother. Forgive me, but you dug in your heels nearly every time 
I wanted, to stop for more than one."
"Speak to me again after you've talked to the wheelwrights and farriers," Egwene 
told her. "We'll not go far with horses dropping dead and wagons falling apart."
"As you say, Mother," the other woman replied, not precisely meekly, but in 
perfect acceptance.
The footing was no better now than it had been the night before, and their steps 
sometimes slid. Linking arms, they walked on slowly. Sheriam offered more 
support than Egwene required, but she did so almost surreptitiously. The Amyrlin 
Seat should not fall on her bottom in the full view of fifty sisters and a 
hundred servants, but neither should she seem propped up like an invalid.
Most of the Sitters who had sworn to Egwene, Sheriam included, had done so out 
of simple fear, really, and self-preservation. If the Hall learned they had sent 
sisters to sway the Aes Sedai in Tar Valon, and worse, kept the fact from the 
Hall for fear of Darkfriends among the Sitters, they surely and certainly would 
spend the rest of their lives in penance and exile. So the women who had 
believed they could somehow twitch Egwene about like a puppet, after the greater 
part of their influence with the Hall melted, instead found themselves sworn to 
obey her. That was rare even in the secret histories; sisters were expected to 
obey the Amyrlin, but swearing fealty was something else again. Most still 
seemed unsettled by it, though they did obey. Few were as bad as Carlinya, but 
Egwene had actually heard Beonin's teeth chatter the first time she saw Egwene 
with Sitters after swearing. Morvrin looked astonished anew whenever her eyes 
fell on Egwene, as if she still did not quite believe, and Nisao hardly seemed 
to stop frowning. Anaiya clicked her tongue over the secrecy, and Myrelle often 
flinched, though for more reason than taking an oath. But Sheriam simply had 
settled into the role of Egwene's Keeper of the Chronicles in truth, not just 
name.
"May I suggest using this opportunity to see what the surrounding country offers 
in way of food and fodder, Mother? Our stocks are low." Sheriam frowned 
anxiously. "Especially tea and salt, though I doubt we'll find those."
"Do what you can," Egwene said in a soothing tone. Odd now, to think that once 
she had gone in awe of Sheriam, and in no little fear of her displeasure. 
Strange as it seemed, now that she was no longer Mistress of Novices, no longer 
trying to tug and push Egwene to do as she wished, Sheriam actually seemed 
happier. "I have every confidence in you, Sheriam." The woman positively beamed 
at the compliment.
The sun still did not show above the tents and wagons to the east, but the camp 
was already bustling. In a manner of speaking. Breakfast done, the cooks were 
cleaning up, helped by a horde of novices. From the vigor they put into it, the 
young women seemed to find some warmth in scrubbing kettles with snow, but the 
cooks moved laboriously, knuckling their backs, stopping to sigh and sometimes 
to pull their cloaks close and stare bleakly at the snow. Shivering serving men, 
wearing most of the clothes they owned, had begun striking tents and loading 
wagons automatically as soon as they finished their hasty meal, and were now 
stumbling about to raise the tents and haul chests out of the wagons. Animals 
that had been being harnessed were now being led away by weary horse-handlers 
who walked with heads down. Egwene heard a few grumbles from men who failed to 
notice there were sisters nearby, but the greater number seemed too tired to 
voice a complaint.
Most of the Aes Sedai whose tents were up had vanished inside, but a good many 
still directed workers, and others hurried along the sunken paths on errands of 
their own. Unlike everyone else, they showed as little outward weariness as the 
Warders, who somehow managed to appear as if they had had all the sleep they 
needed for this fine spring day. Egwene suspected that was a real part of how a 
sister drew strength from her Warder, quite aside from what she could do with 
the bond. When your Warder would not admit to himself that he was cold or tired 
or hungry, you just had to bear up as well.
On one of the crossing paths, Morvrin appeared, clutching Takima's arm. Perhaps 
it was for support, though Morvrin was wide enough to make the shorter woman 
seem more diminutive than she actually was. Perhaps it was to keep Takima from 
escaping; Morvrin was dogged once she set a goal. Egwene frowned. Morvrin might 
well be expected to seek out a Sitter for her Ajah, the Brown, yet Egwene would 
have thought Janya or Escaralde more likely. The two passed out of sight behind 
a canvas-topped wagon on runners, Morvrin bending to talk in her companion's 
ear. There was no way to tell whether Takima was paying any mind.
"Is something the matter, Mother?"
Egwene put on a smile that felt tight. "No more than usual, Sheriam. No more 
than usual."
At the Amyrlin's Study, Sheriam departed to see to the tasks Egwene had given 
her, and Egwene went in to find everything in readiness. She would have been 
surprised at anything else. Selame was just setting a tea tray on the writing 
table. Brightly colored beadwork ran across the rail-thin woman's bodice and 
down her sleeves, and with her long nose carried high, she hardly seemed a 
servant at first glance, but she had seen to what needed doing. Two braziers 
full of glowing coals had taken some of the chill off the air, though most of 
the heat rushed out through the smoke hole. Dried herbs sprinkled on the coals 
gave a pleasant scent to the smoke that did not escape, the tray from the night 
before was gone, and the lantern and tallow candles had been trimmed and lit. No 
one was about to leave a tent open enough to let in light from outside.
Siuan was already there, too, with a stack of papers in her hands, a harried 
expression on her face, and a smudge of ink on her nose. The post of secretary 
provided the two of them another reason to be seen talking, and Sheriam had not 
minded at all giving up the work. Siuan herself grumbled frequently, however. 
For a woman who had seldom left the Tower since entering as a novice, she had a 
remarkable dislike for staying inside. At the moment she was the picture of a 
woman being patient and wanting everyone to know it.
For all her high nose, Selame simpered and bobbed so many curtsies that taking 
Egwene's cloak and mittens turned into an elaborate little ceremony. The woman 
nattered on about the Mother putting her feet up, and perhaps she should fetch 
the Mother a lap robe, and maybe she should stay in case the Mother wanted 
anything else, until Egwene practically chased her out. The tea tasted of mint. 
In this weather! Selame was a trial, and she could hardly be called loyal, but 
she did try.
There was no time for lounging and sipping tea, though. Egwene straightened her 
stole and took her place behind the writing desk, absentmindedly giving a yank 
to the leg of her chair so it would not fold beneath her as it often did, Siuan 
perched atop a rickety stool on the other side of the table, and the tea cooled. 
They did not speak of plans, or Gareth Bryne, or hopes; what could be done there 
for now, had been. Reports and problems piled up when they were on the move and 
weariness overcame attempts to deal with them, and now that they were stopped, 
all had to be gone through. An army ahead did not change that.
At times, Egwene wondered how so much paper could be found when everything else 
seemed so difficult. The reports Siuan handed her detailed shortages and little 
else. Not simply those Sheriam had mentioned, but coal and nails and iron for 
the farriers and wheelwrights, leather and oiled thread for the harness-makers, 
lamp oil and candles and a hundred other things, even soap. And whatever was not 
running out was wearing out, from shoes to tents, all listed in Siuan's bold 
hand, which grew more aggressive the more glaring the need she wrote about. Her 
account of the coin remaining looked to have been slashed onto the paper in a 
positive fury. And not a thing to be done about it.
Among Siuan's papers were several addresses from Sitters suggesting ways to 
solve the problem of money. Or rather, informing Egwene what they intended to 
lay before the Hall. There were few advantages to any of the schemes, however, 
and many pitfalls. Moria Karentanis proposed stopping the soldiers' pay, a 
notion Egwene thought the Hall had already realized would cause the army to melt 
away like dew under a midsummer sun. Malind Nachenin presented an appeal to 
nearby nobles that sounded more a demand and might well turn the whole 
countryside against them, as would Salita Toranes' intention to levy a tax on 
the towns and villages they passed.
Crumpling the three addresses together in her fist, Egwene shook them at Siuan. 
She wished it were three Sitters' throats she was gripping. "Do they all think 
everything has to go the way they wish, and never mind realities? Light, they're 
the ones behaving like children!"
"The Tower has managed to makes its wishes become realities often enough," Siuan 
said complacently. "Remember, some would say you're ignoring reality, too."
Egwene sniffed. Luckily, whatever the Hall voted, none of the proposals could be 
carried forward without a decree from her. Even in her straitened circumstances, 
she had a little power. Very little, but that was more than none. "Is the Hall 
always this bad, Siuan?"
Siuan nodded, shifting slightly to try to find a better balance. No two of her 
stool's legs were the same length. "But it could be worse. Remind me to tell you 
about the Year of the Four Amyrlins; that was about a hundred and fifty years 
after the founding of Tar Valon. In those days, the normal workings of the Tower 
nearly rivaled what's happening today. Every hand tried to snatch the tiller, if 
they could. There were actually two rival Halls of the Tower in Tar Valon for 
part of that year. Almost like now. Just about everyone came to grief in the 
end, including a few who thought they were going to save the Tower. Some of them 
might have, if they hadn't stepped in quicksand. The Tower survived anyway, of 
course. It always does."
A great deal of history grew up in over three thousand years, much suppressed, 
hidden from all but a few eyes, yet Siuan seemed to have every detail at her 
fingertips. She must have spent a good part of her years in the Tower burying 
herself in those secret histories. Of one thing, Egwene was certain. She would 
avoid Shein's fate if she could, but she would not remain as she was, little 
better off than Cemaile Sorenthaine. Long before the end of her reign, the most 
important decision left to Cemaile's discretion was what dress to wear. She was 
going to have to ask Siuan to tell her about the Year of the Four Amyrlins, and 
she did not look forward to it.
The shifting beam of light from the smoke hole in the roof showed morning toward 
midday, but Siuan's stack of papers seemed hardly diminished. Any interruption 
at all would have been welcome, even premature discovery. Well, maybe not that.
"What's next, Siuan?" she growled.
 
A flicker of movement caught Aran'gar's eye, and she peered through the trees 
toward the army's camp, an obscuring ring around the tents of the Aes Sedai. A 
line of wagon-sledges was moving slowly east, escorted by men on horseback. The 
pale sun glinted from armor and the points of lances. She could not help 
sneering. Spears and horses! A primitive rabble that could move no faster than a 
man could walk, led by a man who did not know what was happening a hundred miles 
away. Aes Sedai? She could destroy the lot of them, and even dying they would 
never suspect who was killing them. Of course, she would not survive them long. 
That thought made her shiver. The Great Lord gave very few a second chance at 
life, and she was not about to throw away hers.
Waiting until the riders moved out of sight into the forest, she started back 
toward the camp, thinking idly of tonight's dreams. Behind her, smooth snow 
would hide what she had buried until the spring thaw, more than long enough. 
Ahead, some of the men in the camp finally noticed her and straightened from 
their tasks to watch. In spite of herself, she smiled and smoothed her skirt 
over her hips. It was difficult now to really remember what life had been like 
as a man; had she been such an easily manipulated fool, then? Getting through 
that swarm with a corpse unseen had been difficult, even for her, but she 
enjoyed the walk back.
 
The morning went on in a seemingly endless wading through paper, until what 
Egwene had known would happen, did. Certain daily events were sure. There would 
be bitter cold, there would be snow, there would be clouds, and gray skies, and 
wind. And there would be visits from Lelaine and Romanda.
Weary of sitting, Egwene was stretching her legs when Lelaine swept into the 
tent with Faolain at her heels. Frigid air rolled in with them before the 
tentflap fell shut. Looking around with a faintly disapproving air, Lelaine 
plucked off blue leather gloves while allowing Faolain to remove the lynx-lined 
cloak from her shoulders. Slender and dignified in deep blue silk, with 
penetrating eyes, she might have been in her own tent. At a casual gesture, 
Faolain retreated deferentially to a corner with the garment, merely shrugging 
her own cloak back. Plainly, she was ready to go on the instant at another wave 
of the Sitter's hand. Her dark features wore a cast of resigned meekness, not 
very much like her.
Lelaine's reserve cracked for a moment, in a surprisingly warm smile for Siuan. 
They had been friends, once, years ago, and she had even offered something like 
the patronage that Faolain had accepted, a Sitter's protection and sheltering 
arm against the sneers and accusations of other sisters. Touching Siuan's cheek, 
Lelaine softly murmured something that sounded sympathetic. Siuan blushed, a 
startling uncertainty flashing across her face. It was not pretense, Egwene was 
sure. Siuan found it difficult to deal with what really had changed in her, and 
more, with how easily she was adapting.
Lelaine eyed the stool in front of the writing table and, as usual, visibly 
rejected such an unsteady seat. Only then did she acknowledge Egwene's presence, 
with the barest dip of her head.
"We need to speak of the Sea Folk, Mother," she said in a tone a bit firm to be 
directed at the Amyrlin Seat.
Not until Egwene's heart sank down from her throat did she realize she had been 
afraid that Lelaine already knew what Lord Bryne had told her. Or even the 
meeting he was arranging. The next instant, her heart leaped back again. The Sea 
Folk? Surely the Hall could not have learned of the insane bargain Nynaeve and 
Elayne had made. She could not imagine what had led them into such a disaster, 
or how she was to deal with it.
Her stomach roiling, she took her place behind the table without revealing 
anything of what she felt. And that fool chair leg folded, nearly dropping her 
onto the carpets before she could jerk it straight again. She hoped her cheeks 
were not coloring. "The Sea Folk in Caemlyn, or in Cairhien?" Yes; that sounded 
suitably calm and collected.
"Cairhien." Romanda's high voice rang like sudden chimes. "Definitely Cairhien." 
Her entry made Lelaine's seem almost diffident, the force of her personality 
abruptly filling the tent. There were no warm smiles in Romanda; handsome as her 
face was, it did not seem made for them.
Theodrin followed her in, and Romanda swung her cloak off with a flourish and 
tossed it to the slim, apple-cheeked sister with a peremptory gesture that sent 
Theodrin hurrying to a corner opposite Faolain. Faolain was distinctly subdued, 
but Theodrin's tilted eyes were very wide, as though she was permanently 
startled, and her lips seemed ready to gasp. Like Faolain, her proper place in 
the hierarchy of Aes Sedai demanded better employment, but neither was likely to 
receive it soon.
Romanda's compelling gaze rested a moment on Siuan, as if considering whether to 
send her to a corner as well, then brushed past Lelaine almost dismissively 
before settling on Egwene. "It seems that young man has been talking with the 
Sea Folk, Mother. The Yellow eyes-and-ears in Cairhien are most excited about 
it. Do you have any idea what might interest him in the Atha'an Miere?"
Despite the title, Romanda hardly sounded as if she were addressing the Amyrlin 
Seat, but then, she never did. There was no doubt who "that young man" was. 
Every sister in the camp accepted that Rand was the Dragon Reborn, but anyone 
who heard them talk would have believed they were speaking of an unruly young 
lout who might come to dinner drunk and throw up on the table.
"She can hardly know what's in the boy's head," Lelaine said before Egwene could 
open her mouth. Her smile was not at all warm this time. "If an answer is to be 
found, Romanda, it will be in Caemlyn. The Atha'an Miere there are not 
sequestered on a ship, and I seriously doubt that high ranking Sea Folk came so 
far from the sea on different errands. I've never heard of them doing so for any 
reason. It may be they have an interest in him. They must know who he is by 
now."
Romanda smiled back, and frost should have appeared on the tent walls. "There's 
hardly need to state the obvious, Lelaine. The first question is how to find 
out."
"I was about to resolve that when you barged in, Romanda. The next time the 
Mother encounters Elayne or Nynaeve in Tel'aran'rhiod, she can pass on 
instructions. Merilille can discover what the Atha'an Miere want, or maybe what 
the boy does, when she reaches Caemlyn. A pity the girls didn't think to set a 
regular schedule, but we must work around that. Merilille can meet with a Sitter 
in Tel'aran'rhiod when she knows." Lelaine made a small gesture; plainly, she 
herself was the intended Sitter. "I thought Salidar might be a suitable place."
Romanda snorted with amusement. Even in that, there was no warmth. "Easier to 
instruct Merilille than to see she obeys, Lelaine. I expect she knows she faces 
sharp questions. This Bowl of the Winds should have been brought to us for study 
first. None of the sisters in Ebou Dar had much ability in Cloud Dancing, I 
believe, and you can see the result, all this hurly-burly and suddenness. I have 
a thought to call a question before the Hall concerning everyone involved." 
Abruptly the gray-haired woman's voice became smooth as butter. "As I recall, 
you supported the choice of Merilille."
With a jerk, Lelaine drew herself up. Her eyes flashed. "I supported who the 
Gray put forward, Romanda, and no more," she said indignantly. "How could I have 
imagined she would decide to use the Bowl there? And to include Sea Folk wilders 
in the circle! How could she believe they know as much of working weather as Aes 
Sedai?" Abruptly her ire slipped. She was defending herself to her fiercest 
adversary in the Hall, her only real adversary. And, no doubt worse in her view, 
she was agreeing with her about the Sea Folk. There was no question that she did 
agree, but giving the fact voice was another matter.
Romanda let her cold smile deepen as Lelaine's face paled with fury. She 
straightened her bronze-colored skirts with meticulous care as Lelaine searched 
for a way to turn matters about. "We will see how the Hall stands, Lelaine," she 
said finally. "Until the question is called, I think it best if Merilille does 
not meet with any of the Sitters involved in her selection. Even a suggestion of 
collusion would be looked at askance. I'm sure you will agree I should be the 
one to speak with her."
Lelaine's face paled differently. She was not afraid, not visibly, yet Egwene 
could almost see her counting who might stand for her, or against. Collusion was 
almost as serious as a charge of treason, and required only the lesser 
consensus. Likely, she could avoid that, but the arguments would be deep and 
acrimonious, Romanda's faction might even increase. That would cause untold 
problems whether or not Egwene's own plans bore fruit. And there was nothing she 
could do to stop it, short of revealing what really had happened in Ebou Dar. As 
well ask them to let her accept the same offer Faolain and Theodrin had.
Egwene drew breath. At least she might be able to prevent the use of Salidar as 
a meeting place in Tel'aran'rhiod. That was where she met Elayne and Nynaeve, 
now. When she did, anyway; she had not in days. With Sitters popping in and out 
of the World of Dreams, finding anywhere you could be sure they would not appear 
was difficult. "The next time I encounter Elayne or Nynaeve, I will pass on your 
instructions regarding Merilille. I can let you know when she's ready to meet 
you." Which would be never, once she was done with those instructions.
The Sitters' heads whipped around, and two sets of eyes stared at her. They had 
forgotten she was there! Struggling to keep her face smooth, she realized her 
foot was tapping irritably, and stopped it. She had to go along with what they 
thought of her a while longer, yet. A little while longer. At least she no 
longer felt nauseated. Just angry.
Into that moment of silence, Chesa came bustling with Egwene's midday meal on a 
cloth-covered tray. Dark-haired, plump and pretty in her middle years, Chesa 
managed to convey a proper respect without cringing. Her curtsy was as simple as 
her dark gray dress, with just a touch of plain lace at the throat. "Forgive me 
for intruding, Mother, Aes Sedai. I am sorry this is late, Mother, but Meri 
seems to have wandered off." She clicked her tongue in exasperation as she set 
the tray in front of Egwene. Wandering seemed very unlike the misnamed Meri. 
That dour woman was as disapproving of faults in herself as she was of those in 
others.
Romanda frowned, but she said nothing. After all, she could hardly show too much 
interest in one of Egwene's maids. Especially when the woman was her spy. Just 
as Selame was Lelaine's. Egwene avoided looking at Theodrin or Faolain, both 
still standing dutifully in their corners like Accepted, rather than Aes Sedai 
themselves.
Chesa half-opened her mouth, but closed it again, perhaps intimidated by the 
Sitters. Egwene was relieved when she dipped another curtsy and left with a 
murmured "By your leave, Mother." Chesa's advice was always indirect enough for 
any sister when anyone else was present, but right then, the last thing Egwene 
wanted was even a circumspect reminder to eat while her food was hot.
Lelaine took up as if there had been no interruption. "The important thing," she 
said firmly, "is to learn what the Atha'an Miere want. Or what the boy does. 
Maybe he wants to be their king, too." Holding out her arms, she allowed Faolain 
to restore her cloak, which the dark young woman did with care. "You will 
remember to let me know if you have any thoughts on it, Mother?" That was just 
barely a request.
"I will think hard," Egwene told her. Which was not to say she would share her 
thoughts. She wished she had a glimmer of the answer. That the Atha'an Miere 
believed Rand was their prophesied Coramoor, she knew, though the Hall did not, 
but what he wanted from them, or them from him, she could not begin to imagine. 
According to Elayne, the Sea Folk with them had no clue. Or said not. Egwene 
almost wished one of the handful of sisters who had come from the Atha'an Miere 
was in the camp. Almost. One way or another, those Windfinders were going to 
cause trouble.
At a wave of Romanda's hand, Theodrin leaped forward with the Sitter's cloak as 
though goosed. By Romanda's expression, Lelaine's recovery did not best please 
her. "You will remember to tell Merilille I wish to speak with her, Mother," she 
said, and that was not a request at all.
For a brief moment the two Sitters stood staring at one another, Egwene 
forgotten again in their mutual animosity. They departed without a word to her, 
very nearly jostling for precedence before Romanda slipped out first, drawing 
Theodrin in her wake. Baring her teeth, Lelaine practically pushed Faolain from 
the tent ahead of her.
Siuan heaved a hearty sigh, and made no attempt to hide her relief.
"By your leave, Mother," Egwene muttered mockingly. "If you please, Mother. You 
may go, daughters." Letting out a long breath, she settled back in her chair. 
Which promptly pitched her onto the carpets in a heap. She picked herself up 
slowly and jerked her skirts straight, put her stole to rights. At least it had 
not happened in front of those two. "Go get something to eat, Siuan. And bring 
it back. We've a long day, yet."
"Some falls hurt less than others," Siuan said as if to herself before ducking 
outside. It was a good thing she went so quickly, or Egwene might have given her 
an earful.
She returned soon, though, and they ate hard rolls and lentil stew laced with 
tough carrot and scraps of meat Egwene did not look at closely. There were only 
a few interruptions, intrusions where they fell silent and pretended to study 
reports. Chesa came to take away the tray, and later to replace the candles, a 
task she grumbled over, which was not like her.
"Who'd expect Selame to go missing, too?" she muttered, half to herself. "Off 
canoodling with the soldiers, I expect. That Halima's a bad influence."
A skinny young fellow with a dripping nose renewed the already dead coals in the 
braziers  --  the Amyrlin got more warmth than most, but that was not a great deal 
 --  and he stumbled over his own boots and gaped at Egwene in a manner quite 
gratifying after the two Sitters. Sheriam appeared to ask whether Egwene had any 
further instructions, of all things, and then seemed to want to stay. Perhaps 
the few secrets she knew made her nervous; her eyes certainly darted uneasily.
That was the lot, and Egwene was not sure whether it was because no one bothered 
the Amyrlin without cause, or because everyone knew the real decisions were made 
in the Hall.
"I don't know about this report of soldiers moving south out of Kandor," Siuan 
said as soon as the tentflap fell behind Sheriam. "There's just the one, and 
Borderlanders seldom go far from the Blight, but every fool knows that, so it's 
hardly the kind of tale anyone would make up." She was not reading from a page, 
now.
Siuan had managed to keep very tenuous control of the Amyrlin's network of 
eyes-and-ears so far, and reports, rumors, and gossip flowed to her in steady 
streams, to be studied before she and Egwene decided what to pass on to the 
Hall. Leane had her own network, to add to the flow. Most of it was passed on  --  
some things the Hall had to know, and there was no guarantee that the Ajahs 
would pass on what their own agents learned  --  but it all had to be sieved for 
what might be dangerous, or serve to divert attention from the real goal.
Few of those streams carried anything good, of late. Cairhien had produced any 
number of rumors of Aes Sedai allied with Rand, or, worse, serving him, yet at 
least those could be dismissed out of hand. The Wise Ones would not say much at 
all about Rand or anyone connected to him, but according to them, Merana was 
awaiting his return, and certainly sisters in the Sun Palace, where the Dragon 
Reborn kept his first throne, were more than seed enough to grow those tales. 
Others were not easily ignored, even when it was hard to know what to make of 
them. A printer in Illian asserted that he had proof Rand had killed Mattin 
Stepaneos with his own hands and destroyed the body with the One Power, while a 
laborer on the docks there claimed she had seen the former King carried, bound 
and gagged and rolled in a rug, aboard a ship that had sailed in the night with 
the blessings of the captain of the Port Watch. The first was far more likely, 
but Egwene hoped none of the Ajahs' agents had picked up the same tale. There 
were already too many black marks against Rand's name in the sisters' books.
It went on like that. The Seanchan seemed to be taking a firm hold in Ebou Dar, 
against very little resistance. That might have been expected in a land where 
the Queen's true rule ended a few days' ride from her capital, yet it was hardly 
heartening. The Shaido seemed to be everywhere, though word of them always came 
from someone who had heard from someone who had heard. Most sisters seemed to 
believe the scattered Shaido were Rand's work despite the Wise Ones' denials, 
carried by Sheriam. No one wanted to probe the Wise Ones' supposed lies too 
closely, of course. There were a hundred excuses, but no one was willing to meet 
them in Tel'aran'rhiod except the sisters sworn to Egwene, and they had to be 
ordered. Anaiya dryly called the encounters "quite compact lessons in humility," 
and she did not seem at all amused.
"There can't be that many Shaido," Egwene muttered. No herbs had been added to 
the second batch of charcoal, which was dying down in faint embers, and her eyes 
ached from the smoke that hung thin in the air. Channeling to get rid of it 
would disperse the last warmth, too. "Some of this must be bandits' work." After 
all, who could tell a village emptied by people fleeing brigands from one 
emptied by Shaido? Especially at third hand, or fifth. "There are certainly 
enough bandits around to account for some of it." Most calling themselves 
Dragonsworn, which was no help at all. She worked her shoulders to loosen a few 
of the knots in her muscles.
Abruptly she realized that Siuan was staring at nothing so intently that she 
appeared ready to slip off of her stool. "Siuan, are you falling asleep? We may 
have worked most of the day, but it's still light out." There was light at the 
smoke hole, though it did appear to be fading.
Siuan blinked. "I'm sorry. I've been thinking about something lately, and trying 
to decide whether to share it with you. About the Hall."
"The Hall! Siuan, if you know something about the Hall  -- !"
"I don't know anything," Siuan cut in. "It's what I suspect." She clicked her 
tongue in annoyance. "Not even suspect, really. At least, I don't know what to 
suspect. But I see a pattern."
"Then you had best tell me about it," Egwene said. Siuan had shown herself very 
skilled at detecting patterns where others saw only a jumble.
Shifting on her stool, Siuan leaned forward intently. "It's this. Aside from 
Romanda and Moria, the Sitters chosen in Salidar are . . . they're too young." 
Much had changed in Siuan, but speaking of other sisters' ages clearly made her 
uncomfortable. "Escaralde is the oldest, and I'm sure she isn't much past 
seventy. I can't be certain without going into the novice books in Tar Valon, or 
her telling us, but I'm as sure as I can be. It isn't often the Hall has held 
more than one Sitter under a hundred, and here we have nine!"
"But Romanda and Moria are new," Egwene said gently, resting her elbows on the 
table. It had been a long day. "And neither is young. Maybe we should be 
grateful the others are, or they might not have been willing to raise me." She 
could have pointed out that Siuan herself had been chosen Amyrlin at less than 
half Escaralde's age, but the reminder would have been cruel.
"Maybe," Siuan said stubbornly. "Romanda was certain for the Hall as soon as she 
showed up. I doubt there's a Yellow would dare speak against her for a chair. 
And Moria . . . She doesn't cling to Lelaine, but Lelaine and Lyrelle probably 
thought she would. I don't know. Mark me, though. When a woman is raised too 
young, there's a reason." She took a deep breath. "Including when I was." The 
pain of loss flashed across her face, the loss of the Amyrlin Seat certainly, 
maybe of all the losses she had suffered. It was gone almost as soon as it came. 
Egwene did not think she had ever known a woman as strong as Siuan Sanche. "This 
time, there were more than enough sisters of proper age to choose from, and I 
can't see five Ajahs deadlocking on all of them. There is a pattern, and I mean 
to pick it out."
Egwene did not agree. Change hung in the air whether Siuan wanted to see it or 
not. Elaida had broken custom, come very close to breaking law, in usurping 
Siuan's place. Sisters had fled the Tower and let the world know of it, and that 
last certainly had never happened before. Change. Older sisters were more likely 
to be tied to the old ways, but even some of them had to see that everything was 
shifting. Surely that was why younger women, more open to the new, had been 
chosen. Should she order Siuan to stop wasting her time with this? Siuan had 
enough else to do. Or would it be a kindness to let her continue? She wanted so 
deeply to prove that the change she saw was not really occurring at all.
Before Egwene could make a decision, Romanda ducked into the tent and stood 
holding the tentflap open. Long shadows stretched across the snow outside. 
Evening was coming fast. Romanda's face was as dark as those shadows. She fixed 
Siuan with a stern gaze and snapped one word. "Out!"
Egwene gave an infinitesimal nod, but Siuan was already on her feet. She missed 
a step, then all but ran from the tent. A sister who stood where Siuan did was 
expected to obey any sister of Romanda's strength in the Power, not just a 
Sitter.
Throwing down the tentflap, Romanda embraced the Source. The glow of saidar 
surrounded her, and she wove a ward against eavesdropping around the inside of 
the tent without so much as a pretense of asking Egwene's permission. "You are a 
fool!" she grated. "How long did you think you could keep this a secret? 
Soldiers talk, child. Men always talk! Bryne will be lucky if the Hall doesn't 
put his head on a pike."
Egwene stood slowly, smoothing her skirt. She had been waiting for this, but she 
still needed to be careful. The game was far from played out, and everything 
could still turn against her in a flash. She had to pretend innocence, until she 
could afford to stop pretending. "Must I remind you that rudeness to the Amyrlin 
Seat is a crime, daughter," she said instead. She had been pretending so long, 
and she was so close.
"The Amyrlin Seat." Romanda strode across the carpets to within arm's reach of 
Egwene, and by her glare, the thought of reaching more crossed her mind. "You're 
an infant! Your bottom still remembers the last switching it had as a novice! 
After this, you'll be lucky if the Hall doesn't put you in a corner with a few 
play pretties. If you want to avoid that, you will listen to me, and do as I 
tell you. Now, sit down!"
Egwene seethed inside, but she sat. It was too soon.
With a sharp, satisfied nod, Romanda planted her fists on her hips. She stared 
down at Egwene like a stern aunt lecturing a misbehaving niece. A very stern 
aunt. Or a headsman with a toothache. "This meeting with Pelivar and Arathelle 
has to go forward, now it's been arranged. They expect the Amyrlin Seat, and 
they will see her. You will attend with all the pomp and dignity your title 
deserves. And you will tell them I am to speak for you, after which, you will 
hold your tongue! Getting them out of our way will require a firm hand, and 
someone who knows what she's about. No doubt Lelaine will be here any minute, 
trying to put herself forward, but you just remember the trouble she's in. I've 
spent the day speaking with other Sitters, and it appears very likely that 
Merilille and Merana's failures will be quite firmly attached to Lelaine when 
the Hall sits next. So, if you have any hope of gaining the experience you'll 
need to grow into that stole, it lies with me! Do you understand me?"
"I understand perfectly," Egwene said, in what she hoped was a meek voice. If 
she let Romanda speak in her place, there would no longer be any doubts. The 
Hall and the whole world would know who held Egwene al'Vere by the scruff of her 
neck.
Romanda's eyes seemed to bore into her head before the woman gave a curt nod. "I 
hope that you do. I intend to remove Elaida from the Amyrlin Seat, and I won't 
see that ruined because a child thinks she knows enough to find her way across 
the street without her hand held." With a snort, she flung her cloak around her 
and flung herself out of the tent. The ward vanished as she did.
Egwene sat and frowned at the tent's entrance. A child? Burn the woman, she was 
the Amyrlin Seat! Whether they liked it or not, they had raised her, and they 
were going to have to live with it! Eventually. Snatching up the stone inkwell, 
she hurled it at the tentflap.
Lelaine dodged back, barely avoiding the splash. "Temper, temper," she chided, 
coming on in.
No more asking permission than Romanda had, she embraced the Source and wove a 
ward to stop anyone overhearing what she had to say. Where Romanda had been in a 
fury, Lelaine appeared pleased with herself, rubbing her gloved hands and 
smiling.
"I don't suppose I need tell you your little secret is out. Very bad of Lord 
Bryne, but I think he's too valuable to kill. A good thing for him I do. Let me 
see. I suppose Romanda told you that there will be a meeting with Pelivar and 
Arathelle, but you are to let her do all the talking. Am I right?" Egwene 
stirred, but Lelaine waved a hand at her. "No need to answer. I know Romanda. 
Unfortunately for her, I learned about this before she did, and instead of 
running to you straight away, I've been polling the other Sitters. Do you want 
to know what they think?"
Egwene balled her fists in her lap, where she hoped they would not be noticed. 
"I expect you're going to tell me."
"You are in no position to take that tone with me," Lelaine said sharply, but 
the next instant, her smile returned. "The Hall is displeased with you. Very 
displeased. Whatever Romanda has threatened you with  --  and it's easy enough to 
imagine  --  I can deliver. Romanda, on the other hand, has upset a number of 
Sitters with her bullying. So, unless you want to find yourself with less 
authority than the little you have now, Romanda is going to be surprised 
tomorrow when you name me to speak for you. It's hard to believe Arathelle and 
Pelivar were foolish enough to put a thing like this in motion, but they'll 
slink away with their tails between their legs once I'm done with them."
"How do I know you won't carry out those threats anyway?" Egwene hoped her angry 
mutter sounded like sullenness. Light, but she was tired of this!
"Because I say I won't," Lelaine snapped. "Don't you know by now that you aren't 
really in charge of anything? The Hall is, and that is between Romanda and me. 
In another hundred years, you may grow into the stole, but for now, sit quietly, 
fold your hands, and let someone who knows what she is about see to pulling 
Elaida down."
After Lelaine left, Egwene once more sat staring. This time, she was not letting 
anger boil. You may grow into the stole. Almost the same thing Romanda had said. 
Someone who knows what she is about. Was she deceiving herself? A child, ruining 
what a woman with experience could handle easily?
Siuan slipped into the tent and stood looking worried. "Gareth Bryne just came 
to tell me the Hall knows," she said dryly. "Under cover of asking about his 
shirts. Him and his bloody shirts! The meeting is set for tomorrow, at a lake 
about five hours to the north. Pelivar and Arathelle are already on the way. 
Aemlyn, too. That's a third strong House."
"That's more than Lelaine or Romanda saw fit to tell me," Egwene said, just as 
dryly. No. A hundred years of being led by the hand, pushed by the scruff of her 
neck, or fifty years, or five, and she would be fit for nothing more. If she had 
to grow, she had to grow now.
"Oh, blood and bloody ashes," Siuan groaned. "I can't stand it! What did they 
say? How did it go?"
"About as we expected." Egwene smiled with a wonder that touched her voice, too. 
"Siuan, they couldn't have handed me the Hall better if I had told them what to 
do."
The last light was failing as Sheriam approached her tiny tent, smaller even 
than Egwene's. If she had not been Keeper, she would have had to share. Ducking 
inside, she had only time to realize she was not alone when she was shielded and 
flung facedown on her cot. Stunned, she tried to cry out, but a corner of one of 
her blankets wadded itself into her mouth. Dress and shift burst away from her 
body like a pricked bubble.
A hand stroked her head. "You were supposed to keep me informed, Sheriam. That 
girl is up to something, and I want to know what."
It took a long time to convince her questioner that she had already told all she 
knew, that she would never hold back a word, not a whisper. When she was left 
alone at last, it was to lie curled up and whimpering from her welts, bitterly 
wishing that she had never in her life spoken to a single sister in the Hall.
Chapter 17
Out on the Ice
The next morning, a column rode north from the Aes Sedai camp well before dawn, 
near silent except for the creak of saddles and the crunch of hooves breaking 
through the snow's crisp crust. Occasionally a horse snorted, or metal jingled 
and was quickly muffled. The moon was already down, the sky glistening with 
stars, but the pale blanket lying over everything below lightened the darkness. 
When the first glimmers of day appeared in the east, they had been riding a good 
hour or more. Which was not to say they had traveled far. Over some open 
stretches, Egwene could let Daishar go at a slow canter that sprayed white like 
splashing water, but for the most part, the horses walked, and not quickly, 
through sparse forest where the snow made deep drifts below and clung to 
branches overhead. Oak and pine, sourgum and leatherleaf and trees she did not 
recognize all looked even more bedraggled than they had in the heat and drought. 
Today was the Feast of Abram, but there would be no prizes baked in honeycakes. 
The Light send some people found surprises in the day, though.
The sun rose and climbed, a pale golden ball that gave no warmth. Every breath 
still bit the throat and produced a puff of mist. A sharp wind blew, not hard, 
but cutting, and to the west dark clouds rolled north on their way to Andor. She 
felt a touch of pity for whoever would know the burden of those clouds. And 
relief that they were heading away. Waiting another day would have been 
maddening. She had been unable to sleep at all, for fidgety restlessness, not 
headaches. Restlessness, and tendrils of fear that had crept in like cold air 
under the edges of the tent. She was not tired, though. She felt like a 
compressed spring, a tight-wound clock, full of energy that wanted desperately 
to find release. Light, everything could still go horribly wrong.
It was an impressive column, behind the standard of the White Tower, the white 
Flame of Tar Valon centered on a spiral of seven colors, one for each Ajah. Sewn 
secretly in Salidar, it had lain in the bottom of a chest ever since, with the 
keys in the keeping of the Hall. She did not think they would have produced it 
except for this morning's need for pomp. A thousand heavy cavalry in 
plate-and-mail provided a close escort, a panoply of lances, swords, maces and 
axes seldom seen south of the Borderlands. Their commander was a one-eyed 
Shienaran with a vividly painted eyepatch, a man she had met once, what seemed 
an Age ago. Uno Nomesta glared at the trees through the steel bars of his 
helmet's faceguard as if he expected every last one to hide an ambush, and his 
men seemed nearly as watchful, erect in their saddles.
Almost out of sight ahead through the trees rode a knot of men who wore helmets, 
breast- and back-plates, but no other armor. Their cloaks whipped about freely; 
a gauntleted hand for the reins and a hand for the short bow they each carried 
left nothing to grasp at warmth. There were more farther on, and beyond sight to 
left and right and behind, another thousand altogether, to scout and screen. 
Gareth Bryne did not expect trickery from the Andorans, but he had been wrong 
before, so he said, and the Murandians were another matter. And then there was 
the possibility of assassins in Elaida's pay, or even Darkfriends. The Light 
alone knew when a Darkfriend might decide to kill, or why. For that matter, 
though the Shaido were supposedly far away, no one ever seemed to know they were 
there until the killing began. Even bandits might have tried their hand with too 
small a party. Lord Bryne was not a man to take chances unnecessarily, and 
Egwene was very glad. Today, she wanted as many witnesses as possible.
She herself rode ahead of the banner, with Sheriam and Siuan and Bryne. The 
others appeared caught in their own thoughts. Lord Bryne sat his saddle easily, 
the mist of his even breath forming a light frost on his faceguard, yet Egwene 
could see him calmly marking terrain in his mind. In case he had to fight over 
it. Siuan rode so stiffly that she would be sore long before reaching their 
destination, but she stared north as though she could already see the lake, and 
sometimes she nodded to herself, or shook her head. She would not have done that 
unless she was uneasy. Sheriam knew no more of what was to come than the Sitters 
did, yet she appeared even more nervous than Siuan, shifting constantly in her 
saddle and grimacing. Anger shone in her green eyes, too, for some reason.
Close behind the banner came the entire Hall of the Tower in double column, 
wearing embroidered silks and rich velvets and furs and cloaks with the Flame 
large on the back. Women who seldom wore more ornaments than the Great Serpent 
ring were decked today in the finest gems the camp's jewelry caskets could 
supply. Their Warders made a more splendid display simply by wearing their 
color-shifting cloaks; parts of the men seemed to vanish as the disquieting 
cloaks swirled in the stiff breeze. Servants followed, two or three for every 
sister, on the best horses that could be found for them. They might have passed 
for lesser nobility themselves if a number had not been leading pack animals; 
every chest in the camp had been ransacked to outfit them in bright colors.
Perhaps because she was one of the Sitters without a Warder, Delana had brought 
Halima along, on a spirited white mare. The two rode almost knee-to-knee. 
Sometimes Delana would lean toward Halima to speak privately, though Halima 
appeared too excited to listen. Supposedly, Halima was Delana's secretary, but 
everyone believed it a case of charity, or possibly friendship, however 
unlikely, between the dignified, pale-haired sister and the hot-natured, 
raven-haired country woman. Egwene had seen Halima's hand, and it had the 
unformed look of a child's just learning her letters. Today, she was in garments 
as fine as any sister's, with gems that easily equaled Delana's, who must have 
been their source. Whenever a gust opened her velvet cloak, she displayed a 
shocking amount of bosom, and she always laughed and took her time about 
gathering it around her again, refusing to admit that she felt the cold any more 
than the sisters did.
For once, Egwene was glad of all the gifts of clothing she had been given, 
allowing her to surpass the Sitters. Her green-and-blue silk was slashed with 
white and worked with seed pearls. Pearls even decorated the backs of her 
gloves. At the last minute a cloak lined with ermine had been provided by 
Romanda, and a necklace and earrings of emeralds and white opals by Lelaine. The 
moonstones in her hair came from Janya. The Amyrlin had to be resplendent today. 
Even Siuan appeared ready for a ball, in blue velvets and cream lace, with a 
wide band of pearls at her throat and more laced through her hair.
Romanda and Lelaine led the Sitters, riding so closely behind the soldier 
bearing the banner that he glanced over his shoulder nervously and sometimes 
edged his horse nearer the riders ahead of him. Egwene managed not to look back 
more than once or twice, yet she could feel their eyes pressing between her 
shoulder blades. Each thought her tied in a neat bundle, but each had to be 
wondering whose cords had done the binding. Oh, Light, this could not go wrong. 
Not now.
Other than the column, little moved in all that snow-covered landscape. A 
broad-winged hawk wheeled overhead against the cold blue sky for a time before 
winging eastward. Twice Egwene saw black-tailed foxes trotting in the distance, 
still in their summer fur, and once, a large deer with tall forked antlers 
ghosted away and vanished amid the trees. A hare, starting up right under Bela's 
hooves and bounding off, made the shaggy mare toss her head, and Siuan yelped 
and grabbed at the reins as if she expected Bela to bolt. Of course, Bela only 
gave a reproachful snort and plodded onward. Egwene's tall roan gelding shied 
more, and the hare had not gone near him.
Siuan began grumbling under her breath after the hare scampered away, and it 
took quite some time before she eased Bela's reins. Being on a horse always made 
her grumpy  --  she traveled in one of the wagons whenever possible  --  but she was 
seldom this bad. There was no need to look further than Lord Bryne, or her 
fierce glances at him, to know why.
If he noticed Siuan's looks, he gave no sign. The only one not in fine array, he 
looked as he always did, plain and slightly battered. A rock that had weathered 
storms and would outlast more to come. For some reason, Egwene was glad he had 
resisted their efforts to dress him in finer garb. They truly did need to make 
an impression, yet she thought he made an excellent one as he was.
"It's a fine morning to be in the saddle," Sheriam said after a time. "Nothing 
like a good ride in the snow to clear the head." Her voice was not low, and she 
cut her eyes at the still-muttering Siuan with a tiny smile.
Siuan did not say anything  --  she hardly could do that in front of so many eyes  --  
but she did give Sheriam a hard look that promised sharp words for later. The 
fire-haired woman twisted away abruptly with very close to a wince. Wing, her 
dappled gray mare, pranced a few steps, and Sheriam settled her down with almost 
too firm a hand. She had shown little gratitude to the woman who had named her 
Mistress of Novices, and like most in that position, she found reasons to blame 
Siuan. It was the only flaw Egwene had found in her since the swearing. Well, 
she had protested that, as Keeper, she should not have to take orders from Siuan 
the way the others who had sworn did, but Egwene had seen right away where that 
would lead. This was not the first time Sheriam had tried to plant a barb. Siuan 
insisted on handling Sheriam herself, and her pride was too fragile for Egwene 
to deny the request unless matters got out of hand.
Egwene wished there were some way to make more speed. Siuan went back to her 
grumbling, and Sheriam was obviously thinking of something else to say that 
would not quite bring a rebuke. All that muttering and cutting of eyes began to 
find their way under Egwene's skin. After a while, even Bryne's levelheaded 
poise began to wear. She found herself thinking of things she might say that 
would shake his aplomb. Unfortunately  --  or perhaps fortunately  --  she did not 
believe anything could. But if she had to wait much longer, she thought she 
might burst from sheer impatience.
The sun climbed toward midday, the painfully slow miles passed behind, and at 
last one of the riders ahead turned and raised his hand. With a hasty apology to 
Egwene, Bryne galloped forward. It was really more of a lumber through the snow 
for his sturdy bay gelding, Traveler, but he caught up to the outriders, 
exchanged a few words, then sent them on through the trees and waited for Egwene 
and the others to reach him.
As he fell in beside her once more, Romanda and Lelaine joined them. The two 
Sitters barely acknowledged Egwene's presence, fixing Bryne with the cool 
serenity that had shaken so many men facing Aes Sedai. Except that now and then, 
each glanced sideways at the other in a considering way. They hardly seemed to 
realize what they were doing. Egwene hoped they were half as nervous as she; she 
would be satisfied with that.
Coolly serene stares washed over Bryne like rain over that rock. He made slight 
bows to the Sitters, but he spoke to Egwene. "They've already arrived, Mother." 
That had been expected. "They brought almost as many men as we did, but they're 
all on the north side of the lake. I've put scouts out to make sure nobody tries 
circling around, but in truth, I don't expect it."
"Let us hope you're right," Romanda told him sharply, and Lelaine added in a 
much colder tone, "Your judgment has not been all it should be, of late, Lord 
Bryne." A frigid, cutting tone. "As you say, Aes Sedai." He made another slight 
bow without really turning from Egwene. Like Siuan, he was tied to her openly 
now, at least so far as the Hall was concerned. If only they did not know how 
tightly. If only she could be sure how tightly. "One thing more, Mother," he 
went on. "Talmanes is there at the lake, too. There are about a hundred of the 
Band on the east side. Not enough to cause trouble even if he wanted to, and 
small chance he would, I think."
Egwene merely nodded. Not enough to cause trouble? Talmanes alone might be 
enough! She tasted bile. It  --  could  --  not  --  go  --  wrong  --  now!
"Talmanes!" Lelaine exclaimed, serenity shattering. She must have been as much 
on edge as Egwene. "How did he find out? If you've included Dragonsworn in your 
scheming, Lord Bryne, you truly will learn what going too far means!"
Right on top of her, Romanda growled, "This is disgraceful! You say you've only 
learned of his presence now? If that's so, your reputation is puffed up like a 
boil!" Aes Sedai calm was a thin layer for some today, it seemed. 
They continued in that vein, but Bryne rode on, only murmuring the occasional 
"As you say, Aes Sedai," when he had to say something. He had received worse in 
Egwene's hearing this morning, and reacted no more. It was Siuan who finally 
snorted, and then blushed crimson when the Sitters looked at her in surprise. 
Egwene almost shook her head. Siuan was very definitely in love. And she very 
definitely needed talking to! For some reason, Bryne smiled, but that might just 
have been because he was no longer the object of the Sitters' attention.
Trees gave way to another open space, larger than most, and there was no more 
time for frivolous thoughts.
Aside from a wide rim of tall brown reeds and cattails poking through the snow, 
nothing named this a lake. It could have been a big meadow, flat and very 
roughly oval in shape. Some distance from the treeline, on the frozen lake, 
stood a large blue canopy on tall poles, with a small crowd of people milling 
about it and dozens of horses held by servants behind. The breeze ruffled a 
bright thicket of pennants and banners, and carried muffled shouts that could 
only have been orders. More servants darted about hastily. Apparently, they had 
not been there long enough to finish their preparations.
Perhaps a mile away the trees began again, and the feeble sunlight glinted off 
metal there. Quite a lot of metal, stretching the length of the far shore. To 
the east, almost as close as the pavilion, the hundred men of the Band made no 
effort at concealment, standing beside their mounts just short of where the 
cattails began. A few of them pointed when the flag of Tar Valon appeared. The 
people at the pavilion stopped to look.
Egwene did not pause before riding out onto the snow-covered ice. She did 
imagine herself a rosebud opening to the sun, though, that old novice exercise. 
She did not actually embrace saidar, but the calm that came was very welcome.
Siuan and Sheriam followed, and the Sitters with their Warders, and the 
servants. Lord Bryne and the bannerman were the only two soldiers who went. 
Shouts rising behind her told of Uno putting his armored horsemen into position 
along the shoreline. The more lightly armored men were arrayed to either side, 
those not off guarding against treachery. One reason the lake had been chosen 
was that the ice was thick enough to hold a fair number of horses, but not 
hundreds, much less thousands. That cut down on the chance of chicanery. Of 
course, a pavilion beyond bowshot was not beyond the range of the One Power, not 
if it could be seen. Except that the worst man in the world knew himself safe 
from that unless he threatened a sister. Egwene exhaled sharply, and began 
acquiring calm all over again.
A proper greeting for the Amyrlin Seat should have had servants rushing forward 
with warm drinks and cloths wrapped around hot bricks, and the lords and ladies 
themselves to take reins and offer a kiss in token of Abram. Any visitor of rank 
at all would have had the servants, but no one stirred from the pavilion. Bryne 
himself dismounted and came to hold Daishar's bridle, and the same lanky young 
man who had come with fresh charcoal the day before ran to hold Egwene's 
stirrup. His nose still dripped, but in a red velvet coat only a little too 
large for him and a bright blue cloak, he outshone any of the nobles who stood 
staring from under the canopy. They appeared to be in stout woolens for the most 
part, with not much embroidery and very little silk or lace. Likely they had had 
to scramble to find suitable clothes once the snows began, and them already on 
the march. Though the simple truth was that the young man might have outshone a 
Tinker.
Carpets had been laid to floor the pavilion, and braziers lit, though the breeze 
carried away heat and smoke alike. Chairs stood in two facing lines for the 
delegations, eight in each. They had not expected so many sisters. Some of the 
waiting nobles exchanged looks of consternation, and a number of their servants 
actually wrung their hands, wondering what to do. They need not have.
The chairs were a mismatched miscellany, but they were all alike in size, and 
none was noticeably more worn or battered than another. None had noticeably more 
or less gilded carving. The lanky young man and a number of others trotted in 
and under the frowns of the nobles, without so much as a by-your-leave, carried 
those meant for Aes Sedai out into the snow, then rushed to help with unloading 
the packhorses. Still, no one spoke a word.
Quickly, seats were set up sufficient for the entire Hall, and Egwene. Only 
simple benches, though polished till they gleamed, but each stood on a wide box 
covered with cloth in the color of the Sitter's Ajah, in a long row as wide as 
the canopy. The box placed in front, for Egwene's bench, was striped like her 
stole. There had been a great flurry of activity in the night, beginning with 
finding beeswax for polish and good cloth of the right colors.
When Egwene and the Sitters took their places, they sat a foot higher than 
anyone else. She had had her doubts about that, but the lack of any word of 
welcome had settled those. The meanest farmer would have offered a cup and a 
kiss to a vagabond on the Feast of Abram. They were not supplicants, and they 
were not equals. They were Aes Sedai.
Warders stood behind their Aes Sedai, and Siuan and Sheriam flanked Egwene. The 
sisters ostentatiously flung back cloaks and tucked gloves away to emphasize 
that the cold did not touch them, a sharp contrast to the nobles clutching their 
own cloaks close. Outside, the Flame of Tar Valon lifted in the stiffening 
breeze. Only Halima, lounging beside Delana's chair on the edge of the 
gray-covered box, at all spoiled the grand image, and her big green eyes stared 
at the Andorans and Murandians so challengingly that she did not spoil it much.
There were a few stares when Egwene took the seat in front, but only a few. No 
one really looked surprised. I suppose they've heard all about the girl Amyrlin, 
she thought dryly. Well, there had been queens younger, including queens of 
Andor and Murandy. Calmly, she nodded, and Sheriam gestured to the line of 
chairs. No matter who had arrived first or provided the pavilion, there was no 
doubt who had called this meeting. Who was in charge.
Her action was not well received, of course. There was a moment of silent 
hesitation while the nobles cast their minds about for some way to regain an 
equal footing, and no few grimaces as they realized it could not be done. 
Grim-faced, eight of them sat down, four men and four women, with much angry 
gathering of cloaks and adjusting of skirts. Those of lesser rank stood behind 
the chairs, and clearly there was little love lost between Andoran and 
Murandian. For that matter, the Murandians, men and women alike, muttered and 
jostled one another for precedence as fiercely as they did their "allies" from 
the north. The Aes Sedai received a good many dark looks as well, and a few folk 
spared scowls for Bryne, who stood off to one side with his helmet under his 
arm. He was well known on both sides of the border, and respected even by most 
of those who would have liked to see him dead. At least, that had been the case 
before he turned up leading the Aes Sedai's army. He ignored their acid glares 
as he had the Sitters' acid tongues.
Another man did not join with either party. A pale man, less than a hand taller 
than Egwene, in a dark coat and breastplate, he wore the front of his head 
shaved, and there was a long red scarf tied around his left arm. His deep gray 
cloak had a large red hand worked on the breast. Talmanes stood opposite Bryne, 
leaning against one of the pavilion's poles with an arrogant casualness, and 
watched without revealing a hint of his thoughts. Egwene wished she knew what he 
was doing there. She wished she knew what he had said before she arrived. In any 
case, she had to speak with him. If it could be managed without a hundred ears 
listening.
A lean, weathered man in a red cloak, sitting in the middle of the row of 
chairs, leaned forward and opened his mouth, but Sheriam forestalled him in a 
clear, carrying voice.
"Mother, may I present to you, of Andor, Arathelle Renshar, High Seat of House 
Renshar. Pelivar Coelan, High Seat of House Coelan. Aemlyn Carand, High Seat of 
House Carand, and her husband, Culhan Carand." They acknowledged their names 
sourly, with bare nods and no more. Pelivar was the lean man; he was losing his 
dark hair from the front. Sheriam went on without pause; it was a good thing 
Bryne had been able to supply the names of those who had been chosen to speak. 
"May I present, of Murandy, Donel do Morny a'Lordeine. Cian do Mehon a'Macansa. 
Paitr do Fearna a'Conn. Segan do Avharin a'Roos." The Murandians seemed to feel 
the lack of titles even more than the Andorans. Donel, wearing more lace than 
most of the women, twisted his curled mustaches fiercely, and Paitr appeared to 
be trying to yank his loose. Segan pursed full lips and her dark eyes caught 
fire, while Cian, a stocky, graying woman, snorted quite loudly. Sheriam took no 
notice. "You are beneath the eyes of the Watcher of the Seals. You are before 
the Flame of Tar Valon. You may present your supplications to the Amyrlin Seat."
Well. They did not like that, not in the least. Egwene had thought them sour 
before, but now they looked stuffed full of green persimmons. Perhaps they had 
believed they could pretend she was not the Amyrlin at all. They would learn. Of 
course, first she had to teach the Hall.
"There are ancient ties between Andor and the White Tower," she said, loudly and 
firmly. "Sisters have always expected welcome in Andor or Murandy. Why then do 
you bring an army against Aes Sedai? You meddle where thrones and nations fear 
to step. Thrones have fallen, meddling in the affairs of Aes Sedai."
That sounded suitably threatening, whether or not Myrelle and the others had 
managed to prepare her way. With luck, they were well on their way back to the 
camp, with no one the wiser. Unless one of these nobles spoke the wrong name. 
That would lose her an advantage against the Hall, but alongside everything 
else, it was a straw beside a hayloft.
Pelivar exchanged looks with the woman seated beside him, and she stood. Creases 
in her face could not disguise the fact that Arathelle had been a beautiful, 
fine-boned woman when young; now, gray threaded thickly through her hair, and 
her gaze struck as hard as any Warder's. Her red-gloved hands gripped the edges 
of her cloak at her sides, but plainly not in worry. Mouth compressed to a thin 
line, she scanned the line of Sitters, and only then spoke. Past Egwene, to the 
sisters behind her. Gritting her teeth, Egwene put on an attentive expression.
"We are here precisely because we do not want to become entangled in the White 
Tower's affairs." Arathelle's voice held tones of authority, unsurprising in the 
High Seat of a powerful House. There was no hint of the diffidence that might 
have been expected, even from a powerful High Seat, facing so many sisters, not 
to mention the Amyrlin Seat. "If all we've heard is true, then at best, allowing 
you to pass through Andor unhindered may seem like giving aid, or even alliance, 
in the eyes of the White Tower. Failure to oppose you might mean learning what 
the grape learns in the winepress." Several of the Murandians turned their 
scowls on her. No one in Murandy had tried to hinder the sisters' passage. Very 
likely, no one had considered the possibilities beyond the day they passed onto 
another's lands.
Arathelle continued as if she had not noticed, but Egwene doubted that. "At 
worst . . . We have heard . . . reports . . . of Aes Sedai making their way into 
Andor in secret, and Tower Guards. Rumors might be a better word, but they come 
from many places. None of us would like to see a battle between Aes Sedai in 
Andor."
"The Light preserve and protect us!" Donel burst out, red-faced. Paitr nodded 
encouragement, sliding to the edge of his seat, and Cian looked ready to jump in 
herself. "No one wants to see it here, either!" Donel spat. "Not between Aes 
Sedai! For sure, we've heard what happened out east! And those sisters  -- !"
Egwene breathed a little more easily when Arathelle stepped on him firmly. "If 
you please, Lord Donel. You will have your turn to speak." She turned back to 
Egwene  --  to the Sitters once more, really  --  without waiting on his reply, 
leaving him spluttering and the other three Murandians glowering. She herself 
looked quite undisturbed, simply a woman laying out the facts. Laying them out, 
and meaning that they should be seen as she saw them. "As I was saying. That is 
the worst we fear, if the tales are true. And also if they are not. Aes Sedai 
may be gathering secretly in Andor, with Tower Guards. Aes Sedai with an army 
are ready to enter Andor. Often enough the White Tower has seemed to aim at one 
target, only for the rest of us to learn later it was aiming at another all 
along. I can hardly imagine even the White Tower going this far, but if ever 
there was a target you might twist yourselves into a knot for, it's the Black 
Tower." Arathelle shivered slightly, and Egwene did not think it was the cold. 
"A battle between Aes Sedai might ruin the land for miles around. That battle 
might ruin half of Andor."
Pelivar sprang to his feet. "The plain of it is, you must go another way." His 
voice was surprisingly high, but no less firm than Arathelle's. "If I must die 
to defend my lands and my people, then better here than where my lands and 
people die, too."
He subsided at Arathelle's soothing gesture, sinking back into his chair. 
Hard-eyed, he did not look mollified. Aemlyn, a plump woman wrapped in dark 
wool, nodded agreement with him, as did her square-faced husband.
Donel stared at Pelivar as though he had never had this thought either, and he 
was not the only one. Some of the standing Murandians began to argue out loud 
until others quieted them. Sometimes with a shaken fist. Whatever had possessed 
these people to join forces with the Andorans?
Egwene drew breath. A rosebud, opening to the sun. They had not acknowledged her 
as the Amyrlin Seat  --  Arathelle had come as close to ignoring her as was 
possible without pushing her aside!  --  yet they had given her everything else she 
could have wished for. Calm. Now was when Lelaine and Romanda would be expecting 
her to name one of them to handle the negotiations. She hoped their stomachs 
were tied in knots with wondering which of them it would be. There would be no 
negotiations. There could be none.
"Elaida," she said levelly, eyeing Arathelle and the seated nobles in turn, "is 
a usurper who has violated what lies at the very heart of the White Tower. I am 
the Amyrlin Seat." She was surprised at how stately she managed to sound, how 
cool. But not as surprised as she once would have been. The Light help her, she 
was the Amyrlin Seat. "We go to Tar Valon to remove Elaida and try her, but that 
is the White Tower's business, and none of yours except to know the truth. This 
so-called Black Tower also is our business; men who can channel have always been 
the White Tower's affair. We will deal with them as we choose, when the time is 
ripe, but I assure you, that time is not now. More important matters must take 
precedence."
She heard movement among the Sitters behind her. An actual shifting on benches 
and the crisp swishing of divided skirts being adjusted. At least some must be 
severely agitated. Well, several had suggested that the Black Tower might be 
dealt with in passing. Not one believed there could be more than a dozen or so 
men there at most, no matter what they heard; after all, it simply was not 
possible that hundreds of men would want to channel. Then again, it might have 
been the realization that Egwene was not going to name either Romanda or 
Lelaine.
Arathelle frowned, perhaps catching a hint of something in the air. Pelivar 
moved, on the point of rising again, and Donel drew himself up querulously. 
There was nothing for it but to press on. There never had been.
"I understand your concerns," she continued in the same formal tone, "and I will 
address them." What was that strange call to arms the Band used? Yes. It was 
time to toss the dice. "I give you this assurance as the Amyrlin Seat. For one 
month we will stay here, resting, and then we will leave Murandy, but we will 
not cross the border into Andor. Murandy will be troubled by us no more after 
that, and Andor will not be troubled at all. I'm certain," she added, "the 
Murandian lords and ladies here will be happy to supply our wants in exchange 
for good silver. We will pay fair prices." There was no point mollifying the 
Andorans if it meant Murandians raiding the horses and supply trains.
The Murandians, looking around uneasily, appeared decidedly torn in any case. 
There was coin to be made, and a great deal of it supplying an army so large, 
but on the other hand, who could haggle successfully with whatever an army so 
large offered? Donel actually seemed ready to sick up, while Cian seemed to be 
doing sums in her head. Mutters rose among the onlookers. More than mutters; 
nearly loud enough for Egwene.
She wanted to look over her shoulder. The silence from the Sitters was 
deafening. Siuan was staring straight ahead and gripping her skirts as if to 
keep herself looking forward by main force. At least she had known what was 
coming. Sheriam, who had not, eyed the Andorans and Murandians regally, calmly, 
as though she had expected every word.
Egwene needed to make them forget the girl they saw before them, and hear a 
woman with the reins of power firmly in hand. If they were not in her hands now, 
they would be! She firmed her voice. "Mark me well. I have made my decision; it 
is for you to accept it. Or face what surely will come from your failure." As 
she fell silent, the wind gusted to a brief howl, rattling the canopy, tugging 
at garments. Egwene straightened her hair calmly. Some of the watching nobles 
shivered and twitched their cloaks around them, and she hoped their shivers came 
from more than the weather.
Arathelle exchanged looks with Pelivar and Aemlyn, and all three studied the 
Sitters before slowly nodding. They believed she was merely mouthing words the 
Sitters had put on her tongue! Even so, Egwene very nearly sighed with relief.
"It will be as you say," the hard-eyed noblewoman said. Again, to the Sitters. 
"We do not doubt the word of Aes Sedai, of course, but you will understand if we 
also remain. Sometimes, what you hear isn't what you think you heard. Not that 
that's the case here, I'm sure. But we will stay while you do." Donel truly 
looked ready to empty himself. Very likely his lands lay nearby. Andoran armies 
in Murandy had seldom been known to pay for anything.
Egwene stood, and she could hear the rustle of the Sitters rising behind her. 
"It is agreed, then. We must all depart soon, if we are to return to our own 
beds before dark, but we should spare a few moments. Getting to know one another 
a little better now might avoid misunderstandings later." And talk might give 
her a chance to reach Talmanes. "Oh. One other thing you should all be aware of. 
The novice book is now open to any woman, whatever her age, if she tests true." 
Arathelle blinked. Siuan did not, yet Egwene thought she heard a faint grunt. 
This was not part of what they had discussed, but there would never be a better 
time. "Come. I'm sure you would all like to speak with the Sitters. Let 
formality go."
Without waiting for Sheriam to offer a hand, she stepped down. She almost felt 
like laughing. Last night she had been afraid she might never reach her goal, 
but she was halfway there, almost halfway, and it had not been nearly as 
difficult as she had feared. Of course, the other half remained.
Chapter 18
A Peculiar Calling
For a moment after Egwene descended, no one else moved. And then the Andorans 
and Murandians headed for the Sitters, almost as one. Apparently, a girl Amyrlin 
 --  a girl puppet and figurehead!  --  held no interest, not with ageless faces in 
front of them that at least said they actually were speaking to Aes Sedai. Two 
or three lords and ladies clustered around each Sitter, some thrusting their 
chins demandingly, others diffidently bending their necks, yet every one 
insistent on being heard. The sharp breeze whisked away the mist of their breath 
and fluttered cloaks forgotten in the importance of asking their questions. 
Sheriam was buttonholed too, by red-faced Lord Donel, who blustered and jerked 
bows by turns.
Egwene pulled Sheriam away from the narrow-eyed man. "Find out discreetly all 
you can about these sisters and Tower Guards in Andor," she whispered hastily. 
As soon as she released the woman, Donel reclaimed her. Sheriam actually looked 
put-upon, but her frown disappeared quickly. Donel blinked uneasily as she began 
questioning him.
Romanda and Lelaine gazed at Egwene through the crowd with faces carved from 
ice, but each had acquired a pair of nobles who wanted . . . Something. 
Reassurance that there was no hidden trick in Egwene's words, perhaps. How they 
would hate doing that, but dodge and duck as they would  --  and they would!  --  
there was no way to really avoid that reassurance without repudiating her on the 
spot. Even those two would not go that far. Not here, not publicly.
Siuan slipped close to Egwene, features set in meekness. Except that her eyes 
darted, maybe looking for Romanda or Lelaine coming to seize them where they 
stood, and forget law, custom, propriety and who was watching. "Shein Chunla," 
she all but hissed in a whisper.
Egwene nodded, but her eyes searched for Talmanes. Most of the men and some of 
the women were tall enough to hide him. With everyone shifting about . . . She 
went up on her toes. Where had he gone to?
Segan planted herself in front of her, fists on her hips, eyeing Siuan 
doubtfully. Egwene let her heels down hurriedly. The Amyrlin could not bob about 
like a girl at a dance looking for a boy. A rosebud unfolding. Calm. Serenity. 
Drat all men!
A slender woman with long dark hair, Segan seemed to have been born petulant, 
her full mouth fixed in a pout. Her dress was good blue wool and made for 
warmth, but it had far too much vivid green embroidery across her bosom, and her 
gloves were bright enough for a Tinker. She looked Egwene up and down, pursing 
her lips, with as much incredulity on her face as she had given Siuan. "What you 
said about the novice book," she said abruptly. "Were you meaning any woman of 
any age at all? Any can become Aes Sedai, then?"
A question close to Egwene's heart, and an answer she dearly wanted to give  --  
along with a box on the ear for the doubt  --  but just then a small gap in the 
flow of people showed her Talmanes near the back of the pavilion. Talking with 
Pelivar! They stood stiffly, mastiffs not quite ready to show teeth, yet they 
were keeping a watch to make sure no one came close enough to overhear what they 
had to say. "Any woman of any age at all, daughter," she agreed absently. 
Pelivar?
"Thank you," Segan said, and haltingly added, "Mother." She sketched a curtsy, 
the barest hint of one, before hurrying off. Egwene stared after her. Well, it 
was a beginning.
Siuan snorted. "I don't mind sailing the Fingers of the Dragon in the dark if I 
must," she muttered half under her breath. "We discussed that; we weighed the 
dangers, and anyway, there doesn't seem to be a gull's last dinner for choice. 
But you have to set a fire on deck just to make things interesting. Netting 
lionfish isn't enough for you. You have to stuff a prickleback down your dress, 
too. You aren't content trying to wade a school of silver-pike  --  "
Egwene broke in. "Siuan, I think I should tell Lord Bryne you're head over heels 
in love with him. It's only fair that he know, don't you agree?" Siuan's blue 
eyes bulged, and her mouth worked, but all that came out was a sort of gobbling. 
Egwene patted her shoulder. "You're Aes Sedai, Siuan. Try to maintain at least a 
little dignity. And try to find out about those sisters in Andor." The crowd 
parted again. She saw Talmanes in a different place, but still on the edge of 
the pavilion. And alone, now.
Trying not to hurry, she walked in his direction, leaving Siuan still gobbling. 
A pretty, black-haired serving man, whose bulky woolen breeches could not quite 
hide neatly turned calves, offered Siuan a steaming silver cup from a tray. 
Other servants were moving about with other silver trays. Refreshment was being 
offered, if a bit late. It was much too late for the kiss of peace. She did not 
hear what Siuan said as she snatched a cup, but from the way the fellow jerked 
and started bobbing bows, he had received sharp shards of her temper at the 
least. Egwene sighed.
Talmanes stood with arms folded, observing the goings-on with an amused smile 
that did not reach his eyes. He seemed poised to explode into motion, but his 
eyes were tired. At her approach, he made a respectful leg, but there was a wry 
touch to his voice when he said, "You changed a border today." He gathered his 
cloak against the icy breeze. "It has always been . . . fluid . . . between 
Andor and Murandy, no matter what maps say, but Andor has never come south in 
such numbers before. Except for the Aiel War, and the Whitecloak War, anyway, 
but they were only passing through, then. Once they have been here a month, new 
maps will show a new line. Look at the Murandians scramble, fawning over Pelivar 
and his companions as much as they do the sisters. They are hoping to make new 
friends for the new day."
To Egwene, trying to conceal her careful watch on those who might be watching 
her, it seemed that all of the nobles, Murandian and Andoran, were intent on the 
Sitters, crowding around them. In any case, she had slightly more important 
matters in mind than borders. To her, if not to the nobles. Except for brief 
moments, none of the Sitters were visible beyond the tops of their heads. Only 
Halima and Siuan seemed to notice her, and a babble like that of a flock of 
excited geese filled the air. She lowered her voice, and chose her words 
carefully.
"Friends are always important, Talmanes. You've been a good friend to Mat, and I 
think to me. I hope that hasn't changed. I hope you've not told anyone what you 
shouldn't." Light, she was anxious, or she would not have been so direct. Next, 
she would come right out and ask what he and Pelivar had been talking about!
Luckily, he did not laugh at her for a blunt-tongued village woman. Though he 
might have been thinking it. He studied her seriously before speaking. In a soft 
voice. He also knew caution. "Not all men gossip. Tell me, when you sent Mat 
south, did you know what you would do here today?"
"How could I know that two months ago? No, Aes Sedai aren't omniscient, 
Talmanes." She had hoped for something that would put her in the place she was, 
had planned for it, but she had not known, not back then. She also hoped he did 
not gossip. Some men did not.
Romanda started toward her with a firm stride and a frozen face, but Arathelle 
intercepted her, catching the Yellow Sitter's arm and refusing to be put off 
despite Romanda's astonishment.
"Will you at least tell me where Mat is?" Talmanes asked. "On his way to Caemlyn 
with the Daughter-Heir? Why are you surprised? A serving woman will speak to a 
soldier when fetching water from the same stream. Even when he is a horrible 
Dragon-sworn," he added dryly.
Light! Men really were . . . inconvenient . . . at times. The best of them found 
ways to say exactly the wrong thing at the wrong moment, to ask the wrong 
question. Not to mention inveigling serving women into prattle. So much easier 
if she could just lie, but he had given her plenty of room within the Oaths. 
Half the truth would suffice, and keep him from haring off to Ebou Dar. Maybe 
less than half.
Over in the far corner of the pavilion, Siuan stood conversing with a tall young 
redhead with curled mustaches who was eyeing her as dubiously as Segan had. 
Nobles usually knew the look of Aes Sedai. But he held only a part of Siuan's 
attention. Her gaze constantly flickered toward Egwene. It seemed to shout, loud 
as conscience. Easier. Expedient. What it was to be Aes Sedai. She had not known 
about today, only hoped! Egwene expelled an irritated breath. Burn the woman!
"He was in Ebou Dar, the last I heard," she muttered. "But he must be hurrying 
north as fast as he can by now. He still thinks he has to save me, Talmanes, and 
Matrim Cauthon wouldn't miss the chance to be on the spot so he can say I told 
you so."
Talmanes did not look at all surprised. "I thought it might be so," he sighed. 
"I have . . . felt . . . something, for weeks now. Others in the Band have, too. 
Not urgent, but always there. As if he needed me. As if I should look south, 
anyway. It can be peculiar, following a ta'veren."
"I suppose it can," she agreed, hoping none of her incredulity showed. It was 
strange enough to think of Mat the wastrel as leader of the Band of the Red 
Hand, much less as ta'veren, but surely a ta'veren had to be present, nearby at 
least, to have any effect.
"Mat was wrong about you needing rescue. You never had any intention of coming 
to me for help, did you?"
He still spoke softly, but she looked around hurriedly anyway. Siuan was still 
watching them. And so was Halima. Paitr stood much too close to her, puffing and 
preening and stroking his mustaches  --  from the way he stared down her dress, he 
had not mistaken her for a sister, that was certain!  --  but she was giving him 
only half her mind, darting sidelong glances in Egwene's direction while she 
smiled up at him warmly. Everyone else appeared occupied, and no one stood close 
enough to hear.
"The Amyrlin Seat could hardly go running for sanctuary, now could she? But 
there have been times it's been a comfort knowing you were there," she admitted. 
Reluctantly. The Amyrlin Seat was hardly supposed to need a bolt-hole, but it 
could do no harm so long as none of the Sitters knew. "You have been a friend, 
Talmanes. I hope that continues. I truly do."
"You have been more . . . open . . . with me than I expected," he said slowly, 
"so I will tell you something." His face did not change  --  to any watcher, he 
must have seemed as casual as before  --  but his voice dropped to a whisper. "I 
have had approaches from King Roedran about the Band. It seems he has hopes of 
being Murandy's first real king. He wants to hire us. I would not have 
considered it, normally, but there is never enough coin, and with this . . . 
this feel of Mat needing us . . . It might be better if we remain in Murandy. 
Clear as good glass, you are where you want to be and have everything in hand."
He fell silent as a young serving woman curtsied to offer mulled wine. She wore 
finely embroidered green wool and a cloak plush with spotted rabbit. Other 
servants from the camp were helping out now, as well, no doubt for something to 
do besides stand and shiver. The young woman's round face was decidedly pinched 
from the cold.
Talmanes waved her off and pulled his cloak back around him, but Egwene took a 
silver cup to gain a moment for thought. Truly there was little need for the 
Band any longer. Despite all the muttering, the sisters took their presence as a 
matter of course now, Dragonsworn or not; they no longer feared an attack, and 
there had been no real need to use the Band's presence to prod them into moving 
since leaving Salidar. The only true purpose Shen an Calhar served now was to 
draw recruits into Bryne's army, men who thought two armies meant a battle and 
wanted to be on the side with the greatest numbers. She had no need of them, but 
Talmanes had acted as a friend. And she was Amyrlin. Sometimes friendship and 
responsibility pushed in the same direction.
As the serving woman moved off, Egwene laid a hand on Talmanes' arm. "You must 
not do that. Even the Band can't conquer all of Murandy by itself, and every 
hand will be against you. You know very well the one thing that makes Murandians 
stand together is foreigners on their soil. Follow us to Tar Valon, Talmanes. 
Mat will come there; I have no doubt of that." Mat would not really believe she 
was the Amyrlin until he saw her wearing the stole in the White Tower.
"Roedran is no fool," he said placidly. "All he wants us to do is sit and wait, 
a foreign army  --  without Aes Sedai  --  and nobody knowing what it is up to. He 
should not have much trouble uniting the nobles against us. Then, so he says, we 
quietly slip across the border. He thinks he can hold on to them afterward."
She could not stop a touch of heat entering her voice. "And what is to stop him 
betraying you? If the threat goes away without a fight, his dream of a united 
Murandy might, too." The fool man seemed amused!
"I am not a fool either. Roedran cannot be ready before spring. This lot would 
never have stirred from their manors if the Andorans had not come south, and 
they were on the march before the snows began. Before then, Mat will find us. If 
he is coming north, he must hear of us. Roedran will have to be satisfied with 
whatever he has managed by then. So if Mat does intend to go to Tar Valon, I may 
see you there yet."
Egwene made a vexed sound. It was a remarkable plan, the sort of thing Siuan 
might devise, and hardly a scheme she thought Roedran Almaric do Arreloa a'Naloy 
could carry off. The fellow was said to be so dissolute he made Mat look 
wholesome. But then, it was hardly a scheme she would have believed Roedran 
could think up. The only certainty was that Talmanes had made up his mind.
"I want your word, Talmanes, that you won't let Roedran pull you into a war." 
Responsibility. The narrow stole around her neck seemed to weigh ten times more 
than her cloak. "If he moves sooner than you think, you will leave whether or 
not Mat has joined you."
"I wish I could promise, but it is not possible," he protested. "I expect the 
first raid against my foragers three days at most after I start moving away from 
Lord Bryne's army. Every lordling and farmer will think he can pick up a few 
horses in the night, give me a pinprick, and run off to hide."
"I'm not talking about defending yourself, and you know it," she said firmly. 
"Your word, Talmanes. Or I will not allow your agreement with Roedran." The only 
way to stop it was to betray it, but she would not leave a war in her wake, a 
war she had started by bringing Talmanes here.
Staring at her as if for the first time, he finally bent his head. Strangely, 
that seemed more formal than his bow had. "It will be as you say, Mother. Tell 
me, are you sure you are not ta'veren, too?"
"I am the Amyrlin Seat," she replied. "That is quite enough for anyone." She 
touched his arm again. "The Light shine on you, Talmanes." His smile nearly 
touched his eyes this time.
Inevitably, despite their whispers, their talk had been noticed. Maybe because 
of their whispers. The girl who claimed to be Amyrlin, a rebel against the White 
Tower, in conversation with the leader of ten thousand Dragonsworn. Had she made 
Talmanes' scheme with Roedran harder, or easier? Was war in Murandy less likely, 
or more? Siuan and her bloody Law of Unintended Consequences! Fifty gazes 
followed her, then darted away, as she moved through the crowd warming her 
fingers on her cup. Well, most darted away. The Sitters' faces were all ageless 
Aes Sedai serenity, but Lelaine might have been a brown-eyed crow watching a 
fish struggle in the shallows, while Romanda's slightly darker eyes could have 
drilled holes through iron.
Trying to keep a watch on the sun outside, she made a slow circuit through the 
pavilion. The nobles were still importuning Sitters, but they moved from one to 
another as if seeking better answers, and she began to notice small things. 
Donel paused on his way from Janya to Moria, bowing low to Aemlyn, who 
acknowledged him with a gracious nod. Cian, turning away from Takima, curtsied 
deeply to Pelivar and received a slight bow in return. There were others, always 
a Murandian deferring to an Andoran who responded just as formally. The Andorans 
tried to ignore Bryne except for the odd scowl, but any number of Murandians 
sought him out, one by one and well away from everyone else, and from the 
directions their eyes went, it was plain they were discussing Pelivar, or 
Arathelle, or Aemlyn. Perhaps Talmanes had been right.
She received bows and curtsies, too, though none so deep as those given 
Arathelle and Pelivar and Aemlyn, much less the Sitters. Half a dozen women told 
her how thankful they were that matters had been resolved peacefully, though in 
truth, almost as many made noncommittal noises or shrugged uneasily when she 
expressed the same sentiment, as though they were uncertain it all would end 
peacefully. Her assurances that it would were met with a fervent "The Light send 
it so!" or a resigned "If the Light wills." Four called her Mother, one without 
hesitating first. Three others said that she was quite lovely, that she had 
beautiful eyes, and that she had a graceful carriage, in that order; suitable 
compliments perhaps for Egwene's age but not her station.
At least she found one unalloyed pleasure. Segan was not alone in being 
intrigued by her announcement concerning the novice book. Plainly that was why 
most of the women spoke to her in the first place. After all, the other sisters 
might be in rebellion against the Tower, but she claimed to be the Amyrlin Seat. 
Their interest had to be strong to overcome that, though no one wanted to let it 
show. Arathelle made the inquiry with a frown that put more creases in her 
cheeks. Aemlyn shook her graying head at the answer. Blocky Cian asked, followed 
by a sharp-faced Andoran lady named Negara, then a pretty, big-eyed Murandian 
called Jennet, and others. None wanted to know for herself  --  several made that 
clear quickly, especially the younger women  --  but before long, every single 
noblewoman there had asked, and several servants as well, under cover of 
offering more spiced wine. One, a wiry woman named Nildra, had come from the Aes 
Sedai camp.
Egwene felt quite pleased with the seed she had planted there. She was not so 
pleased with the men. A few spoke to her, but only when they came face-to-face 
and seemed to have no other choice. A murmured word about the weather, either 
praising the end of the drought or deploring the sudden snows, a muttered hope 
that the bandit problem would end soon, perhaps with a significant look toward 
Talmanes, and they slipped away like greased pigs. A bear of an Andoran by the 
name of Macharan tripped over his own boots to avoid her. In a way, it was 
hardly surprising. The women had the justification, if only to themselves, of 
the novice book, but the men had only the thought that being seen conversing 
with her might tar them with the same brush.
It was really quite discouraging. She did not care what the men thought about 
novices, but she very much wanted to know if they were as fearful as the women 
that this would come to blows in the end. Fears like that could fulfill 
themselves very easily. At last, she decided there was only one way to find out.
Pelivar turned from taking a fresh cup of wine from a tray and started back, 
with a muffled oath, to keep from bumping into her; had she stood any closer, 
she would have had to stand on his boots. Hot wine splashed over his gloved hand 
and ran down under his coatsleeve, producing a curse not so muted. Tall enough 
to loom over her, he made a good job of it. His scowl belonged on a man wanting 
to send an annoying young woman briskly out of his way. Or on a man who had 
nearly stepped on a red adder. She held herself erect and focused on an image of 
him as a small boy up to no good; that always helped; most men seemed to feel 
it. He muttered something  --  it might have been a polite greeting, or another 
oath  --  and dipped his head slightly, then tried to step around her. She 
side-stepped to stay in front of him. He moved back, and she followed. He began 
to look hunted. She decided to try putting him at ease before pressing the 
important question. She wanted answers, not more mumbling.
"You must be pleased to hear that the Daughter-Heir is on her way to Caemlyn, 
Lord Pelivar." She had heard several of the Sitters mention that.
His face went blank. "Elayne Trakand has a right to put in her claim to the Lion 
Throne," he replied in a flat voice.
Egwene's eyes widened, and he stepped back again, uncertainly. Perhaps he 
thought her angry over the absence of her title, but she barely noticed that. 
Pelivar had supported Elayne's mother in her claim for the throne, and Elayne 
had been sure he would support her, too. She spoke of Pelivar fondly, like a 
favorite uncle.
"Mother," Siuan murmured at her elbow, "we must leave if you want to be sure of 
reaching the camp before sunset." She managed to put considerable urgency into 
those quiet words. The sun had passed its peak.
"This is no weather to be in the open at nightfall," Pelivar said hurriedly. "If 
you will excuse me, I must make ready to leave." Shoving his cup onto the tray 
of a passing servant, he hesitated before halfway making a leg, and stalked off 
with the air of a man who had wriggled free of a trap.
Egwene wanted to grind her teeth with frustration. What did the men think of 
their agreement? If it could be called that, the way she had forced it on them. 
Arathelle and Aemlyn had more power and influence than most of the men, yet it 
was Pelivar and Culhan and the like who rode with the soldiers; they could still 
make this flare up in her face like a barrel of lamp oil.
"Find Sheriam," she growled, "and tell her to get everyone mounted now, no 
matter what it takes!" She could not give the Sitters a night to think about 
what had happened today, to plan and plot. They had to be back in camp before 
the sun went down.
Chapter 19
The Law
Getting the Sitters to their mounts proved no bother; they were as eager to be 
away as Egwene, especially Romanda and Lelaine, both cold as the wind and with 
eyes like thunderclouds. The rest were the very image of cool-eyed Aes Sedai 
serenity, giving off composure like a heavy scent, yet they glided to their 
horses so quickly that the nobles were left gaping and the brightly clad 
servants scrambled in loading the packhorses to catch up as best they could.
Egwene had Daishar set a hard pace in the snow, and with no more than a look and 
a nod from her Lord Bryne made sure the armored escorts moved as fast. Siuan on 
Bela and Sheriam on Wing rushed to join her. For long stretches they churned 
through fetlock-deep cover, the horses stepping high at near to a trot, the 
Flame of Tar Valon rippling in the icy breeze, and even when it was necessary to 
slow, when the horses were sinking knee-deep through the snow crust, they kept 
to a fast walk.
The Sitters had no choice except to keep up, and their speed cut down their 
opportunity to talk on the way. At that tiring pace, a lack of attention to your 
horse could bring a broken leg for the animal and a broken neck for you. Even 
so, Romanda and Lelaine each managed to gather her coterie around her, and those 
two knots floundered through the snow surrounded by wards against eavesdropping. 
The pair seemed to be delivering tirades. Egwene could imagine the topic. For 
that matter, other Sitters managed to ride together for a time, exchanging a few 
words quietly and casting cool glances sometimes at her and sometimes at the 
sisters wrapped around by saidar. Only Delana never joined one of those brief 
conversations. She stayed close beside Halima, who at last admitted that she was 
cold. Face tight, the country woman held her cloak close around her, but she 
still tried to comfort Delana, whispering to her almost constantly. Delana 
seemed to need comforting; her brows were drawn down, putting a crease in her 
forehead that actually made her seem aged.
She was not the only one worried. The others masked the feeling rigidly, 
radiating absolute poise, but the Warders rode like men expecting the worst to 
leap out of the snow at the next step, eyes shifting in an unceasing watch, 
disquieting cloaks streaming in the wind to leave hands free. When an Aes Sedai 
worried, her Warder worried, and the Sitters were too absorbed to think of 
calming the men. Egwene was just as glad to see it. If the Sitters were 
troubled, they had not yet made up their minds.
When Bryne rode out to confer with Uno, she took the opportunity to ask what the 
two women had learned about Aes Sedai and Tower Guards in Andor.
"Not much," Siuan replied in a tight voice. Shaggy Bela did not seem to be 
having any difficulty with the pace, but Siuan did, gripping her reins tightly 
in one hand and the pommel of her saddle with the other. "As near as I can make 
out, there are fifty rumors and no facts. It's a likely sort of tale to spring 
up, but it might still be true." Bela lurched, her front hooves sinking deep, 
and Siuan gasped. "The Light burn all horses!"
Sheriam had learned no more. She shook her head, and sighed irritably. "It 
sounds all feathers and nonsense to me, Mother. There are always rumors of 
sisters sneaking about. Didn't you ever learn to ride, Siuan?' she added, her 
voice suddenly dripping derision. "By tonight, you'll be too sore to walk!" 
Sheriam's nerves must have been ragged for her to burst out so openly. From the 
way she kept shifting in her saddle, she had already achieved her prediction for 
Siuan.
Siuan's eyes hardened, and she opened her mouth already half snarling, never 
mind who was watching from behind the banner.
"Be still, both of you!" Egwene snapped. She took a deep, calming breath. She 
was a bit ragged herself. Whatever Arathelle believed, any force Elaida sent to 
interfere with them would be too large for sneaking. That left the Black Tower, 
a disaster in the making. You got further plucking the chicken in front of you 
than trying to start on one up a tree. Especially when the tree was in another 
country and there might not even be another chicken.
Still, she bit off her words in giving Sheriam instructions for once they 
reached the camp. She was the Amyrlin Seat, and that meant all Aes Sedai were 
her responsibility, even those following Elaida. Her voice was rock steady, 
though. It was too late to be frightened once you grabbed the wolf by the ears.
Sheriam's tilted eyes went wide at the orders. "Mother, if I may ask, why . . 
.?" She trailed off under Egwene's level gaze, and swallowed. "It will be as you 
say, Mother," she said slowly. "Strange. I remember the day you and Nynaeve came 
to the Tower, two girls who couldn't decide whether to be excited or frightened. 
So much has changed since then. Everything."
"Nothing stays the same forever," Egwene told her. She gave Siuan a significant 
look, but Siuan refused to see. She appeared to be sulking. Sheriam looked sick.
Lord Bryne returned then, and he must have sensed the mood among them. Aside 
from saying that they were making good time, he kept his mouth shut. A wise man.
Making good time or not, the sun was sitting almost on the treetops when they 
finally rode through the army's sprawling camp. Wagons and tents cast long 
shadows across the snow, and a number of men were hard at work building yet more 
low shelters out of brush. There were not nearly enough tents, even for all the 
soldiers, and the camp held almost as many harness-makers and laundresses and 
fletchers and the like, all those who inevitably followed any army. The ringing 
of anvils spoke of farriers and armorers and blacksmiths still at their labors. 
Cook fires were burning everywhere, and the cavalry peeled away, eager for 
warmth and hot food as soon as their wearily plodding animals were cared for. 
Surprisingly, Bryne rode on at Egwene's side after she dismissed him.
"If you will allow, Mother," he said, "I thought I might accompany you a while 
longer." Sheriam actually twisted in her saddle to stare in astonishment. Siuan 
stared, too, straight ahead, as if not daring to turn her suddenly wide eyes 
toward him.
What did he think he could do? Act as her bodyguard? Against sisters? That 
fellow with the drippy nose would do as well. Reveal just how completely he was 
on her side? Tomorrow was time enough for that, if all went well tonight; that 
revelation now might easily stampede the Hall in directions she hardly dared 
contemplate.
"Tonight is for Aes Sedai business," she told him firmly. But, silly as the 
suggestion was, he had offered to put himself at risk for her. There was no 
telling his reasons  --  who knew why a man did anything?  --  yet she owed him for 
that. Among other things. "Unless I send Siuan to you tonight, Lord Bryne, you 
should leave before morning. If blame for today attaches itself to me, it might 
reflect on you, too. Staying could prove dangerous. Even fatal. I don't think 
they would need much excuse." No need to name who "they" were.
"I gave my word," he replied quietly, patting Traveler's neck. "To Tar Valon." 
Pausing, he glanced toward Siuan. It was less a hesitation than a consideration. 
"Whatever tonight's business is," he said finally, "remember that you have 
thirty thousand men and Gareth Bryne behind you. That should count for 
something, even among Aes Sedai. Until tomorrow, Mother." Reining his big-nosed 
bay around, he called over his shoulder, "I expect to see you tomorrow, too, 
Siuan. Nothing changes that." Siuan stared at his back as he rode away. There 
was anguish in her eyes.
Egwene could not help staring, too. He had never been so open before, not 
nearly. Why now, of all times?
Crossing the forty or fifty paces that separated the army's camp from the Aes 
Sedai's, she nodded to Sheriam, who drew rein at the first tents. She and Siuan 
rode on. Behind them, Sheriam's voice rose, surprisingly clear and steady. "The 
Amyrlin Seat calls the Hall to sit this day in formal session. Let preparations 
be made with all speed." Egwene did not look back.
At her tent, a bony groom kicking her layered woolen skirts came running to take 
Daishar and Bela. Her face was pinched, and she barely ducked her head before 
hurrying away with the horses as quickly as she had come. The warmth of the 
glowing braziers inside was like a fist closing down. Egwene had not realized 
how cold it was outside until then. Or how cold she was.
Chesa took her cloak, and exclaimed when she felt her hands. "Why, you're ice to 
the bone, Mother." Chattering away, she bustled around folding Egwene's cloak 
and Siuan's, smoothing the neatly turned-down blankets on Egwene's cot, touching 
a tray set on one of the chests that had been pulled down from the stack. "I'd 
jump right into bed, with hot bricks all around, if I was that chilled. As soon 
as I'd eaten, anyway. Warm outside does only so much good without warm inside. 
I'll fetch a few extra bricks to tuck under your feet while you sup. And for 
Siuan Sedai, of course. Oh, if I was as hungry as you must be, I know I'd be 
tempted to gulp my food, but that always gives me pains in the stomach." Pausing 
by the tray, she eyed Egwene, and nodded with satisfaction when she said that 
she would not eat too fast.
Making a sober answer was not easy. Chesa was always refreshing, but after 
today, Egwene almost laughed with pleasure. There were no complications to 
Chesa. Two white bowls of lentil stew stood on the tray, along with a tall 
pitcher of spiced wine, two silver cups, and two large rolls. Somehow, the woman 
had known Siuan would be eating with her. Steam rose from the bowls and pitcher. 
How often had Chesa had to change that tray to make sure warm food greeted 
Egwene straight away? Simple and uncomplicated. And as caring as a mother. Or a 
friend.
"I must forgo bed for now, Chesa. I've work yet tonight. Would you leave us?"
Siuan shook her head as the tentflap fell behind the plump woman. "Are you sure 
she hasn't been in your service since you were a babe?" she muttered.
Taking one of the bowls, a roll, and a spoon, Egwene settled into her chair with 
a sigh. She also embraced the Source and warded the tent against listeners. 
Unfortunately, saidar made her all that much more aware of half-frozen hands and 
feet. The bits in between were not much warmer. The bowl seemed almost too warm 
to handle, and the roll, as well. Oh, how she would have loved to have those hot 
bricks.
"Is there anything more we can do?" she asked, and promptly gulped down a 
spoonful of stew. She was ravenous, and no wonder, with nothing since breakfast 
and that early. Lentils and woody carrots tasted like her mother's finest 
cooking. "I can't think of anything, but can you?"
"What can be done, has been. There isn't anything else, short of the Creator 
putting a hand in." Siuan took the other bowl and dropped onto the low stool, 
but then she sat staring into her stew and stirring it with her spoon. "You 
wouldn't really tell him, would you?" she said finally. "I couldn't bear if he 
knew."
"Why on earth not?"
"He'd take advantage," Siuan said darkly. "Oh, not that. I don't think that" She 
was quite prudish in some areas. "But the man would make my life the Pit of 
Doom!" And washing his smallclothes and polishing his boots and his saddle every 
day was not?
Egwene sighed. How could such a sensible, intelligent, capable woman turn into a 
scatterbrain over this one subject? Like a hissing viper, an image rose in her 
head. Herself, sitting on Gawyn's knee playing kissing games. In a tavern! She 
shoved it away, hard. "Siuan, I need your experience. I need your brain. I can't 
afford to have you half-witted because of Lord Bryne. If you can't pull yourself 
together, I'll pay him what you owe, and forbid you to see him. I will."
"I said I'd work off the debt," Siuan said stubbornly. "I have as much honor as 
Lord Gareth bloody Bryne! As much and more! He keeps his word, and I keep mine! 
Besides, Min told me I have to stay close to him or we'll both die. Or something 
like that." A pinkness in her cheeks gave her away, though. Her honor and Min's 
viewing notwithstanding, she was simply willing to put up with anything to be 
near the man!
"Very well. You're besotted, and if I tell you to stay away from him, you'll 
either disobey or mope and wrap the rest of your brains in a cloud. What are you 
going to do about him?"
Scowling indignantly, Siuan went on for some little time, growling what she 
would like to do about Gareth bloody Bryne. He would have enjoyed none of it. 
Some, he might not have survived.
"Siuan," Egwene said warningly. "You deny one more time what's plain as your 
nose, and I'll tell him and give him the money."
Siuan pouted sullenly. She pouted! Sullenly! Siuan! "I don't have time to be in 
love. I barely have time to think, between working for you and him. And even if 
everything goes right tonight, I'll have twice as much to do. Besides . . . " 
Her face fell, and she shifted on the stool. "What if he doesn't . . . return my 
feelings?" she muttered. "He's never even tried to kiss me. All he cares about 
is whether his shirts are clean."
Egwene scraped her spoon through her bowl, and was surprised when it came up 
empty. Nothing remained of the roll but a few crumbs on her dress. Light, her 
middle still felt hollow. She eyed Siuan's bowl hopefully; the woman seemed to 
have little interest in anything but drawing circles in the lentils.
A sudden thought occurred to her. Why had Lord Bryne insisted that Siuan work 
off her debt even after learning who she was? Just because she had said she 
would? It was a preposterous arrangement. Except that it did keep her close to 
him when nothing else would have. For that matter, she herself had often 
wondered why Bryne had agreed to build the army. He had to have known there was 
a very good chance he was laying his head on the chopping block. And why he had 
offered that army to her, a girl Amyrlin with no real authority and not a friend 
among the sisters except Siuan, as far as he knew? Could the answer to all of 
those questions be as simple as . . . he loved Siuan? No; most men were 
frivolous and flighty, but that was truly preposterous! Still, she offered the 
suggestion, if only to amuse Siuan. It might cheer her a little.
Siuan snorted in disbelief. It sounded odd, coming from that pretty face, but no 
one could put quite so much expression into a snort as she did. "He's not a 
total idiot," she said dryly. "In fact, he has a good head on his shoulders. He 
thinks like a woman, most of the time."
"I still haven't heard you say you'll straighten up, Siuan," Egwene persisted. 
"You have to, one way or another."
"Well, of course I will. I don't know what's been the matter with me. It isn't 
as if I never kissed a man before." Her eyes narrowed suddenly, as if she 
expected Egwene to challenge her on that. "I haven't spent my whole life in the 
Tower. This is ridiculous! Chattering about men, tonight of all nights!" Peering 
into her bowl, she seemed to realize for the first time that it held food. She 
filled her spoon, gesturing with it at Egwene. "You have to be careful of your 
timing, more now than ever. If Romanda or Lelaine grabs the tiller, you'll never 
get your hands on it."
Ridiculous or not, something certainly had restored Siuan's appetite. She went 
through her stew faster than Egwene had hers, and not a crumb of the roll 
escaped her. Egwene found that she had drawn her fingers through her own empty 
bowl. There was nothing for it then but to lick off the last few lentils, of 
course.
Discussing what was to happen tonight served no real point. They had honed and 
refined what Egwene was to say, and when, so many times that she was surprised 
she had not dreamed of it. She certainly could have done her part in her sleep. 
Siuan insisted anyway, skirting very near the point where Egwene would have to 
call her down, going over it again and again, bringing up possibilities they had 
discussed before a hundred times. Strangely, Siuan had found herself a very good 
mood. She even essayed a little humor, unusual for her of late, though some was 
on the gallows side.
"You know Romanda wanted to be Amyrlin herself once," she said at one point. 
"I've heard it was Tamra getting the stole and staff that made her stalk off 
into retirement like a gull with her tail feathers clipped. I'll lay a silver 
mark I don't have to a fish scale that her eyes bulge twice as much as 
Lelaine's."
And later. "I wish I could be there to hear them howl. Somebody's going to 
before much longer, and I'd rather it was them than us. I never had the voice 
for singing." She actually sang a little snatch about staring across the river 
at a boy and having no boat. She was right; her voice was pleasant in its 
fashion, but she could not carry a tune in a bucket.
And later still. "A good thing I have such a sweet face now. If this goes badly, 
they'll dress the pair of us for dolls and sit us on a shelf to admire. Of 
course, we might have 'accidents' instead. Dolls do get broken. Gareth Bryne 
will have to find someone else to bully." She really laughed at that.
Egwene felt considerable relief when the tentflap bulged inward briefly, 
announcing someone who knew enough not to enter where there was a ward. She 
really did not want to hear where Siuan's humor went from there!
As soon as she released the ward, Sheriam stepped inside, accompanied by a rush 
of air that seemed ten times as cold as earlier. "It's time, Mother. Everything 
is ready." Her tilted eyes were wide, and she licked her lips with the tip of 
her tongue.
Siuan bounded to her feet and seized her cloak from Egwene's cot, but she paused 
in the act of draping it on her shoulders. "I have sailed the Fingers of the 
Dragon in the dark, you know," she said seriously. "And netted a lionfish once, 
with my father. It can be done."
Sheriam frowned as Siuan darted out, letting in more cold. "Sometimes, I think," 
she began, but whatever she sometimes thought, she did not share. "Why are you 
doing this, Mother?" she asked instead. "All of it, today at the lake, calling 
the Hall tonight. Why did you have us spend all day yesterday talking about 
Logain to everybody we met? I'd think you might share it with me. I am your 
Keeper. I did swear fealty."
"I tell you what you need to know," Egwene said, swinging her cloak around her 
shoulders. There was no need to say that she trusted a forced oath only so far, 
even a sister's. And Sheriam might find a reason to let a word slip into the 
wrong ear despite that oath. After all, Aes Sedai were noted for finding 
loopholes in what they had said. She did not really believe that would happen, 
but just as with Lord Bryne, she could not take even small chances unless she 
had to.
"I have to tell you," Sheriam said bitterly, "I think tomorrow Romanda or 
Lelaine will be your Keeper of the Chronicles, and I'll be serving a penance for 
not warning the Hall. And I think you might envy me."
Egwene nodded. All too possible. "Shall we go?"
The sun made a red dome on the treetops to the west, and a lurid light shone off 
the snow. Servants marked Egwene's passage along the deep paths with silent bows 
and curtsies. Their faces were troubled or else blank; servants could pick up 
the moods of those they served almost as quickly as Warders.
Not a sister was to be seen, at first, and then they all were, in a great 
gathering three deep around a pavilion set up in the only open space in the camp 
large enough, the area used by sisters Skimming to the dovecotes in Salidar and 
Traveling back with reports from the eyes-and-ears. A large much-mended piece of 
heavy canvas, not a patch on the splendor of the canopy at the lake, it had been 
a great deal of effort to set up. Most often in the past two months, the Hall 
had convened much as they had yesterday morning, or perhaps squeezed into one of 
the larger tents. The pavilion had been erected only twice since leaving 
Salidar. Both times for a trial.
Noticing Egwene and Sheriam's approach, sisters in the back murmured to those 
ahead, and a gap opened to let them through. Expressionless eyes watched the 
pair of them, giving not a clue to whether the watching sisters knew or even 
suspected what was happening. Not a clue to what they thought. Butterflies 
stirred in Egwene's stomach. A rosebud. Calm.
She stepped onto the layered carpets, woven in bright flowers and a dozen 
different patterns, and moved through the ring of braziers set up around the 
canopy's rim, and Sheriam began. "She comes; she comes . . . " If she sounded a 
little less grand than usual, a touch nervous, it was small wonder.
The polished benches and cloth-covered boxes from the lake were in use again. 
They made a much more formal sight than the mismatched gaggle of chairs that had 
been used previously, two slanting lines of nine, grouped by threes; Green, Gray 
and Yellow to one side, White, Brown and Blue to the other. At the wide end, 
farthest from Egwene, stood the striped box and bench for the Amyrlin Seat. 
Sitting there, she would be the focus of every eye, very much aware that she was 
one facing eighteen. As well she had not changed her clothes; every Sitter still 
wore her finery from the lake, only adding her shawl. A rosebud. Calm.
One of the benches was empty, though only for a moment longer. Delana came 
running in just as Sheriam finished her litany. Looking breathless and 
flustered, the Gray Sitter scrambled up to her seat, between Varilin and 
Kwamesa, with little of her usual grace. She wore a sickly grin, and toyed 
nervously with the firedrops around her neck. Anyone might have thought she was 
the one on trial. Calm. No one was on trial. Yet.
Egwene started slowly across the carpets, between the two rows, with Sheriam 
close behind, and Kwamesa stood. The light of saidar suddenly shone around the 
dark slender woman, youngest of the Sitters. Tonight there would be no skimping 
of the formalities. "What is brought before the Hall of the Tower is for the 
Hall alone to consider," Kwamesa announced. "Whosoever intrudes unbidden, woman 
or man, initiate or outsider, whether they come in peace or in anger, I will 
bind according to the law, to face the law. Know that what I speak is true; it 
will and shall be done."
That formula was older than the oath against speaking untruth, from a time when 
almost as many Amyrlins died by assassination as by all other causes put 
together. Egwene continued her measured tread. It was an effort not to touch her 
stole, for a reminder. She tried to concentrate on the bench ahead.
Kwamesa resumed her seat, still shining with the Power, and among the Whites, 
Aledrin rose, the glow surrounding her as well. With her dark golden hair and 
big pale brown eyes, she was quite lovely when she smiled, but tonight a stone 
had more expression than she. "There are those within earshot who are not of the 
Hall," she said in a cool voice strong with the accents of Tarabon. "What is 
spoken in the Hall of the Tower is for the Hall alone to hear, until and unless 
the Hall decides otherwise. I will make us private. I will seal our words to our 
ears only." Weaving a ward that walled the entire pavilion, she sat. There was a 
stir among the sisters outside, who now must watch the Hall move in utter 
silence.
Strange, that so much among Sitters depended on age, when distinction by age was 
next to anathema among the rest of Aes Sedai. Could Siuan have seen a pattern in 
the Sitters' ages? No. Focus. Calm, and focus.
Gripping the edges of her cloak, Egwene stepped up onto the brightly striped box 
and turned. Lelaine was already on her feet, blue-fringed shawl looped across 
her arms, and Romanda was rising, without even waiting for Egwene to sit. She 
dared not let either seize the tiller. "I call a question before the Hall," she 
said in a loud, firm voice. "Who will stand to declare war against the usurper 
Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan?"
And then she sat, throwing off her cloak and letting it fall across the bench. 
Standing beside her on the carpets, Sheriam appeared quite cool and collected, 
but she made a small sound, almost a whimper. Egwene did not think anyone else 
had heard. She hoped not.
There was a brief moment of shock, women frozen on their seats, staring at her 
in amazement. Perhaps as much because she had asked at all as what she had 
asked. No one put a question before the Hall before sounding out the Sitters; it 
just was not done, for practical reasons as much as tradition.
At last Lelaine spoke. "We do not declare war on individuals," she said in a dry 
voice. "Not even on traitors like Elaida. In any case, I call to shelve your 
question while we deal with more immediate matters." She had had time to gather 
herself since the ride back; her face was merely hard now, not thunderous. 
Brushing blue-slashed skirts as if brushing away Elaida  --  or perhaps Egwene  --  
she turned her attention to the other Sitters. "What brings us to sit tonight is 
. . . I was about to say simple, but it isn't. Open the novice book? We would 
have grandmothers clamoring to be tested. Remain here a month? I hardly need 
list the difficulties, beginning with spending half our gold without coming a 
foot nearer Tar Valon. And as for not crossing into Andor  --  "
"My sister Lelaine, in her anxiety, has forgotten who has the right to speak 
first," Romanda cut in smoothly. Her smile managed to make Lelaine appear merry. 
Still, she took her time adjusting her shawl just as she wanted, a woman with 
all the time in the world. "I have two questions to call before the Hall, and in 
the second I will address Lelaine's concerns. Unfortunately for her, my first 
question concerns Lelaine's own fitness to continue in the Hall." Her smile 
widened without growing the slightest bit warmer. Lelaine sat slowly, her scowl 
quite open.
"A question of war cannot be shelved," Egwene said in a carrying tone. "It must 
be answered before any question called after it. That is the law."
Quick, questioning glances passed between Sitters.
"Is that so?" Janya said finally. Squinting thoughtfully, she twisted on her 
bench to address the woman next to her. "Takima, you remember everything you 
read, and I'm sure I remember you saying you had read the Law of War. Is that 
what it says?"
Egwene held her breath. The White Tower had sent soldiers to any number of wars 
over the last thousand years, but always in response to a plea for help from at 
least two thrones, and it always had been their war, not the Tower's. The last 
time the Tower itself actually declared war had been against Artur Hawkwing. 
Siuan said that now only a few librarians knew much more than that there was a 
Law of War.
Short, with long dark hair to her waist and skin the color of aged ivory, Takima 
often reminded people of a bird, tilting her head in thought. Now she looked 
like a bird that wanted to take flight, shifting on her seat, adjusting her 
shawl, unnecessarily straightening her cap of pearls and sapphires. "It is," she 
said finally, and clamped her mouth shut.
Egwene quietly started breathing again.
"It seems," Romanda said in a clipped tone, "that Siuan Sanche has been teaching 
you well. Mother. How speak you in support of declaring war? On a woman." She 
sounded as if she were trying to push something disagreeable out of her way, and 
she dropped onto her seat waiting for it to depart.
Egwene nodded graciously anyway, and rose. She met the Sitters' gazes one by 
one, levelly, firmly. Takima avoided her eyes. Light, the woman knew! But she 
had not said anything. Would she hold silent long enough? It was too late to 
change plans.
"Today we find ourselves confronted by an army, led by people who doubt us. That 
army would not be there otherwise." Egwene wanted to put passion into her voice, 
to let it burst out, but Siuan had advised utter coolness, and finally she had 
agreed. They needed to see a woman in control of herself, not a girl being 
ridden by her heart. The words came from her heart, though. "You heard Arathelle 
say she did not want to become entangled in Aes Sedai affairs. Yet they were 
willing to bring an army into Murandy and stand in our way. Because they are not 
certain who we are, or what we are about. Did any of you feel that they truly 
believe you are Sitters?" Malind, round-faced and fierce-eyed, shifted on her 
bench among the Greens, and so did Salita, twitching her yellow-fringed shawl, 
though her dark face managed to hide any expression. Berana, another Sitter 
chosen in Salidar, frowned thoughtfully. Egwene did not mention the reaction to 
her as Amyrlin; if that thought was not already in their heads, she did not want 
to plant it.
"We've listed Elaida's crimes to countless nobles," she went on. "We've told 
them we intend to remove her. But they doubt. They think that maybe  --  maybe  --  we 
are what we say. And maybe there's a trick in our words. Perhaps we are only 
Elaida's hand, weaving some elaborate scheme. Doubt leaves people floundering. 
Doubt gave Pelivar and Arathelle the nerve to stand before Aes Sedai and say, 
'You cannot go further.' Who else will stand in our way, or interfere, because 
they aren't certain, and uncertainty leads them to act in a cloud of confusion? 
There's only one way for us to dispel their confusion. We have already done 
everything else. Once we declare ourselves at war with Elaida, there can be no 
doubts. I don't say that Arathelle and Pelivar and Aemlyn will march away as 
soon as we do so, but they and everyone else will know who we are. No one will 
dare again to show doubt so openly when you say you are the Hall of the Tower. 
No one will dare stand in our way, meddling in the affairs of the Tower through 
uncertainty and ignorance. We have walked to the door and put our hands on the 
latch. If you are afraid to walk through, then you all but ask the world to 
believe that you are nothing but Elaida's puppets."
She sat, surprised at how calm she felt. Beyond the two rows of Sitters, sisters 
outside stirred, putting their heads together. She could imagine the excited 
murmurs that Aledrin's ward blocked off. Now if only Takima kept her mouth shut 
long enough.
Romanda grunted impatiently, and stood only long enough to say, "Who stands for 
declaring war against Elaida?" Her gaze returned to Lelaine, and her cold, smug 
smile returned. It was clear what she considered important, once this nonsense 
was done with.
Janya rose immediately, the long brown fringe on her shawl swaying. "We might as 
well," she said. She was not supposed to speak, but her set jaw and sharp gaze 
dared anyone to call her down. She was not normally so forceful, but as usual, 
her words nearly tripped over one another. "Mending what the world knows won't 
be any harder than it is for this. Well? Well? I don't see the point of 
waiting." On the other side of Takima, Escaralde nodded and stood.
Moria all but bounded to her feet, frowning down at Lyrelle, who gathered her 
skirts as if to rise, then hesitated and looked at Lelaine questioningly. 
Lelaine was too busy frowning across the carpets at Romanda to notice.
Among the Greens, Samalin and Malind stood together, and Faiselle looked up with 
a jerk. A stocky, copper-skinned Domani, Faiselle was not a woman startled by 
much, but she looked startled now, her square face swinging wide-eyed from 
Samalin to Malind and back.
Salita rose, carefully adjusting the yellow fringe of her shawl and just as 
carefully avoiding Romanda's sudden frown. Kwamesa stood, and then Aledrin, 
drawing Berana up by her sleeve. Delana twisted completely around on her bench, 
peering at the sisters outside. Even in silence the spectators' excitement 
communicated itself in constant shifting, heads going together, eyes darting 
toward the Sitters. Delana rose slowly, both hands pressed to her middle, 
looking ready to sick up on the spot. Takima grimaced and stared at her hands on 
her knees. Saroiya studied the other two White Sitters, tugging at her ear the 
way she did when deep in thought. But no one else moved to stand.
Egwene felt bile rising in her own throat. Ten. Just ten. She had been so sure. 
Siuan had been so sure. Logain alone should have been enough, given their 
ignorance of the law involved. Pelivar's army and Arathelle refusing to admit 
that they were Sitters should have primed them like a pump.
"For the love of the Light!" Moria burst out. Rounding on Lyrelle and Lelaine, 
she planted her fists on her hips. If Janya's speaking had gone against custom, 
this tied it in a knot. Displays of anger were strictly forbidden in the Hall, 
but Moria's eyes blazed, and her Illianer accent was thick with it. "Why do you 
wait? Elaida did steal the stole and the staff! Elaida's Ajah did make Logain a 
false Dragon, and only the Light knows how many other men! No woman in the 
history of the Tower did ever deserve this declaration more! Stand, or hold 
silent from now about your resolve to remove her!"
Lelaine did not quite stare, but by her expression you might have thought she 
had found herself attacked by a sparrow. "This is hardly worth a vote, Moria," 
she said in a tight voice. "We will speak later about decorum, you and I. Still, 
if you need a demonstration of resolve . . . " With a sharp sniff, she rose, and 
gave a jerk of her head that pulled Lyrelle to her feet like strings. Lelaine 
seemed surprised that it did not pull up Faiselle and Takima, too.
Far from standing, Takima grunted as if struck. Disbelief bright on her face, 
she ran her eyes along the women on their feet, obviously counting. And then did 
it again. Takima, who remembered everything the first time.
Egwene breathed deep in relief. It was done. She could hardly believe. After a 
moment, she cleared her throat, and Sheriam actually jumped.
Green eyes as big as teacups, the Keeper cleared her throat, too. "The lesser 
consensus standing, war is declared against Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan." Her 
voice was none too steady, but it sufficed. "In the interest of unity, I ask for 
the greater consensus to stand."
Faiselle half-moved, then clenched her hands in her lap. Saroiya opened her 
mouth, then closed it without speaking, her face troubled. No one else stirred.
"You won't get it," Romanda said flatly. The sneer she directed across the 
pavilion at Lelaine was as good as a statement of why she, at least, would not 
stand. "Now that little business is finished, we can go on with  --  "
"I don't think we can," Egwene cut in. "Takima, what does the Law of War say 
about the Amyrlin Seat." Romanda was left with her mouth hanging open.
Takima's lips writhed. The diminutive Brown looked more than ever a bird wishing 
to take flight. "The Law . . . " she began, then took a deep breath and sat up 
straight. "The Law of War states, 'As one set of hands must guide a sword, so 
the Amyrlin Seat shall direct and prosecute the war by decree. She shall seek 
the advice of the Hall of the Tower, but the Hall shall carry out her decrees 
with all possible speed, and for the sake of unity, they shall . . . " She 
faltered, and had to visibly force herself to go on. " . . . they shall and must 
approve any decree of the Amyrlin Seat regarding prosecution of the war with the 
greater consensus."
A long silence stretched. Every eye seemed to be goggling.
Turning abruptly, Delana vomited onto the carpets behind her bench. Kwamesa and 
Salita both climbed down and started toward her, but she waved them off, 
plucking a scarf from her sleeve to wipe her mouth. Magla and Saroiya and 
several others still seated looked as though they might follow her example. No 
others who had been chosen in Salidar, though. Romanda appeared ready to bite 
through a nail.
"Very clever," Lelaine said at last in clipped tones, and after a deliberate 
pause, added, "Mother. Will you tell us what the great wisdom of your vast 
experience tells you to do? About the war, I mean. I want to make myself clear."
"Let me make myself clear, too," Egwene said coldly. Leaning forward, she fixed 
the Blue Sitter sternly. "A certain degree of respect is required toward the 
Amyrlin Seat, and from now on, I will have it, daughter. This is no time for me 
to have to unchair you and name a penance." Lelaine's eyes crept wider and wider 
with shock. Had the woman really believed everything would continue as before? 
Or after so long not daring to show more than the tiniest backbone, had Lelaine 
simply believed she had none? Egwene really did not want to unchair her; the 
Blues would almost certainly return the woman, and she still had to deal with 
the Hall on matters that could not be convincingly disguised as part of the war 
against Elaida.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a smile pass across Romanda's lips at seeing 
Lelaine set down. Small profit if all she did was raise Romanda's stock with the 
others. "That holds for everyone, Romanda," she said. "If need be, Tiana can 
find two birches as easily as one." Romanda's smile vanished abruptly.
"If I may speak, Mother," Takima said, rising slowly. She attempted a smile, but 
she still looked decidedly ill. "I myself think you have begun well. There may 
be benefits to stopping here a month. Or longer." Romanda's head jerked around 
to stare at her, but for once, Takima did not appear to notice. "Wintering here, 
we can avoid worse weather further north, and also plan carefully  --  "
"There's an end to delays, daughter," Egwene cut in. "No more dragging our 
feet." Would she be another Gerra, or another Shein? Either was still possible. 
"In one month, we will Travel from here." No; she was Egwene al'Vere, and 
whatever the secret histories would say of her faults and virtues, the Light 
only knew, but they would be hers, not copies of some other woman's. "In one 
month, we will begin the siege of Tar Valon."
This time, the silence was broken only by the sound of Takima weeping.
Chapter 20
Into Andor
Elayne hoped that the journey to Caemlyn would go smoothly, and in the 
beginning, it seemed to do so. She thought that even as she and Aviendha and 
Birgitte sat bone-weary and huddled in the rags that remained of their clothing, 
filthy with dirt and dust and the blood of the injuries they had received when 
the gateway exploded. In two weeks at most, she would be ready to present her 
claims to the Lion Throne. There on the hilltop, Nynaeve Healed their numerous 
hurts and spoke barely a word, certainly not berating them. Surely that was a 
pleasant sign, if unusual. Relief at finding them alive battled worry on her 
face.
Lan's strength was necessary to remove the Seanchan crossbow bolt from 
Birgitte's thigh before she could be Healed of that wound, but although her face 
drained of blood and Elayne felt a stab of agony through the bond, agony that 
made her want to cry out, her Warder barely groaned through her gritted teeth.
"Tai'shar Kandor," Lan murmured, tossing the pile-head quarrel, made to punch 
through armor, aside on the ground. True blood of Kandor. Birgitte blinked, and 
he paused. "Forgive me, if I erred. I assumed from your clothes you were 
Kandori."
"Oh, yes," Birgitte breathed. "Kandori." Her sickly grin might have been from 
her injuries; Nynaeve was impatiently shooing Lan out of the way so she could 
lay hands on her. Elayne hoped the woman knew more of Kandor than the name; when 
Birgitte had last been born, there had been no Kandor. She should have taken it 
as an omen.
For the five miles to the small slate-roofed manor house, Birgitte rode behind 
Nynaeve on the latter's stout brown mare  --  named Loversknot, of all things  --  and 
Elayne and Aviendha rode Lan's tall black stallion. At least, Elayne sat 
Mandarb's saddle with Aviendha's arms around her waist while Lan led the 
fiery-eyed animal. Trained warhorses were as much weapons as a sword, and 
dangerous mounts for strange riders. Be sure of yourself, girl, Lini had always 
told her, but not too sure, and she did try. She should have realized events 
were no more in her control than Mandarb's reins.
At the three-story stone house, Master Hornwell, stout and gray-haired, and 
Mistress Hornwell, slightly less round and slightly less gray but otherwise 
resembling her husband remarkably, had every last person who worked the estates, 
and Merilille's maid, Pol, and the green-and-white liveried servants who had 
come from the Tarasin Palace as well, all bustling to find sleeping 
accommodations for over two hundred people, most women, who had appeared out of 
nowhere with dark near to falling. The work went with surprising swiftness, in 
spite of the estates' people stopping to gawk at an Aes Sedai's ageless face, or 
a Warder's shifting cloak making parts of him vanish, or one of the Sea Folk 
with all of her bright silks, her earrings and nosering and medallioned chain. 
Kinswomen were deciding that now it was safe to be frightened and cry no matter 
what Reanne and the Knitting Circle said to them; Windfinders were snarling over 
how far from the salt they had come, against their will as Renaile din Calon 
loudly claimed; and nobles and crafts women who had been all too willing to flee 
whatever lay back in Ebou Dar, willing to carry their bundled possessions on 
their backs, were now balking at being shown a hayloft for a bed.
All that was going on when Elayne and the others arrived with the sun red on the 
western horizon, a great upheaval and milling all about the house and 
thatch-roofed outbuildings, but Alise Tenjile, smiling pleasantly and implacable 
as an avalanche, seemed to have everything more in hand than even the capable 
Hornwells. Kinswomen who wept harder for all of Reanne's attempts at comfort 
dried their tears at a murmur from Alise and began moving with the purposeful 
air of women who had been caring for themselves in a hostile world for many 
years. Haughty nobles with marriage knives dangling into the oval cutouts in 
their lace-trimmed bodices and craftswomen who displayed almost as much 
arrogance and nearly as much bosom, if not in silk, flinched at the sight of 
Alise approaching, and went scurrying for the tall barns hugging their bundles 
and announcing loudly that they had always thought it might be amusing to sleep 
on straw. Even the Windfinders, many of them important and powerful women among 
the Atha'an Miere, muffled their complaints when Alise came near. For that 
matter, Sareitha, still lacking the Aes Sedai agelessness, eyed Alise askance 
and touched her brown-fringed shawl as if to remind herself it was there. 
Merilille  --  unflappable Merilille  --  watched the woman go about her work with a 
blend of approval and open amazement.
Clambering down from her saddle at the front door of the house, Nynaeve glared 
toward Alise, gave her dark braid one deliberate, measured tug that the other 
woman was far too busy to notice, and stalked inside, stripping off her blue 
riding gloves and muttering to herself. Watching her go, Lan chuckled softly, 
then stifled his laughter immediately when Elayne dismounted. Light, but his 
eyes were cold! For Nynaeve's sake, she hoped the man could be saved from his 
fate, yet looking into those eyes, she did not believe it.
"Where is Ispan?" she murmured, helping Aviendha scramble down. So many of the 
women knew an Aes Sedai  --  a Black sister  --  was being held prisoner that the news 
was bound to spread through the estates like fire in dry grass, but better if 
the manor's folk had a little preparation.
"Adeleas and Vandene took her to a small woodcutter's hut about half a mile 
away," he replied just as quietly. "In all this, I don't think anyone noticed a 
woman with a sack over her head. The sisters said they would stay there with her 
tonight."
Elayne shivered. The Darkfriend was to be questioned again once the sun went 
down, it seemed. They were in Andor, now, and that made her feel more deeply as 
if she had given the order for it.
Soon she was in a copper bathtub, luxuriating in perfumed soap and clean skin 
again, laughing and splashing water at Birgitte, who lolled in another tub 
except when she was splashing back, both of them giggling over the wincing 
horror Aviendha could not quite conceal at sitting up to her breasts in water. 
She thought it was a very good joke on herself, though, and told a most improper 
story about a man getting segade spines in his bottom. Birgitte told one still 
more improper, about a woman getting her head caught between the slats of a 
fence, that made even Aviendha blush. They were funny, though. Elayne wished she 
knew one to tell.
She and Aviendha combed and brushed one another's hair  --  a nightly ritual for 
near-sisters  --  and then they snuggled tiredly into the canopied bed in a small 
room. She and Aviendha, Birgitte and Nynaeve, and lucky there were no more. 
Larger rooms had cots and pallets covering the floors, including the sitting 
rooms, the kitchens, and most of the halls. Nynaeve muttered half the night 
about the indecency of making a woman sleep apart from her husband, and for the 
other half, her elbows seemed to wake Elayne every time she dropped off. 
Birgitte flatly refused to change places, and she could not ask Aviendha to 
endure the woman's sharp prodding, so she did not get a great deal of sleep. 
Elayne was still groggy when they prepared to depart the next morning, with the 
rising sun a molten ball of gold. The manor had few animals to spare unless she 
stripped the estates bare, so while she rode a black gelding named Fireheart, 
and Aviendha and Birgitte had new mounts, those who had been afoot when they 
fled the Kin's farm remained afoot. That included most of the Kinswomen 
themselves, the servants leading the pack animals, and the twenty-odd women who 
plainly were beyond regretting their visit to the Kin's farm in hopes of peace 
and contemplation. The Warders rode ahead to scout the way across rolling hills 
covered in drought-starved forest, and the rest of them stretched out in a most 
peculiar snake, with Nynaeve and herself and the other sisters at the head. And 
Aviendha, of course. It was hardly a group that could escape notice, so many 
women traveling with so few men for guards, not to mention twenty dark 
Windfinders, awkward on their horses and as bright as exotically plumaged birds, 
and nine Aes Sedai, six of them recognizably so to anyone who knew what to look 
for. Though one did ride with a leather sack over her head, of course. As if 
that would not attract eyes by itself. Elayne had hoped to reach Caemlyn 
unnoticed, but that no longer seemed possible. Still, there was no reason that 
anyone would suspect that the Daughter-Heir, Elayne Trakand herself, was one of 
this group. In the beginning, she thought that the greatest difficulty they 
might face would be someone who opposed her claims learning of her presence, 
sending armed men to try taking her into custody until the succession was 
settled.
In truth, she expected the first trouble to come from the footsore craftswomen 
and nobles, proud women all, and none used to tramping dusty hills. Especially 
since Merilille's maid had her own plump mare to ride. The few farm wives among 
them did not seem to mind too much, but nearly half their number were women who 
possessed lands and manors and palaces, and most of the rest could have afforded 
to buy an estate if not two or three. They included two goldsmiths, three 
weavers who owned over four hundred looms between them, a woman whose 
manufactories produced a tenth of all the lacquerware Ebou Dar produced, and a 
banker. They walked, their possessions strapped to their backs, while their 
horses bore packsaddles laden with food. There was real need. Every last coin in 
everyone's purse had been pooled together and given into Nynaeve's tightfisted 
keeping, but all might not be sufficient to buy food, fodder and lodgings for so 
large a party all the way to Caemlyn. They did not seem to understand. They 
complained loudly and incessantly through the first day's march. Loudest of all 
was a slim lady with a thin scar on one cheek, a stern-faced woman named Malien, 
who was nearly bent double under the weight of a huge bundle containing a dozen 
or more dresses and all the changes that went with them.
When they made camp that first night, with their cook fires glowing in the 
twilight and everyone full of beans and bread if not entirely satisfied with 
them, Malien gathered the noblewomen around her, their silks more than 
travel-stained. The craftswomen joined in, too, and the banker, and the farmers 
stood close. Before Malien could say a word, Reanne strode into the group. Her 
face full of smile lines, in plain brown woolens with her skirts sewn up on the 
left to expose bright layered petticoats, she might have been one of the farm 
women.
"If you wish to go home," she announced in that surprisingly high voice, "you 
may do so at any time. I regret that we must keep your horses, though. You will 
be paid for them as soon as can be arranged. If you choose to remain, please 
remember that the rules of the farm still apply." A number of the women around 
her gaped. Malien was not alone in opening her mouth angrily.
Alise just seemed to appear at Reanne's side, fists planted on her hips. She was 
not smiling now. "I said the last ten to be ready would do the washing up," she 
told them firmly. And she named them off; Jillien, a plump goldsmith; Naiselle, 
the cool-eyed banker; and all eight of the nobles. They stood staring at her 
until she clapped her hands and said, "Don't make me invoke the rule on failure 
to do your share of the chores."
Malien, wide-eyed and muttering in disbelief, was the last to dart off and begin 
gathering dirty bowls, but the next morning she pared her bundle down, leaving 
lace-trimmed silk dresses and shifts to be trampled on the hillside as they 
departed. Elayne continued to expect an explosion, but Reanne kept a firm hand 
on them, Alise kept a firmer, and if Malien and the others glared and muttered 
over the grease stains that grew on their clothes day by day, Reanne had only to 
speak a few words to send them to their work. Alise only had to clap her hands.
If the rest of the journey could have gone as smoothly, Elayne would have been 
willing to join those women in their greasy labors. Long before reaching 
Caemlyn, she knew that for a fact.
Once they reached the first narrow dusty road, little more than cart track, 
farms began to appear, thatched stone houses and barns clinging to the hillsides 
or nestled in hollows. From then on, whether the land was hilly or flat, 
forested or cleared, they rarely spent many hours beyond sight of a farm or a 
village. At each of those, while the local folk goggled at the very strange 
strangers, Elayne tried to learn how much support House Trakand had, and what 
concerned the people most. Addressing those concerns would be important in 
making her claim to the throne strong enough to stand, as important as the 
backing of other Houses. She heard a great deal, if not always what she wished 
to hear. Andorans claimed the right to speak their minds to the Queen herself; 
they were hardly shy with a young noblewoman, no matter how peculiar her 
traveling companions.
In a village called Damelien, where three mills sat beside a small river 
shrunken to leave their tall waterwheels dry, the square-jawed innkeeper at The 
Golden Sheaves allowed as how he thought Morgase had been a good queen, the best 
that could be, the best that ever was. "Her daughter might've been a good ruler, 
too, I suppose," he muttered, thumbing his chin. "Pity the Dragon Reborn killed 
them. I suppose he had to  --  the Prophecies or some such  --  but he had no call to 
dry up the rivers, now did he? How much grain did you say your horses need, my 
lady? It's dreadful dear, mind."
A hard-faced woman, in a worn brown dress that hung on her as if she had lost 
weight, surveyed a field surrounded by a low stone wall, where the hot wind sent 
sheets of dust marching into the woods. The other farms around Buryhill looked 
as bad or worse. "That Dragon Reborn's got no right to do this to us, now has 
he? I ask you!" She spat and frowned up at Elayne in her saddle. "The throne? 
Oh, Dyelin's as good as any, now Morgase and her girl are dead. Some around here 
still speak up for Naean or Elenia, but I'm for Dyelin. Any lookout, Caemlyn's a 
long way off. I've got crops to worry about. If I ever make another crop."
"Oh, it's true, my lady, so it is; Elayne's alive," a gnarled old carpenter told 
her in Forel Market. He was bald as a leather egg, his fingers twisted with age, 
but the work standing among the shavings and sawdust that littered his shop 
looked as fine as any Elayne had seen. She was the only person in the shop 
besides him. From the look of the village, half the residents had left. "The 
Dragon Reborn is having her brought to Caemlyn so he can put the Rose Crown on 
her head himself," he allowed. "The news is all over. 'Tisn't right, if you ask 
me. He's one of them black-eyed Aielmen, I hear. We ought to march on Caemlyn 
and drive him and all them Aiel back where they come from. Then Elayne can claim 
the throne her own self. If Dyelin lets her keep it, anyway."
Elayne heard a great deal about Rand, rumors ranging from him swearing fealty to 
Elaida to him being the King of Illian, of all things. In Andor, he was blamed 
for everything bad that happened for the last two or three years, including 
stillbirths and broken legs, infestations of grasshoppers, two-headed calves, 
and three-legged chickens. And even people who thought her mother had ruined the 
country and an end to the reign of House Trakand was good riddance still 
believed Rand al'Thor an invader. The Dragon Reborn was supposed to fight the 
Dark One at Shayol Ghul, and he should be driven out of Andor. Not what she had 
hoped to hear, not a bit of it. But she heard it all again and again. It was not 
a pleasant journey at all. It was one long lesson in one of Lini's favorite 
sayings. It isn't the stone you see that trips you on your nose.
She thought a number of things beside the nobles might cause trouble, some sure 
to be explosions as great as the gateway. The Windfinders, smug in the bargain 
made with Nynaeve and herself, behaved in an irritatingly superior manner toward 
the Aes Sedai, especially after it came out that Merilille had let herself agree 
to be one of the first sisters to go the ships. Yet if the sizzling there 
continued like the burning of an Illuminator's fuse-cord, the explosion never 
quite came. The Windfinders and the Kinswomen, in particular the Knitting 
Circle, seemed as certain to blow up. They cut one another dead when not 
sneering openly, the Kin at "Sea Folk wilders getting above themselves," the 
Windfinders at "cringing sandlappers kissing Aes Sedai feet." But it never went 
beyond lips curled or daggers caressed.
Ispan certainly presented problems that Elayne was sure would grow, yet after a 
few days, Vandene and Adeleas let her ride unhooded if not unshielded, a silent 
figure with colored beads in her thin braids, ageless face turned down and hands 
still on her reins. Renaile told everyone who would listen that among the 
Atha'an Miere, a Darkfriend was stripped of his or her names as soon as proven 
guilty, then thrown over the side tied to ballast stones. Among the Kinswomen, 
even Reanne and Alise paled every time they saw the Taraboner woman. But Ispan 
grew meeker and meeker, eager to please and full of ingratiating smiles for the 
two white-haired sisters no matter what it was they did to her when they carried 
her away from the others at night. On the other hand, Adeleas and Vandene grew 
more and more frustrated. Adeleas told Nynaeve in Elayne's hearing that the 
woman spilled out volumes about old plots of the Black Ajah, those she had not 
been involved in much more enthusiastically than those she was, yet even when 
they pressed her hard  --  Elayne could not quite make herself ask how they pressed 
 --  and she let slip the names of Darkfriends, most were certainly dead and none 
was a sister. Vandene said they were beginning to fear she had taken an Oath  --  
the capital was audible  --  against betraying her cohorts. They continued to 
isolate Ispan as much as possible and continued with their questions, but it was 
plain they were feeling their way blindly, now, and carefully.
And there was Nynaeve, and Lan. Most definitely Nynaeve and Lan, with her near 
to bursting at the effort of holding her temper around him, mooning over him 
when they had to sleep apart  --  which was nearly always, the way accommodations 
divided up  --  and torn between eager and afraid when she could sneak him off to a 
hayloft. It was her own fault for choosing a Sea Folk wedding, in Elayne's 
estimation. The Sea Folk believed in hierarchy as they did in the sea, and they 
knew a woman and her husband might be promoted one past the other many times in 
their lives. Their marriage rites took that into account. Whoever had the right 
to command in public, must obey in private. Lan never took advantage, so Nynaeve 
said  --  "not really," whatever that was supposed to mean! She always blushed when 
she said it  --  but she kept waiting for him to do so, and he just seemed to grow 
more and more amused. This amusement, of course, screwed Nynaeve's temper to a 
fever pitch. Nynaeve did erupt, out of all the explosions Elayne had expected. 
She snapped at anyone and everyone who got in her way. Except at Lan; with him, 
she was all honey and cream. And not at Alise. She came close once or twice, but 
even Nynaeve could not seem to make herself snap at Alise.
Elayne had hopes, not worries, about the things brought out of the Rahad along 
with the Bowl of the Winds. Aviendha helped her search, and so did Nynaeve once 
or twice, but she was entirely too slow and ginger about it and showed little 
skill at finding what they were searching for. They found no more angreal, yet 
the collection of ter'angreal grew; once all the rubbish had been thrown away, 
objects that used the One Power filled five entire panniers on the packhorses.
Careful as Elayne was, though, her attempts to study them did not go so well. 
Spirit was the safest of the Five Powers to use in this  --  unless, of course, 
Spirit happened to be what triggered the thing!  --  yet at times she had to use 
other flows, as fine as she could weave. Sometimes her delicate probing did 
nothing, but her first touch at the thing that looked like a blacksmith's puzzle 
made of glass left her dizzy and unable to sleep for half the night, and a 
thread of Fire touching what looked like a helmet made of fluffy metal feathers 
gave everyone within twenty paces a blinding headache. Except for herself. And 
then there was the crimson rod that felt hot. Hot, in a way.
Sitting on the edge of her bed at an inn called The Wild Boar, she examined the 
smooth rod by the light of two polished brass lamps. Wrist-thick and a foot 
long, it looked like stone, but felt firm rather than hard. She was alone; since 
the helmet, she had tried to do her studying away from the others. The heat of 
the rod made her think of Fire . . . 
Blinking, she opened her eyes and sat up in the bed. Sunlight streamed in at the 
window. She was in her shift, and Nynaeve, fully dressed, stood frowning down at 
her. Aviendha and Birgitte were watching from beside the door.
"What happened?" Elayne demanded, and Nynaeve shook her head grimly.
"You don't want to know." Her lips twitched. Aviendha's face gave away nothing. 
Birgitte's mouth might have been a little tight, but the strongest emotion 
Elayne felt from her was a combination of relief and  --  hilarity! The woman was 
doing her utmost not to roll on the floor laughing!
The worst of it was, no one would tell what had happened. What she had said, or 
done; she was sure it was that, by the quickly hidden grins she saw, from 
Kinswomen and Windfinders as well as sisters. But no one would tell her! After 
that, she decided to leave studying the ter'angreal to somewhere more 
comfortable than a inn. Somewhere definitely more private!
Nine days after their flight from Ebou Dar, scattered clouds appeared in the sky 
and a sprinkling of fat raindrops splashed dust in the road. An intermittent 
drizzle fell the next day, and the day after, a deluge kept them huddled in the 
houses and stables of Forel Market. That night, the rain turned to sleet, and by 
morning, thick flurries of snow drifted from a cloud-dark sky. More than halfway 
to Caemlyn, Elayne begun to wonder whether they could make it in two weeks from 
where they stood.
With the snow, clothes became a worry. Elayne blamed herself for not thinking of 
the fact that everyone might need warm clothes before they reached their 
destination. Nynaeve blamed herself for not thinking of it. Merilille thought 
she was at fault, and Reanne thought she was. They actually stood in the main 
street of Forel Market that morning with snowflakes drifting down on their 
heads, arguing over who could claim the blame. Elayne was not sure which of them 
saw the absurdity first, who was the first to laugh, but all were laughing as 
they settled around a table in The White Swan to decide what to do. A solution 
turned out to be no laughing matter. Providing one warm coat or cloak for 
everyone would take a large bite out of their coin, if so many could be found. 
Jewelry could be sold or traded, of course, but no one in Forel Market seemed to 
be interested in necklaces or bracelets, however fine.
Aviendha solved that difficulty by producing a small sack that bulged with 
clear, perfect gemstones, some quite large. Strangely, the same folk who had 
said with bare politeness that they had no use for be-gemmed necklaces went 
round-eyed at the unset stones rolling about in Aviendha's palm. Reanne said 
they saw one as frippery, the other as wealth, but whatever their reasons, in 
return for two rubies of moderate size, one large moonstone, and a small 
firedrop, the people of Forel Market were more than willing to provide as many 
thick woolens as their visitors desired, some of them hardly worn.
"Very generous of them," Nynaeve muttered sourly as people began rooting clothes 
out of their chests and attics. A steady stream marched into the inn with their 
arms full. "Those stones could buy the whole village!" Aviendha shrugged 
slightly; she would have surrendered a handful of the gems if Reanne had not 
intervened.
Merilille shook her head. "We have what they want, but they have what we need. 
I'm afraid that means they set the price." Which was entirely too much like the 
situation with the Sea Folk. Nynaeve looked positively ill.
When they were alone, in a hallway of the inn, Elayne asked Aviendha where she 
had gotten such a fortune in jewels, and one she seemed eager to be rid of. She 
expected her near-sister to say they were her takings from the Stone of Tear, or 
perhaps Cairhien.
"Rand al'Thor tricked me," Aviendha muttered sullenly. "I tried to buy my toh 
from him. I know that is the least honorable way," she protested, "but I could 
see no other. And he stood me on my head! Why is it, when you reason things out 
logically, a man always does something completely illogical and gains the upper 
hand?"
"Their pretty heads are so fuzzy, a woman can't expect to follow how they 
skitter," Elayne told her. She did not inquire what toh Aviendha had tried to 
buy, or how the attempt had ended with her near-sister possessing a sack full of 
rich gems. Talking about Rand was hard enough without where that might lead.
Snow brought more than a need for warm clothing. At midday, with the snow 
flurries falling thicker by the minute, Renaile strode down the stairs into the 
common room, proclaimed that her part of the bargain had been met, and demanded 
not only the Bowl of the Winds, but Merilille. The Gray sister stared in 
consternation, and so did a great many others. The benches were filled with 
Kinswomen taking their turn at the midday meal, and serving men and women ran to 
serve this third lot of meals. Renaile did not keep her voice down, and every 
head in the common room swiveled toward her.
"You can begin your teaching, now," Renaile told the wide-eyed Aes Sedai. "Up 
the ladder with you to my quarters." Merilille started to protest, but face 
suddenly cold, the Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships planted fists on her 
hips. "When I give a command, Merilille Ceandevin," she said icily, "I expect 
every hand on deck to jump. Now jump!"
Merilille did not precisely jump, but she did gather herself and go, with 
Renaile practically chivvying her up the stairs from behind. Given her promise, 
she had no other choice. Reanne's face was aghast. Alise and stout Sumeko, still 
wearing her red belt, watched thoughtfully.
In the days that followed, whether laboring along a snow-covered road on their 
horses, walking the streets of a village, or trying to find room for everyone at 
a farm, Renaile kept Merilille at her heels except when she told her off to 
follow another Windfinder. The glow of saidar surrounded the Gray sister and her 
escort almost constantly, and Merilille demonstrated weaves unceasingly. The 
pale Cairhienin was markedly shorter than any of the dark Sea Folk women, but at 
first Merilille managed to stand taller by the sheer force of Aes Sedai dignity. 
Soon, though, she began to wear a permanently startled expression. Elayne 
learned that when they all had beds to sleep in, which they did not always, 
Merilille was sharing with Pol, her maid, and the two apprentice Windfinders, 
Talaan and Metarra. What that said of Merilille's status, Elayne was not sure. 
Clearly, the Windfinders did not put her on a level with the apprentices. They 
just expected her to do as she was told, when she was told, with no delays or 
equivocations.
Reanne remained appalled at the turn of events, but Alise and Sumeko were not 
the only ones among the Kin to watch closely, not the only ones to nod 
thoughtfully. And suddenly, another problem came to Elayne's notice. The 
Kinswomen saw Ispan made more and more malleable in her captivity, but she was 
the prisoner of other Aes Sedai. The Sea Folk were not Aes Sedai, and Merilille 
not a prisoner, yet she was starting to jump when Renaile issued a command, or, 
for that matter, when Dorile, or Caire, or Caire's blood-sister Tebreille did. 
Each of those was Windfinder to a clan Wavemistress, and none of the others made 
her hop with such alacrity, but that was enough. More and more of the Kin slid 
from horrified gaping to thoughtful observation. Perhaps Aes Sedai were not a 
different flesh after all. If Aes Sedai were just women like themselves, why 
should they subject themselves once more to the rigors of the Tower, to Aes 
Sedai authority and Aes Sedai discipline? Had they not survived very well on 
their own, some for more years than any of the older sisters were quite ready to 
believe? Elayne could practically see the idea forming in their heads.
When she mentioned it to Nynaeve, though, Nynaeve just muttered, "About time 
some of the sisters learned what it's like trying to teach a woman who thinks 
she knows more than her teacher. Those who have a chance at a shawl will still 
want it, and for the rest, I don't see why they shouldn't grow some backbone." 
Elayne refrained from mentioning Nynaeve's complaints about Sumeko, who had 
certainly grown backbone; Sumeko had criticized several of Nynaeve's Healing 
weaves as "clumsy," and Elayne had thought Nynaeve was going to have apoplexy on 
the spot. "In any case, there's no need to tell Egwene about this. If she's 
there. Any of it. She has enough on her plate." Without doubt, "any of it" 
referred to Merilille and the Windfinders.
They were in their shifts, seated on their bed on the second floor of The New 
Plow, with the twisted-ring dream ter'angreal hanging about their necks, 
Elayne's on a simple leather cord, Nynaeve's alongside Lan's heavy signet ring 
on a narrow golden chain. Aviendha and Birgitte, still fully dressed, sat on two 
of their clothing chests. Standing guard, they called it, until she and Nynaeve 
returned from the World of Dreams. Both wore their cloaks until they could climb 
under the blankets. The New Plow was definitely not new; cracks spidered across 
the plastered walls, and unfortunate drafts crept in everywhere.
The room itself was small, and the chests and stacked bundles left room for 
little beyond the bed and washstand. Elayne knew she had to present herself 
properly in Caemlyn, but sometimes she felt guilty, with her belongings on pack 
animals when most others had to make do with what they could carry on their 
backs. Nynaeve certainly never showed any regrets over her chests. They had been 
sixteen days on the road, the full moon outside the narrow window shone on a 
white blanket of snow that would make traveling tomorrow slow even if the sky 
remained clear, and Elayne thought another week to Caemlyn was an optimistic 
estimate.
"I have enough sense not to remind her," she told Nynaeve. "I don't want my nose 
snapped off again."
That was a mild way of putting it. They had not been in Tel'aran'rhiod since 
informing Egwene, the night after leaving the estate, that the Bowl had been 
used. Reluctantly, they also had told her of the bargain they had been forced 
into with the Sea Folk, and found themselves facing the Amyrlin Seat with the 
striped stole on her shoulders. Elayne knew it was necessary and right  --  a 
Queen's closest friend among her subjects knew she was the Queen as well as a 
friend, had to know  --  but she had not enjoyed her friend telling them in a 
heated voice that they had behaved like witless loobies who might have brought 
ruin down on all their heads. Especially when she herself agreed. She had not 
liked hearing that the only reason Egwene did not set them both a penance that 
would curl their hair was that she could not afford to have them waste the time. 
Necessary and right, though; when she sat on the Lion Throne, she would still be 
Aes Sedai, and subject to the laws and rules and customs of Aes Sedai. Not for 
Andor  --  she would not give her land to the White Tower  --  but for herself. So, 
unpleasant as it had been, she accepted her castigation calmly. Nynaeve had 
writhed and stammered with embarrassment, protested and all but pouted, then 
apologized so profusely that Elayne hardly believed it was the same woman she 
knew. Quite rightly, Egwene had remained the Amyrlin, cool in her displeasure 
even while giving pardon for their mistakes. At best, tonight could not be 
pleasant or comfortable if she was there.
But when they dreamed themselves into the Salidar of Tel'aran'rhiod, into the 
room in the Little Tower that had been called the Amyrlin's Study, she was not 
there, and the only sign she had visited since their meeting was some barely 
visible words roughly scratched on a beetle-riddled wall panel, as if by an idle 
hand that did not want to spend the effort to carve deeply.
 
STAY IN CAEMLYN And a few feet away: KEEP SILENT AND BE CAREFUL
 
Those had been Egwene's final instructions to them. Go to Caemlyn, and stay 
there until she could puzzle out how to keep the Hall from salting all of them 
down and nailing them into a barrel. A reminder they had no way to erase.
Embracing saidar, Elayne channeled to leave her own message, the number fifteen 
seemingly scratched on the heavy table that had been Egwene's writing desk. 
Inverting the weave and tying it off meant that only someone who ran her fingers 
across the numerals would realize they were not really there. Perhaps it would 
not take fifteen days to reach Caemlyn, but more than a week, she was certain.
Nynaeve strode to the window and peered out both ways, careful not to put her 
head out through the open casement. It was night out there as in the waking 
world, a full moon gleaming on bright snow, though the air did not feel cold. No 
one else should be there except them, and if anyone was, it was someone to 
avoid. "I hope she isn't having trouble with her plans," she muttered.
"She told us not to mention those even to each other, Nynaeve. 'A secret spoken 
finds wings.' " That had been another of Lini's many favorites.
Nynaeve grimaced over her shoulder, then returned to peering down the narrow 
alley. "It's different for you. I tended her as a child, changed her swaddling, 
smacked her bottom a time or two. And now I have to leap when she snaps her 
fingers. It's hard."
Elayne could not help herself. She snapped her fingers.
Nynaeve spun so fast that she blurred, her face pop-eyed with horror. Her dress 
blurred, too, from blue riding silks to an Accepted's banded white to what she 
referred to as good, stout Two Rivers wool, dark and thick. When she realized 
Egwene was not there, had not been listening, she almost fainted with relief.
When they stepped back to their bodies and woke long enough to tell the others 
they could come to bed, Aviendha certainly thought it a good joke, and Birgitte 
laughed as well. Nynaeve had her revenge, though. The next morning, she woke 
Elayne with an icicle. Elayne's shrieks woke everybody else in the whole 
village.
Three days later, the first explosion came.
Chapter 21
Answering the Summons
The great winter tempests called the cemaros continued to roll up out of the Sea 
of Storms, harsher than any in memory. Some said this year the cemaros was 
trying to make up for the months of delay. Lightning crackled across the skies, 
enough to make the darkness patchy at night. Wind lashed the land and rain 
flailed it, turning all but the hardest roads to rivers of mud. Sometimes the 
mud froze after nightfall, but sunrise always brought a thaw, even under a gray 
sky, and the ground became bogs once more. Rand was surprised at how much all 
that hampered his plans.
The Asha'man he had sent for came quickly, at midmorning the next day, riding 
out of a gateway into a driving downpour that obscured the sun so, it might as 
well have been twilight. Through the hole in the air, snow fell back in Andor, 
fat white flakes swirling about thickly and hiding what lay behind them. Most of 
the men in the short column were bundled in heavy black cloaks, but the rain 
seemed to slip around them and their horses. It was not obvious, yet anyone who 
noticed would look twice, if not three times. Keeping dry required only a simple 
weave, so long as you did not mind flaunting what you were. But then, the 
black-and-white disc worked on a crimson circle on the breast of their cloaks 
did that. Even half-hidden by the rain, there was a pride about them, an 
arrogance in the way they sat their saddles. A defiance. They gloried in what 
they were.
Their commander, Charl Gedwyn, was a few years older than Rand, of middling 
height and wearing the Sword and Dragon, like Torval, on a very well cut, 
high-collared coat of the best black silk. His sword was mounted lushly with 
silver, his silver-worked sword belt fastened with a silver buckle shaped in a 
clenched fist. Gedwyn termed himself Tsorovan'm'hael; in the Old Tongue, Storm 
Leader, whatever that was supposed to mean. It seemed appropriate to the 
weather, at least.
Even so, he stood just inside the entrance to Rand's ornate green tent and 
scowled out at the cascading rain. A guard of mounted Companions encircled the 
tent, no more than thirty paces away, yet they were barely visible. They might 
have been statues, ignoring the torrent.
"How do you expect me to find anyone in this?" Gedwyn muttered, glancing back 
over his shoulder at Rand. A tick late, he added, "My Lord Dragon." His eyes 
were hard and challenging, but they always were, whether looking at a man or a 
fence-post. "Rochaid and I brought eight Dedicated and forty Soldiers, enough to 
destroy an army or cow ten kings. We might even make an Aes Sedai blink," he 
said wryly. "Burn me, the pair of us could do a fair job alone. Or you could. 
Why do you need anyone else?"
"I expect you to obey, Gedwyn," Rand said coldly. Storm Leader? And Manel 
Rochaid, Gedwyn's second, called himself Baijan'm'hael, Attack Leader. What was 
Taim up to, creating new ranks? The important thing was that the man made 
weapons. The important thing was that the weapons stayed sane long enough to be 
used. "And I don't expect you to waste time questioning my orders."
"As you command, my Lord Dragon," Gedwyn muttered. "I'll send men out 
immediately." With a curt salute, fist to chest, he strode out into the storm. 
The deluge bent away from him, sheeting down the small shield he wove around 
himself. Rand wondered whether the man suspected how close he had come to dying 
when he seized saidin without warning.
You must kill him before he kills you, Lews Therin giggled. They will, you know. 
Dead men can't betray anyone. The voice in Rand's head turned wondering. But 
sometimes they don't die. Am I dead? Are you?
Rand pushed the words down to a fly's buzzing, just on the edge of notice. Since 
his reappearance inside Rand's head, Lews Therin seldom went silent unless 
forced. The man seemed madder than ever most of the time, and usually angrier as 
well. Stronger sometimes, too. That voice invaded Rand's dreams, and when he saw 
himself in a dream, it was not always himself at all that he saw. It was not 
always Lews Therin, either, the face he had come to recognize as Lews Therin's. 
Sometimes it was blurred, yet vaguely familiar, and Lews Therin seemed startled 
by it, too. That was an indication how far the man's madness went. Or maybe his 
own.
Not yet, Rand thought. I can't afford to go mad yet.
When, then? Lews Therin whispered before Rand could mute him again.
With the arrival of Gedwyn and the Asha'man, his plan to sweep the Seanchan 
westward got under way. Got under way, and crept forward as slowly as a man 
laboring along one of those mired roads. He shifted his own camp at once, making 
no effort to hide his movements. There was little point to straining for 
secrecy. Word traveled slowly by pigeon, and far slower by courier, once the 
cemaros came, yet he had no doubts he was watched, by the White Tower, by the 
Forsaken, by anyone who saw gain or loss in where the Dragon Reborn went and 
could afford to slip coin to a soldier. Maybe even by the Seanchan. If he could 
scout them, why not they him? But not even the Asha'man knew why he was moving.
While Rand was idly watching men fold his tent onto a high-wheeled cart, 
Weiramon appeared on one of his many horses, a prancing white gelding of the 
finest Tairen bloodstock. The rain had cleared, though gray clouds still veiled 
the noonday sun and the air felt as if you could squeeze water out of it with 
your hands. The Dragon Banner and the Banner of Light hung limp and sodden on 
their tall staffs.
Tairen Defenders had replaced the Companions, and as Weiramon rode through their 
mounted ring, he frowned at Rodrivar Tihera, a lean fellow, dark even for a 
Tairen, with a short beard trimmed to a very sharp point. A very minor noble who 
had had to rise through his abilities, Tihera was punctilious in the extreme. 
The fat white plumes bobbing on his rimmed helmet added embellishment to the 
elaborate bow he gave Weiramon. The High Lord's frown deepened.
There was no need for the Captain of the Stone to be personally in charge of 
Rand's bodyguard, but he frequently was, just as Marcolin often commanded the 
Companions himself. An often bitter rivalry had grown up between Defenders and 
Companions, centering on who should guard Rand. The Tairens claimed the right 
because he had ruled longer in Tear, the Illianers because he was, after all, 
King of Illian. Perhaps Weiramon had heard some of the mutters among the 
Defenders that it was time Tear had a king of its own, and who better than the 
man who had taken the Stone? Weiramon more than agreed with the need, but not 
with the choice of who should wear the crown. He was not the only one.
The man smoothed his features as soon as he saw Rand looking, and swung down 
from his gold-tooled saddle to offer a bow that made Tihera's seem simple. 
Iron-spined as he was, he could puff up and strut in his sleep. Though he did 
grimace slightly at putting his polished boot into the mud. He wore a rain cape, 
to keep the mist off his fine clothes, but even that was encrusted with gold 
embroidery and had a collar of sapphires. For all of Rand's coat of deep green 
silk, with golden bees climbing the sleeves and lapels, anyone might have been 
forgiven for thinking the Crown of Swords belonged on the other's head, not his.
"My Lord Dragon," Weiramon intoned. "I cannot express how happy I am to see you 
guarded by Tairens, my Lord Dragon. Surely the world would weep if anything 
untoward happened." He was too intelligent to come out and call the Companions 
untrustworthy. By a hair, he was.
"Sooner or later it would," Rand said dryly. After a good part of it finished 
celebrating. "I know how hard you'd cry, Weiramon."
The fellow actually preened, stroking the point of his gray-streaked beard. He 
heard what he wanted to hear. "Yes, my Lord Dragon, you can be assured of my 
constancy. Which is why I'm concerned by the orders your man brought me this 
morning." That was Adley; many of the nobles thought pretending the Asha'man 
were merely Rand's servants would somehow make them less dangerous. "Wise of you 
to send away most of the Cairhienin. And the Illianers, of course; that goes 
without saying. I can even understand why you limit Gueyam and the others." 
Weiramon's boots squelched in the mud as he stepped nearer, and his voice took 
on a confiding tone. "I do believe some of them  --  I wouldn't say plotted against 
you, but I think perhaps their loyalty has not always been without question. As 
mine is. Without question." His voice shifted again, to strong and confident, a 
man concerned only with the needs of the one he served. The one who surely would 
make him the first King of Tear. "Allow me to bring all of my armsmen, my Lord 
Dragon. With them, and the Defenders, I can assure the honor of the Lord of the 
Morning, and his safety." In all of the individual camps across the heath, 
wagons and carts were being loaded, horses saddled. Most tents were already 
down. The High Lady Rosana was riding north, her banner heading a column large 
enough to raise havoc among the bandits and at least give the Shaido pause. But 
not enough to plant notions in her head, especially not when half were Gueyam's 
and Maraconn's retainers mixed with Defenders of the Stone. Much the same 
applied to Spiron Narettin, riding eastward over the tall ridge with as many 
Companions and men sworn to others of the Council of Nine as his own liegemen, 
not to mention a hundred more tailing behind on foot, some of the fellows who 
had surrendered in the woods beyond that ridge the day before. A surprising 
number had chosen to follow the Dragon Reborn, but Rand did not trust them 
enough to leave them together. Tolmeran was just starting south with the same 
kind of blend, and others would be marching off as soon as they had their carts 
and wagons loaded. Each in a different direction, and none able to trust the men 
at their backs far enough for them to do more than follow the orders Rand had 
given. Bringing peace to Illian was an important task, yet every last lord and 
lady regretted being sent away from the Dragon Reborn, plainly wondering whether 
it meant they had slipped in his trust. Though a few might have considered why 
he chose to keep those he did under his eye. Rosana had certainly looked 
thoughtful.
"Your concern touches me," Rand told Weiramon, "but how many bodyguards does one 
man need? I'm not off to start a war." A fine point, perhaps, yet this war was 
well under way. It had begun at Falme, if not before. "Get your people ready."
How many have died for my pride? Lews Therin moaned. How many have died for my 
mistakes?
"May I at least ask where we are going?" Weiramon's question, not quite 
exasperated, came right atop the voice in Rand's head.
"The City," Rand snapped. He did not know how many had died for his mistakes, 
but none for his pride. He was sure of that.
Weiramon opened his mouth, plainly confused as to whether he meant Tear or 
Illian, or maybe even Cairhien, but Rand gestured him away with the Dragon 
Scepter, a sharp stabbing motion that made the green-and-white tassel swing. He 
half wished he could stab Lews Therin with it. "I don't intend to sit here all 
day, Weiramon! Go to your men!"
Less than an hour later he took hold of the True Source and prepared to make a 
gateway for Traveling. He had to fight the dizziness that gripped him lately 
whenever he seized or loosed the Power; he did not quite sway in Tai'daishar's 
saddle. What with the molten filth floating on saidin, the frozen slime, 
touching the Source came close to emptying his stomach. Seeing double, even for 
only a few moments, made weaving flows difficult if not impossible, and he could 
have told Dashiva or Flinn or one of the others to do it, but Gedwyn and Rochaid 
were holding their horses' reins in front of a dozen or so black-coated 
Soldiers, all who had not been out to search. Just standing there patiently. And 
watching Rand. Rochaid, no more than a hand shorter than Rand and maybe two 
years younger, was also full Asha'man, and his coat, too, was silk. A small 
smile played on his face, as if he knew things others did not and was amused. 
What did he know? About the Seanchan, surely, if not Rand's plans for them. What 
else? Maybe nothing, but Rand was not about to show any weakness in front of 
that pair. The dizziness faded quickly, the twinned sight a little more slowly, 
as it always did, these last few weeks, and he completed the weave, then, 
without waiting, dug in his heels and rode through the opening that unfolded 
before him. The City he had meant was Illian, though the gateway opened to the 
north of that city. Despite Weiramon's supposed concerns, he hardly went 
unprotected and alone. Nearly three thousand men rode through that tall square 
hole in the air, into rolling meadowland not far from the broad muddy road that 
led down to the Causeway of the Northern Star. Even when every lord had only 
been allowed a handful of armsmen  --  to men accustomed to leading a thousand if 
not thousands, a hundred or so were a handful  --  they added up. Tairens and 
Cairhienin and Illianers, Defenders of the Stone under Tihera and Companions 
under Marcolin, Asha'man heeling Gedwyn. The Asha'man who had come with him, 
anyway. Dashiva and Flinn and the rest kept their horses close behind Rand. All 
but Narishma. Narishma had not come back yet. The man knew where to find him, 
but Rand did not like it.
Each kind kept to themselves as much as possible. Gueyam and Maraconn and 
Aracome rode with Weiramon, all eyeing Rand more than where they were going, and 
Gregorin Panar with three others of the Council of Nine, leaning in their 
saddles to speak softly and uneasily among themselves. Semaradrid, with a knot 
of tight-faced Cairhienin lords behind him, watched Rand almost as closely as 
the Tairens did. Rand had chosen those who came with him as carefully as those 
he sent away, not always for the reasons others might have used.
Had there been any onlookers, it would have been a brave display, with all their 
bright banners and pennants, and small con rising from some of the Cairhienin's 
backs. Bright and brave and very dangerous. Some had plotted against him, and he 
had learned that Semaradrid's House Maravin had old alliances with House Riatin, 
which stood in open rebellion against him in Cairhien. Semaradrid did not deny 
the connection, but he had not mentioned it before Rand heard, either. The 
Council of Nine were just too new to him to risk leaving them all behind. And 
Weiramon was a fool. Left to his own devices, he might well try to gain the Lord 
Dragon's favor by marching an army against the Seanchan, or Murandy, or the 
Light alone knew who or where. Too stupid to leave behind, too powerful to shove 
aside, so he rode with Rand and thought himself honored. It was almost a pity he 
was not stupid enough to do something that would get him executed.
Behind came the servants and carts  --  no one understood why Rand had sent all of 
the wagons with the others, and he was not about to explain; who owned the next 
pair of ears that would hear?  --  and then the long strings of spare mounts led by 
horse handlers, and straggling files of men in battered breastplates that did 
not quite fit or leather jerkins sewn with rusty steel discs, carrying bows or 
crossbows or spears, and even a few pikes; more of the fellows who had obeyed 
"Lord Brend's" summons and decided against going home unarmed. Their leader was 
the runny-nosed man Rand had spoken to on the edge of the woods, Eagan Padros by 
name and much brighter than he looked. It was difficult for a commoner to rise 
very far, most places, but Rand had marked Padros out. The fellow gathered his 
men off to one side, but the whole lot of them milled about, elbowing one 
another aside for a better view southward.
The Causeway of the Northern Star stretched arrow-straight through the miles of 
brown marsh that surrounded Illian, a wide road of hard-packed dirt broken by 
flat stone bridges. A wind from the south carried sea salt and a hint of 
tanneries. Illian was a sprawling city, easily as large as Caemlyn or Cairhien. 
Brightly colored roof tiles and hundreds of thrusting towers, gleaming in the 
sun, were just visible across that sea of grass where long-legged cranes waded 
and flocks of white birds flew low uttering shrill cries. Illian had never 
needed walls. Not that walls would have done the City any good against him.
There was considerable disappointment that he did not mean to enter Illian, 
though no one spoke a complaint, at least not where he could hear. Still, there 
were plenty of glum faces and sour mutters as hasty camps began going up. Like 
most of the great cities, Illian had a name for exotic mystery, free-handed 
tapsters, and willing women. At least among men who had never been there, even 
when it was their own capital. Ignorance always inflated a city's reputation for 
such things. As it was, only Morr galloped off across the causeway. Men 
straightened from hammering tent pegs or setting picket lines for the horses, 
and followed him with jealous eyes. Nobles watched curiously, while trying to 
pretend they were not.
The Asha'man with Gedwyn paid Morr no mind as they made their own camp, which 
consisted of a pitch-black tent for Gedwyn and Rochaid and a space where damp 
brown grass and mud were squeezed flat and dry, for the rest to sleep wrapped in 
their cloaks. That was done with the Power, of course; they did everything with 
the Power, not even bothering to build cook fires. A few in the other camps 
stared at them, wide-eyed, as the tent seemed to spring up of its own accord and 
hampers floated away from packsaddles, but most looked anywhere else at all once 
they realized what was going on. Two or three of the black-coated Soldiers 
appeared to be talking to themselves.
Flinn and the others did not join Gedwyn's lot  --  they had a pair of tents that 
went up not far from Rand's  --  but Dashiva wandered over to where the "Storm 
Leader" and the "Attack Leader" were standing at their ease, and occasionally 
issuing a sharp order. A few words, and he wandered back shaking his head and 
muttering angrily under his breath. Gedwyn and Rochaid were not a friendly pair. 
As well they were not.
Rand took to his tent as soon as it was pitched, and sprawled fully clothed on 
his cot, staring at the sloped ceiling. There were bees embroidered on the 
inside as well, on a false roof made of silk. Hopwil brought a steaming pewter 
mug of mulled wine  --  Rand had left his servants behind  --  but the wine grew cold 
on his writing table. His mind worked feverishly. Two or three more days, and 
the Seanchan would have been dealt a blow that knocked them on their heels. Then 
it was back to Cairhien to see how negotiations with the Sea Folk had gone, to 
learn what Cadsuane was after  --  he owed her a debt, but she was after something! 
 --  maybe to put a final end to what remained of the rebellion there. Had Caraline 
Damodred and Darlin Sisnera slipped away in the confusion? The High Lord Darlin 
in his hands might finish the rebellion in Tear, as well. Andor. If Mat and 
Elayne were in Murandy, the way it appeared, it would be weeks more at best 
before Elayne could claim the Lion Throne. Once that happened, he would have to 
stay clear of Caemlyn. But he had to talk to Nynaeve. Could he cleanse saidin? 
It might work. It might destroy the world, too. Lews Therin gibbered at him in 
stark terror. Light, where was Narishma?
A cemaros storm swept in, all the fiercer this near the sea. Rain beat his tent 
like a drum. Lightning flashes filled the entrance with blue-white light, and 
thunder rumbled, the sound like mountains tumbling across the land.
Out of that, Narishma stepped into the tent, dripping wet, dark hair plastered 
to his head. His orders had been to avoid notice at all cost. No flaunting for 
him. His sodden coat was plain brown, and his dark hair was tied back, not 
braided. Even without bells, near waist-length hair on a man attracted eyes. He 
wore a scowl, too, and under his arm he carried a cylindrical bundle tied with 
cord, fatter than a man's leg, like a small carpet.
Springing from the cot, Rand snatched the bundle before Narishma could proffer 
it. "Did anyone see you?" he demanded. "What took you so long? I expected you 
last night!"
"It took a while to figure out what I had to do," Narishma replied in a flat 
voice. "You didn't tell me everything. You nearly killed me."
That was ridiculous. Rand had told him everything he needed to know. He was sure 
of it. There was no point to trusting the man as far as he had, only to have him 
die and ruin everything. Carefully he tucked the bundle beneath his cot. His 
hands trembled with the urge to strip the wrappings away, to make sure they held 
what Narishma had been sent for. The man would not have dared return if they did 
not. "Get yourself into a proper coat before you join the others," he said. "And 
Narishma . . . " Rand straightened, fixing the other man with a steady gaze. 
"You tell anyone about this, and I will kill you."
Kill the whole world, Lews Therin laughed, a moan of derision. Of despair. I 
killed the world, and you can, too, if you try hard.
Narishma struck himself hard on the chest with his fist. "As you command, my 
Lord Dragon," he said sourly.
Bright and early the next morning, a thousand men of the Legion of the Dragon 
marched out of Illian, across the Causeway of the Northern Star, stepping to the 
steady beat of drums. Well, it was early, anyway. Thick gray clouds roiled 
across the sky, and a stiff sea breeze sharp with salt whipped cloaks and 
banners, muttering of another storm on the way. The Legion attracted a good bit 
of attention from the armsmen already in the camp, with their blue-painted 
Andoran helmets and their long blue coats worked on the chest with a 
red-and-gold Dragon. A blue pennant bearing the Dragon and a number marked each 
of the five companies. The Legionmen were different in many ways. For instance, 
they wore breastplates, but beneath their coats, so as not to hide the Dragons  --  
the same reason the coats buttoned up one side  --  and every man carried a 
short-sword at his hip and a steel-armed crossbow, every one shouldered exactly 
the same as every other. The officers walked, each with a tall red plume on his 
helmet, just ahead of drum and pennant. The only horses were Morr's 
mouse-colored gelding, at their head, and pack animals at the rear.
"Foot," Weiramon muttered, slapping his reins on a gauntleted hand. "Burn my 
soul, they're no good, foot. They'll scatter at the first charge. Before." The 
first of the column strode off the causeway. They had helped take Illian, and 
they had not scattered.
Semaradrid shook his head. "No pikes," he muttered. "I have seen well-led foot 
hold, with pikes, but without . . . " He made a sound of disgust in his throat.
Gregorin Panar, the third man sitting his saddle near Rand to watch the new 
arrivals, said nothing. Perhaps he had no prejudice against infantry  --  though if 
he did not, he would be one of only a handful of noblemen Rand had met without 
it  --  but he tried hard not to frown and almost succeeded. Everyone knew by now 
that the men with the Dragon on their chests bore arms because they had chosen 
to follow Rand, chosen to follow the Dragon Reborn, for no other reason than 
that they wanted to. The Illianer had to be wondering where they were going that 
Rand wanted the Legion and the Council of Nine was not trusted to know. For that 
matter, Semaradrid eyed Rand sideways. Only Weiramon was too stupid to think.
Rand turned Tai'daishar away. Narishma's package had been rewrapped, into a 
thinner bundle, and tied beneath his left stirrup leather. "Strike the camp; 
we're moving," he told the three nobles.
This time, he let Dashiva weave the gateway to take them all away. The 
plain-faced fellow frowned at him and mumbled to himself  --  Dashiva actually 
seemed affronted, for some reason!  --  and Gedwyn and Rochaid, their horses 
shoulder-by-shoulder, watched with sardonic smiles as the silvery slash of light 
rotated into a hole in nothing. Watched Rand more than Dashiva. Well, let them 
watch. How often could he seize saidin and risk falling dizzily on his face 
before he really did fall? It could not be where they could see.
This time, the gateway took them to a wide road carved through the low, brushy 
foothills of mountains to the west. The Nemarellin Mountains. Not the equals of 
the Mountain of Mist, and not a patch on the Spine of the World, but they rose 
dark and severe against the sky, sharp peaks that walled the west coast of 
Illian. Beyond them lay Kabal Deep, and beyond that . . . 
Men began to recognize the peaks soon enough. Gregorin Panar took one look 
around and nodded in sudden satisfaction. The other three Councilors and 
Marcolin reined close to him to talk while horsemen were still pouring through 
the gateway. Semaradrid required only a bit longer to puzzle it out, and Tihera, 
and they also looked as if they understood now.
The Silver Road ran from the City to Lugard, and carried all of the inland trade 
for the west. There was a Gold Road, too, that led to Far Madding. Roads and 
names alike dated from before there had been an Illian. Centuries of wagon 
wheels, hooves and boots had beaten them hard, and the cemaros could only skim 
them with mud. They were among the few reliable highways in Illian for moving 
large groups of men in winter. Everyone knew about the Seanchan in Ebou Dar by 
this time, though a good many of the tales Rand had heard among the armsmen made 
the invaders seem Trollocs' meaner cousins. If the Seanchan intended to strike 
into Illian, the Silver Road was a good place to gather for defense.
Semaradrid and the others thought they knew what he planned: he must have 
learned that the Seanchan were coming, and the Asha'man were there to destroy 
them when they did. Given the stories about the Seanchan, no one seemed too 
upset that that left little for them to do. Of course, Weiramon had to have it 
explained to him finally, by Tihera, and he was upset, though he tried to mask 
it behind a grand speech about the wisdom of the Lord Dragon and the military 
genius of the Lord of the Morning, along with how he, personally, would lead the 
first charge against these Seanchan. A pure bull-goose fool. With luck, anyone 
else who learned of a gathering on the Silver Road would at least not be too 
much brighter than Semaradrid or Gregorin. With luck, no one who mattered would 
learn before it was too late.
Settling in to wait, Rand thought it would only be another day or so, but as the 
days stretched out, he began to wonder whether he might be nearly as big a fool 
as Weiramon.
Most of the Asha'man were out searching across Illian and Tear and the Plains of 
Maredo for the rest of those Rand wanted. Searching through the cemaros. 
Gateways and Traveling were all very well, but even Asha'man took time to find 
who they sought when downpours hid anything fifty paces away and quagmires 
dragged rumor to a near halt. Searching Asha'man passed within a mile of their 
quarry in ignorance, and turned only to learn the men had moved on again. Some 
had farther to go, seeking people not necessarily eager to be found. Days passed 
before the first brought news.
The High Lord Sunamon joined Weiramon, a fat man with an unctuous manner  --  
toward Rand, at least. Smooth in his fine silk coat, always smiling, he was 
voluble in his declarations of loyalty, but he had plotted against Rand so long 
that he probably did so in his sleep. The High Lord Torean came, with his lumpy 
farmer's face and his vast wealth, stammering about the honor of riding once 
more at the Lord Dragon's side. Gold concerned Torean more than anything else, 
except possibly the privileges Rand had taken away from the nobles in Tear. He 
seemed particularly dismayed to learn there were no serving girls in the camp, 
and not so much as a village nearby where compliant farmgirls might be found. 
Torean had schemed against Rand every bit as often as Sunamon. Maybe even more 
than Gueyam, or Maraconn, or Aracome.
There were others. There was Bertome Saighan, a short, ruggedly handsome man 
with the front of his head shaved. He supposedly did not mourn the death of his 
cousin Colavaere too greatly, both because that made him the new High Seat of 
House Saighan and because rumor said Rand had executed her. Or murdered her. 
Bertome bowed and smiled, and his smile never reached his dark eyes. Some said 
he had been very fond of his cousin. Ailil Riatin came, a slim dignified woman 
with big dark eyes, not young but quite pretty, protesting that she had a 
Lance-captain to lead her armsmen and no desire to take the field in person. 
Protesting her loyalty for the Lord Dragon, too. But her brother Toram claimed 
the throne Rand meant for Elayne, and it was whispered that she would do 
anything for Toram, anything at all. Even join with his enemies; to hamper or to 
spy or both, of course. Dalthanes Annallin came, and Amondrid Osiellin, and 
Doressin Chuliandred, lords who had supported Colavaere's seizure of the Sun 
Throne when they thought Rand would never return to Cairhien.
Cairhienin and Tairen, they were brought in one by one, with fifty retainers, or 
at most a hundred. Men and women he trusted even less than he did Gregorin or 
Semaradrid. Most were men, not because he thought the women any less dangerous  --  
he was not that big a fool; a woman would kill you twice as fast as a man, and 
usually for half the reason!  --  but because he could not bring himself to take 
any woman except the most dangerous, where he was going. Ailil could smile 
warmly while she calculated where to plant the knife in your ribs. Anaiyella, a 
willowy simpering High Lady who gave a fair imitation of a beautiful goosebrain, 
had returned to Tear from Cairhien and openly begun talking of herself for the 
as-yet-nonexistent throne of Tear. Perhaps she was a fool, but she had managed 
to gain a great deal of support, both among nobles and in the streets.
So he gathered them in, all the folk who had been too long out from under his 
eye. He could not watch all of them all the time, but he could not afford to let 
them forget that he did watch sometimes. He gathered them, and he waited. For 
two days. Gnashing his teeth, he waited. Five days. Eight.
Rain was beating a diminishing drum on his tent when the last man he was waiting 
for finally arrived.
Shaking a small torrent from his oiled-cloth cape, Davram Bashere blew out his 
thick, gray-streaked mustaches in disgust and tossed the cape over a barrel 
chair. A short man with a great hooked beak of a nose, he seemed larger than he 
was. Not because he strutted, but because he assumed that he was as tall as any 
man present, and other men took him so. Wise men did. The wolf-headed ivory 
baton of the Marshal-General of Saldaea, tucked carelessly behind his sword 
belt, had been earned on scores of battlefields and at as many council tables. 
He was one of the very few men Rand would trust with his life.
"I know you don't like explaining," Bashere muttered, "but I could use a little 
illumination." Adjusting his serpentine sword, he sprawled in another chair and 
flung a leg over the arm of it. He always seemed at his ease, but he could 
uncoil faster than a whip. "That Asha'man fellow wouldn't say more than you 
needed me yesterday, yet he said not to bring more than a thousand men. I only 
had half that with me, but I brought them. It can't be a battle. Half the sigils 
I saw out there belong to men who'd bite their tongues if they saw a fellow 
behind you with a knife, and most of the rest to men who'd try to hold your 
attention. If they hadn't paid the knife man in the first place."
Seated behind his writing table in his shirtsleeves, Rand wearily pressed the 
heels of his palms against his eyes. With Boreane Carivin left behind, the lamp 
wicks needed proper trimming, and a faint haze of smoke hung in the air. 
Besides, he had been awake most of the night poring over the maps scattered 
across the table. Maps of southern Altara. No two agreed on very much.
"If you're going to fight a battle," he told Bashere, "who better to pay the 
butcher's bill than men who want you dead? Anyway, it isn't soldiers who'll win 
this battle. All they have to do is keep anybody from sneaking up on the 
Asha'man. What do you think of that?"
Bashere snorted so hard that his heavy mustaches stirred. "I think it's a deadly 
stew, is what I think. Somebody's going to choke to death on it. The Light send 
it isn't us." And then he laughed as if that were a fine joke.
Lews Therin laughed, too.
Chapter 22
Gathering Clouds
Under a steady drizzle Rand's small army formed columns across the low folded 
hills facing the Nemarellin peaks, dark and sharp against the western sky. There 
was no real need to face the direction you intended to Travel, but it always 
felt askew to Rand otherwise. Despite the rain, rapidly thinning gray clouds let 
through startlingly bright sunshine. Or maybe the day only seemed bright, after 
all the recent gloom.
Four of the columns were headed by Bashere's Saldaeans, bandy-legged unarmored 
men in short coats standing patiently beside their mounts beneath a small forest 
of shining lance heads, the other five by blue-coated men with the Dragon on 
their chests, commanded by a short stocky fellow named Jak Masond. When Masond 
moved, it was always with surprising quickness, but he was utterly still now, 
feet planted astride and hands folded behind his back. His men were in place, 
and so were the Defenders and Companions, grumpy about being behind infantry. It 
was the nobles and their folk, mainly, who milled about as if unsure where to 
go. Thick mud sucked at hooves and boots, and mired cart wheels; shouted curses 
rose. It took time to line up nearly six thousand soaked men, getting wetter by 
the minute. And that was not counting the supply carts, and the remounts.
Rand had donned his finest, so he would stand out at a glance. A lick with the 
Power had polished the Dragon Scepter's spearhead to mirror brightness, and 
another had burnished the Crown of Swords so the gold gleamed. The gilded Dragon 
buckle of his sword belt caught the light, and so did the thread-of-gold 
embroidery that covered his blue silk coat. For a moment, he regretted giving 
away the gems that once had decked his sword's hilt and scabbard. The dark 
boarhide was serviceable, but any armsman could have worn that. Let men know who 
he was. Let the Seanchan know who had come to destroy them.
Sitting Tai'daishar on a broad flat, he impatiently watched the nobles roil 
about on the hills. A little way off on the flat, Gedwyn and Rochaid sat their 
saddles in front of their men, all formed into a precise box, Dedicated in the 
front rank, Soldiers lined up behind. They looked ready to parade. As many had 
gray hair or nearly none as were young  --  several were as young as Hopwil or Morr 
 --  but every one was strong enough to make a gateway. That had been a 
requirement. Flinn and Dashiva waited behind Rand in a casual cluster with Adley 
and Morr, Hopwil and Narishma. And a rigid pair of mounted bannermen, one Tairen 
and one Cairhienin, their breastplates and helmets and even their steel-backed 
gauntlets buffed and polished till they shone. The crimson Banner of Light and 
the long white Dragon Banner hung limp and dripping. Rand had assumed the Power 
in his tent, where his momentary stagger would not be seen, and the sparse rain 
failed by an inch to touch him or his horse.
The taint on saidin felt especially heavy today, a thick foul oil that oozed 
into his pores and stained his bones deep. Stained his soul. He had thought 
himself accustomed to the vileness, after a fashion, yet today it was 
nauseating, stronger than the frozen fire and molten cold of saidin itself. He 
held on to the Source as often as possible now, accepting the vileness to avoid 
the new sickness of seizing it. It could be deadly, if he let sickness distract 
him from that struggle. Maybe it was connected to the dizzy spells, somehow. 
Light, he could not go mad yet, and he could not die. Not yet. There was too 
much still to be done.
He pressed his left leg against Tai'daishar's flank just to feel the long bundle 
strapped between stirrup leather and scarlet saddle cloth. Every time he did 
that, something wriggled across the outside of the Void. Anticipation, and maybe 
a touch of fear. Well trained, the gelding started to turn left, and Rand had to 
rein him back. When would the nobles sort themselves out? He ground his teeth in 
impatience.
He could remember as a boy hearing men laugh that when rain fell in sunshine the 
Dark One was beating Semirhage. Some of that laughter had been uneasy, though, 
and scrawny old Cenn Buie would always snarl that Semirhage would be smarting 
and angry after that, and come for small boys who did not keep out of their 
elders' way. That had been enough to send Rand running, when he was little. He 
wished Semirhage would come for him now, right that instant. He would make her 
weep.
Nothing makes Semirhage weep, Lews Therin muttered. She gives tears to others, 
but she has none herself.
Rand laughed softly. If she came today, he would make her weep. Her and the rest 
of the Forsaken together, if they came today. Most assuredly he would make the 
Seanchan weep.
Not everyone was pleased with the orders he had given. Sunamon's oily smile 
vanished when he thought Rand did not see. Torean had a flask in his saddlebags, 
no doubt brandy, or maybe several flasks, because he drank steadily and never 
appeared to run dry. Semaradrid and Marcolin and Tihera each appeared in front 
of Rand to protest the numbers with somber faces. A few years before, close on 
six thousand men would have been army enough for any war, but they had seen 
armies in the tens of thousands, now, hundreds of thousands, as in Artur 
Hawkwing's day, and to go against the Seanchan, they wanted far more. He sent 
them away disgruntled. They did not understand that fifty-odd Asha'man were as 
big a hammer as anyone could wish for. Rand wondered what they would have said 
had he told them he was hammer enough by himself. He had considered doing this 
by himself. It might come to that yet.
Weiramon came; he did not like having to take orders from Bashere, or the fact 
that they were going into mountains  --  very hard to mount a decent charge in 
mountains  --  or several other things  --  Rand was certain there were at least 
several more  --  that Rand did not let him utter.
"The Saldaean seems to believe I should ride on the right flank," Weiramon 
muttered disparagingly. He twisted his shoulders as though the right flank were 
a great insult, for some reason. "And the foot, my Lord Dragon. Really, I think 
 --  "
"I think you should get your men ready," Rand said coldly. Part of the chill was 
the effect of floating in emotionless emptiness. "Or you won't be on any flank." 
He meant that he would leave the man behind if he was not ready in time. Surely 
such a fool could not make much trouble left in this remote spot with only a few 
armsmen. Rand would be back before he could ride to anything larger than a 
village.
Blood drained from Weiramon's face, though. "As my Lord Dragon commands," he 
said, briskly for him, and was whirling his horse away before the words were 
well out of his mouth. His mount was a tall deep-chested bay, today.
The pale Lady Ailil reined to a stop in front of Rand, accompanied by the High 
Lady Anaiyella, a strange pair to be in company, and not just because their 
nations hated one another. Ailil was tall for a Cairhienin woman, if only for a 
Cairhienin, and everything about her was dignity and precision, from the arch of 
her eyebrow to the turn of her red-gloved wrist to the way her pearl-collared 
rain cape lay spread across the rump of her smoke-gray mare. Unlike Semaradrid 
or Marcolin, Weiramon or Tihera, she did not so much as blink at the sight of 
raindrops sliding down nothing around him. Anaiyella did blink. And gasp. And 
titter behind her hand. Anaiyella was willowy and darkly beautiful, her rain 
cape collared with rubies and embroidered with gold besides, but there any 
resemblance to Ailil ended. Anaiyella was all mincing elegance and simpers. When 
she bowed, her white gelding did, too, bending its forelegs. The prancing animal 
was showy, but Rand suspected it had no bottom. Like its mistress.
"My Lord Dragon," Ailil said, "I must make one more protest against my inclusion 
in this . . . expedition." Her voice was coolly neutral, if not exactly 
unfriendly. "I will send my retainers where you command and when, but I have no 
desire at all to be in the thick of a battle."
"Oh, no," Anaiyella added, with a delicate shudder. Even her tone simpered! 
"Nasty things, battles. So my Master of the Horse says. Surely you won't really 
make us go, my Lord Dragon? We've heard you have a particular care for women. 
Haven't we, Ailil?"
Rand was so astonished that the Void collapsed, and saidin vanished. Raindrops 
began to trickle through his hair and seep through his coat, but for a moment, 
clutching his saddle's high pommel to hold himself upright, seeing four women 
instead of two, he was too stunned to notice. How much did they know? They had 
heard? How many people knew? How did anyone know? Light, rumor had him killing 
Morgase, Elayne, Colavaere, a hundred women probably, and each in a worse way 
than the last! He swallowed against the urge to sick up. That was only partly 
saidin's fault. Burn me, how many spies are there watching me? The thought was a 
growl.
The dead watch, Lews Therin whispered. The dead never close their eyes. Rand 
shivered.
"I do try to be careful of women," he told them when he could speak. Faster than 
a man, and for half the reason. "That's why I want keep you close the next few 
days. But if you really dislike the idea so much, I could tell off one of the 
Asha'man. You'd be safe at the Black Tower." Anaiyella squeaked prettily, but 
her face went gray.
"Thank you, no," Ailil said after a moment, absolutely calm. "I suppose I had 
best confer with my lance-captain about what to expect." But she paused in 
turning her mare away, and regarded Rand with a sidelong look. "My brother Toram 
is . . . impetuous, my Lord Dragon. Even rash. I am not."
Anaiyella smiled much too sweetly at Rand, and actually wriggled slightly before 
following, but once she faced away from him, she dug in her heels and worked her 
jewel-handled quirt, quickly passing the other woman. That white gelding showed 
a surprising turn of speed.
At last all was ready, the columns formed, snaking back over the low hills.
"Begin," Rand told Gedwyn, who wheeled his horse and began barking orders to his 
men. The eight Dedicated rode forward and dismounted on the ground they had 
memorized, facing the mountains. One of them looked familiar, a grizzled fellow 
whose pointed Tairen beard appeared odd on his wrinkled countryman's face. Eight 
vertical lines of sharp blue light turned and became openings that showed 
slightly different views of a long, sparsely wooded mountain valley rising to a 
steep pass. In Altara. In the Venir Mountains.
Kill them, Lews Therin wept pleadingly. They're too dangerous to live! Without 
thought, Rand suppressed the voice. Another man channeling often brought that 
reaction from Lews Therin, or even a man who could. He no longer wondered why.
Rand muttered a command, and Flinn blinked in surprise before hurrying to join 
the line and weave a ninth gateway. None was as large as Rand could make, but 
any would pass a cart, if closely. He had intended to do that himself, but he 
did not want to chance seizing saidin again in front of everyone. He noticed 
Gedwyn and Rochaid watching him, wearing identical knowing smiles. And Dashiva 
as well, frowning, lips moving as he talked to himself. Was it his imagination, 
or was Narishma eyeing him askance too? And Adley? Morr?
Rand shivered before he could stop himself. Mistrust of Gedwyn and Rochaid was 
simple sense, but was he coming down with what Nynaeve had called the dreads? A 
kind of madness, a crippling dark suspicion of everyone and everything? There 
had been a Coplin, Benly, who thought everybody was scheming against him. He had 
starved to death when Rand was a boy, refusing to eat for fear of poison.
Ducking low on Tai'daishar's neck, Rand heeled the gelding through the largest 
gateway. Flinn's, as it happened, but he would have ridden through one made by 
Gedwyn right then. He was the first onto Altaran soil.
The others followed quickly, the Asha'man first of all. Dashiva stared in Rand's 
direction, frowning, and Narishma, too, but Gedwyn immediately began directing 
his Soldiers. One by one, they rushed forward, opened a gateway and darted 
through, dragging their mounts behind them. Ahead up the valley, bright flashes 
of light told of gateways opening and closing. The Asha'man could Travel short 
distances without first memorizing the ground they left from, and cover ground 
far faster than riding. In short order, only Gedwyn and Rochaid remained, aside 
from the Dedicated holding the gateways. The others would be fanning out 
westward, searching for Seanchan. The Saldaeans were through from Illian, and 
mounting. Legionmen spread into the trees at a trot, crossbows held ready. In 
this country, they could move as fast afoot as men on horseback.
As the rest of the army began emerging, Rand rode up the valley in the direction 
the Asha'man had gone. Mountains rose high behind him, a wall fronting the Deep, 
but west the peaks ran almost to Ebou Dar. He quickened the gelding's pace to a 
canter.
Bashere caught him before he reached the pass. The man's bay was small  --  most of 
the Saldaeans rode small horses  --  but quick. "No Seanchan here, it seems," he 
said almost idly, stroking his mustaches with a knuckle. "But there could have 
been. Tenobia's likely to have my head on a pike soon enough for following a 
live Dragon Reborn, much more a dead one."
Rand scowled. Maybe he could take Flinn, to watch his back, and Narishma, and . 
. . Flinn had saved his life; the man had to be true. Men could change, though. 
And Narishma? Even after . . .? He felt cold at the risk he had taken. Not the 
dreads. Narishma had proved true, but it still had been a mad risk. As mad as 
running from stares he was not even sure were real, running to where he had no 
notion what was waiting. Bashere was right, but Rand did not want to talk about 
it further.
The slopes leading up into the pass were bare stone and boulders of all sizes, 
but among the natural stone lay weathered pieces of what must have once been a 
huge statue. Some were just recognizable as worked stone, others more so. A 
beringed hand nearly big as his chest, gripping a sword hilt with a broken stub 
of blade wider than his hand. A great head, a woman with cracks across her face 
and a crown that seemed to be made of upthrusting daggers, some still whole.
"Who do you think she was?" he asked. A queen, of course. Even if merchants or 
scholars had worn crowns in some distant time, only rulers and generals earned 
statues.
Bashere twisted in his saddle to study the head before speaking. "A Queen of 
Shiota, I'll wager," he said finally. "Not older. I saw a statue made in Eharon 
once, and it was so worn you couldn't say whether it was man or woman. A 
conqueror, or they wouldn't have shown her with a sword. And I seem to recall 
Shiota gave a crown like that to rulers who expanded the borders.
Maybe they called it the Crown of Swords, eh? A Brown sister might be able to 
tell you more."
"It isn't important," Rand told him irritably. They did look like swords.
Bashere went on anyway, graying eyebrows lowered, gravely serious. "I expect 
thousands cheered her, called her the hope of Shiota, maybe even believed she 
was. In her time, she might have been as feared and respected as Artur Hawkwing 
was later, but now even the Brown sisters may not know her name. When you die, 
people begin to forget, who you were and what you did, or tried to do. Everybody 
dies eventually, and everybody is forgotten, eventually, but there's no bloody 
point dying before your time comes."
"I don't intend to," Rand said sharply. He knew where he was meant to die, if 
not when. He thought he did.
The corner of his eye caught motion, back down where bare stone gave way to 
brush and a few small trees. Fifty paces away, a man stepped into the open and 
raised a bow, smoothly drawing fletchings to cheek. Everything seemed to happen 
at once.
Snarling, Rand hauled Tai'daishar around, watching the archer adjust to follow. 
He seized saidin and sweet life and filth poured into him together. His head 
spun. There were two archers. Bile rose in his throat as he fought wild, 
uncontrolled surges of the Power that tried to sear him to the bone and freeze 
his flesh solid. He could not control them; it was all he could do to stay 
alive. Desperately, he fought to clear his sight, to be able to see well enough 
to weave the flows he could barely form, with nausea flooding him as strongly as 
the Power. He thought he heard Bashere shout. Two archers loosed.
Rand should have died. At that range, a boy could have hit his target. Maybe 
being ta'veren saved him. As the archer let fly, a covey of gray-winged quail 
burst up almost at his feet uttering piercing whistles. Not enough to throw off 
an experienced man, and indeed, the fellow only flinched a hair. Rand felt the 
wind of the arrow's passage against his cheek.
Fireballs the size of fists suddenly struck the archer. He screamed as his arm 
spun away, hand still gripping the bow. Another took his left leg at the knee, 
and he fell shrieking.
Leaning out of his saddle, Rand vomited onto the ground. His stomach tried to 
heave up every meal he had ever eaten. The Void and saidin left with a sickening 
wrench. It was nearly more than he could manage not to fall.
When he could sit upright again, he took the white linen handkerchief Bashere 
silently offered, and wiped his mouth. The Saldaean frowned with concern, as 
well he might. Rand's stomach wanted to find more to spew out. He thought his 
face must be pale. He drew a deep breath. Losing saidin that way could kill you. 
But he could still sense the Source; at least saidin had not burned him out. At 
least he could see properly; there was only one Davram Bashere. But the illness 
seemed a little worse each time he seized saidin.
"Let's see if there's enough left of this fellow to talk," he told Bashere. 
There was not.
Rochaid was on his knees, calmly searching through the corpse's torn, 
bloodstained coat. Besides his missing arm and leg, the dead man had a blackened 
hole as big as his head all the way through his chest. It was Eagan Padros; his 
sightless eyes stared at the sky in surprise. Gedwyn ignored the body at his 
feet, studying Rand instead, as cold as Rochaid. Both men held saidin. 
Surprisingly, Lews Therin only moaned.
In a clatter of hooves on stone, Flinn and Narishma came galloping up the rise, 
followed by nearly a hundred Saldaeans. As they came close, Rand could feel the 
Power in the grizzled old man and the younger, maybe as much as they could hold. 
They had both leaped up in strength since Dumai's Wells. That was the way of it 
with men; women seemed to gain smoothly, but men suddenly jumped. Flinn was 
stronger than Gedwyn or Rochaid either one, and Narishma not far behind. For the 
time being; there was no way to know how it would end. None came close to 
matching Rand, though. Not yet, anyway. There was no way to tell what time would 
bring. Not the dreads.
"It seems it's well we decided to follow you, my Lord Dragon." Gedwyn's voice 
assumed concern, just shy of mocking. "Are you suffering from a tender stomach 
this morning?"
Rand just shook his head. He could not take his eyes from Padros' face. Why? 
Because he had conquered Illian? Because the man had been loyal to "Lord Brend"?
With a loud exclamation, Rochaid ripped a washleather pouch from Padros' coat 
pocket and upended it. Bright golden coins spilled onto the stony ground, 
bouncing and clinking. "Thirty crowns," he growled. "Tar Valon crowns. No doubt 
who paid him." He snatched a coin and tossed it up for Rand, but Rand made no 
effort to catch it, and it glanced off his arm.
"There's plenty of Tar Valon coin to be found," Bashere said calmly. "Half the 
men in this valley have a few in their pockets. I do, myself." Gedwyn and 
Rochaid swiveled to look at him. Bashere smiled behind his thick mustaches, or 
at least showed teeth, but some of the Saldaeans shifted uneasily in their 
saddles and fingered belt pouches.
Up where the pass leveled off for a bit between steep mountain slopes, a slash 
of light rotated into a gateway, and a top-knotted Shienaran in a plain black 
coat trotted through, pulling his horse behind him. It appeared the first 
Seanchan had been found, and not too far away if the man was back so quickly.
"Time to move," Rand told Bashere. The man nodded, but he did not stir. Instead, 
he studied the two Asha'man standing near Padros. They ignored him.
"What do we do with him?" Gedwyn demanded, gesturing to the corpse. "We ought to 
send him back to the witches, at least."
"Leave him," Rand replied.
Are you ready to kill now? Lews Therin asked. He did not sound insane at all.
Not yet, Rand thought. Soon.
Digging his heels into Tai'daishar's flanks, he galloped back down toward his 
army. Dashiva and Flinn followed closely, and Bashere and the hundred Saldaeans. 
They were all looking around as if they expected another attempt on his life. To 
the east, black clouds were building among the peaks, another cemaros storm. 
Soon.
 
The hilltop camp was well laid out, with a meandering stream close by for water 
and good lines of sight to the likeliest ways into the long mountain meadow. 
Assid Bakuun did not feel pride in the camp. During thirty years in the Ever 
Victorious Army, he had made hundreds of camps; he would as soon have felt pride 
in walking across a room without falling down. Nor did he feel pride in where he 
was. Thirty years serving the Empress, might she live forever, and while there 
had been the occasional rebellion by some mad upstart with eyes on the Crystal 
Throne, the bulk of those years had been spent preparing for this. For two 
generations, while the great ships were built to carry the Return, the Ever 
Victorious Army had trained and prepared. Bakuun certainly had been proud when 
he learned he was to be one of the Forerunners. Surely he could be forgiven 
dreams of retaking the lands stolen from Artur Hawkwing's rightful heirs, even 
wild dreams to completing this new Consolidation before the Corenne came. Not 
such a wild dream after all, as it turned out, but not at all the way he had 
imagined.
A returning patrol of fifty Taraboner lancers rode up the hillside, red and 
green stripes painted across their solid breastplates, veils of mail hiding 
their thick mustaches. They rode well, and even fought well, when they had 
decent leaders. More than ten times as many were already among the cook fires, 
or down at the picket lines tending their mounts, and three patrols were still 
out. Bakuun had never expected to find himself with well over half his command 
descendants of thieves. And unashamed of it; they would look you straight in the 
eyes. The patrol's commander bowed low to him as their muddy-legged horses 
passed, but many of the others went on talking in their peculiar accents, 
speaking too fast for Bakuun to understand without listening hard. They had 
peculiar notions of discipline, too.
Shaking his head, Bakuun strode across to the sul'dam's large tent. Larger than 
his, of necessity. Four of them were sitting on stools outside in their dark 
blue dresses with the forked lightning on the skirts, enjoying the sun during 
this break in the storms. Those were rare enough, now. The gray-clad damane sat 
at their feet, with Nerith braiding her pale hair. Talking to her, as well, all 
of them joining in and laughing softly. The bracelet on the end of the silvery 
a'dam's leash lay on the ground. Bakuun grunted sourly. He had a favorite 
wolfhound, back home, and even talked to him sometimes, but he never expected 
Nip to carry on a conversation!
"Is she well?" he asked Nerith, not for the first time. Or the tenth. "Is 
everything well with her?" The damane dropped her eyes and went silent.
"She is quite well, Captain Bakuun." A square-faced woman, Nerith put the proper 
degree of respect into her voice and not a whisker beyond. But she stroked the 
damanes' head soothingly while she talked. "Whatever the indisposition, it is 
gone, now. A small thing, in any case. Nothing to worry about." The damane was 
trembling.
Bakuun grunted again. Not far from the answer he had received before. Something 
had been wrong, though, back in Ebou Dar, and not just with this damane. The 
sul'dam had all been as tight-lipped as clams  --  and the Blood would not say 
anything, of course, not to the likes of him!  --  but he had heard too many 
whispers. They said the damane were all sick, or insane. Light, he had not seen 
a single one used around Ebou Dar once the city was secured, not even for a 
victory display of Sky Lights, and who had ever heard the like of that!
"Well, I hope she . . . " he began, and cut off as a raken appeared, sweeping 
through the eastern pass. Its great leathery wings beat powerfully for height, 
and right above the hill it suddenly tilted and cut a tight circle, one wingtip 
pointed almost straight down. A thin red streamer fell away under the weight of 
a lead ball.
Bakuun swallowed a curse. Fliers were always showing off, but if this pair 
injured one of his men delivering their scouting report, he would have their 
hides no matter who he had to face to get them. He would not have wanted to 
fight without fliers to scout, but they were coddled like some Blood's favorite 
pet.
Arrow-straight the streamer plummeted. The lead weight struck the ground and 
bounced on the crest, almost beside the tall thin message pole, which was too 
long to lower unless there was a message to send. Besides, when it was left down 
somebody was always stepping a horse on the thing and breaking the joins.
Bakuun strode straight to his tent, but his First Lieutenant was already waiting 
with the mud-stained streamer and the message tube. Tiras was a bony man a head 
taller than him, with an unfortunate scrap of beard clinging to the point of his 
chin.
The report rolled up in the thin metal tube, on a slip of paper Bakuun could 
almost see through, was written simply. He had never been forced to ride on 
raken or to'raken  --  the Light be thanked, and the Empress, might she live 
forever, be praised!  --  but he doubted it was easy to handle a pen in a saddle 
strapped to the back of a flying lizard. What it said made him flip open the lid 
of his small camp desk and write hurriedly.
"There's a force not ten miles east of here," he told Tiras. "Five or six times 
our number." Fliers exaggerated sometimes, but not often by much. How had that 
many penetrated these mountains so far without being spotted before? He had seen 
the coast to the east, and he wanted his burial prayers paid for before he tried 
a landing there. Burn his eyes, the fliers boasted they would see a flea move 
anywhere in the range. "No reason to think they know we're here, but I'd not 
mind a few reinforcements."
Tiras laughed. "We'll give them a brush of the damane, and that will be that if 
they outnumber us by twenty times." His only real fault was a touch of 
overconfidence. A good soldier, though. "And if they have a few . . . Aes 
Sedai?" Bakuun said quietly, hardly stumbling over the name, as he stuffed the 
flier's report back into the tube with his own brief message. He had not really 
believed anyone could let those . . . women run free.
Tiras' face showed that he remembered the tales about an Aes Sedai weapon. The 
red streamer floated behind him as he ran with the message tube.
Soon enough tube and streamer were attached to the tip of the message pole, a 
tiny breeze stirring the long red strip fifteen paces above the hill crest. The 
raken soared toward it along the valley, outstretched wings still as death. 
Abruptly one of the fliers swung down from the saddle and hung  --  upside down!  --  
below the raken's trailing claws. It made Bakuun's stomach hurt to watch. But 
her hand closed on the streamer, the pole flexed, then vibrated back upright as 
the message tube pulled free of the clip, and she scrambled back up as the 
creature climbed in slow circles. Bakuun thankfully put raken and fliers out of 
his mind as he surveyed the valley. Broad and long, nearly flat except for this 
hill, and surrounded by steep wooded slopes; only a goat could enter, except by 
the passes in his sight. With the damane, he could cut anybody to pieces before 
they managed to try attacking across that muddy meadow. He had passed word 
along, though; if the enemy came straight on, they would arrive before any 
possible reinforcements by three days at best. How had they come this far 
unseen?
He had missed the last battles of the Consolidation by two hundred years, but 
some of those rebellions had not been small. Two years fighting on Marendalar, 
thirty thousand dead, and fifty times that shipped back to the mainland as 
property. Taking notice of the strange kept a soldier alive. Ordering the camp 
struck and all signs of it cleared, he began moving his command to the forested 
slopes. Dark clouds were massing in the east, another of those cursed storms 
coming.
Chapter 23
Fog of War, Storm of Battle
No rain fell, for the moment. Rand guided Tai'daishar around an uprooted tree 
lying across the slope and frowned down at a dead man sprawled on his back 
behind the tree trunk. The fellow was short and blocky, his face creased, and 
his armor all overlapping plates lacquered blue and green, but staring 
sightlessly at the black clouds overhead, he looked a deal like Eagan Padros, 
even to the missing leg. An officer, plainly; the sword beside his outflung hand 
had an ivory hilt carved in the likeness of a woman, and his lacquered helmet, 
shaped like some huge insect's head, bore two long thin blue plumes.
Uprooted trees and shattered ones, a fair number burning from end to end, 
littered the slope of the mountain for a good five hundred paces. Bodies, too, 
men broken or ripped apart when saidin harrowed the mountainside. Most wore 
steel veils across their faces, and breastplates painted in horizontal stripes. 
No women, thank the Light. The injured horses had been put down, another thing 
to be thankful for. It was incredible how loudly a horse could scream.
Do you think the dead are silent? Lews Therin's laugh was rasping. Do you? His 
voice turned to pained rage. The dead howl at me!
At me, too, Rand thought sadly. I can't afford to listen, but how do you shut 
them up? Lews Therin began weeping for his lost Ilyena.
"A great victory," Weiramon intoned behind Rand, then muttered, "But small honor 
in it. The old ways are best." Mud liberally decorated Rand's coat, yet 
surprisingly, Weiramon appeared as pristine as he had back on the Silver Road. 
His helmet and armor shone. How had he managed? The Taraboners charged, at the 
end, lances and courage against the One Power, and Weiramon had led his own 
charge to break them. Without orders, and followed by every Tairen save the 
Defenders, even a half-drunk Torean, surprisingly. By Semaradrid and Gregorin 
Panar, too, with most of the Cairhienin and Illianers. Standing still had been 
hard by that time, and every man wanted to come to grips with something he 
actually could come to grips with. The Asha'man could have done it faster. If 
somewhat more messily.
Rand had taken no part in the righting, except to sit his saddle where men could 
see him. He had been afraid to seize the Power. He did not dare display weakness 
for them to catch. Not a scrap. Lews Therin gibbered with horror at the very 
idea.
Equally surprising as Weiramon's unsullied coat, Anaiyella rode with him, and 
for once not simpering. Her face was pinched and disapproving. Strangely, it did 
not spoil her looks nearly so much as her unctuous smiles did. She had not 
joined the charge herself, of course, any more than Ailil, but Anaiyella's 
Master of the Horse had, and the man was most definitely dead, with a Taraboner 
lance through his chest. She did not like that one bit. But why did she 
accompany Weiramon? Just Tairens flocking together? Maybe. She had been with 
Sunamon, the last Rand had seen.
Bashere walked his bay up the slope, picking his way around the dead while 
seeming to pay them no more mind than he did a splintered tree trunk or a 
burning stump. His helmet hung from his saddle, and his gauntlets were stuffed 
behind his sword belt. He was mud all down his right side, and his horse as 
well.
"Aracome's gone," he said. "Flinn tried Healing him, but I don't think Aracome 
wanted to live like that. There's near fifty dead so far, and some of the rest 
might not survive." Anaiyella paled. Rand had seen her near Aracome, emptying 
herself. Dead commoners did not affect her so much.
Rand felt a moment of pity. Not for her, and not very much for Aracome. For Min, 
though she was safely back in Cairhien. Min had foretold Aracome's death from 
one of her viewings, and Gueyam and Maraconn's, too. Whatever she had seen, Rand 
hoped it had not been anywhere near the reality.
Most of the Soldiers were off scouting again, but down in the broad meadow, 
gateways woven by Gedwyn's Dedicated were spilling out the supply carts and the 
remounts. The men coming with them gaped as soon as they were clear enough to 
see. The muddy ground was not so well plowed as the mountainside, yet blackened 
furrows, two paces wide and fifty long, carved through the brown grass, and 
gaping holes a horse might not be able to leap. They had not found the damane so 
far. Rand thought there had to be only one; more would have done considerably 
greater damage under the circumstances.
Men moved around a number of small fires where water boiled for tea, among other 
things. For once, Tairens, Cairhienin and Illianers mingled. Not just the 
commoners. Semaradrid was sharing his saddle-flask with Gueyam, who wearily 
rubbed a hand over his bald head. Maraconn and Kiril Drapaneos, a stork of a man 
whose square-cut beard looked odd on his narrow face, were squatting on their 
heels near one of the fires. Playing cards, by the look of it! Torean had a 
whole circle of laughing Cairhienin lordlings around him, though they might have 
been less amused by his jokes than by the way he swayed and rubbed at his potato 
nose. The Legionmen kept apart, but they had taken in the "volunteers" who had 
followed Padros to the Banner of Light. That lot seemed more eager than anyone 
since learning how Padros died. Blue-coated Legionmen were showing them how to 
change direction without falling apart like a gaggle of geese.
Flinn was among the wounded with Adley and Morr and Hopwil. Narishma could Heal 
little more than minor cuts, no better than Rand, and Dashiva not even that. 
Gedwyn and Rochaid stood talking well apart from anyone else, holding their 
horses by the reins atop the hill in the middle of the valley. The hill where 
they had expected to catch the Seanchan by surprise when they rushed out of 
gateways surrounding it. Near fifty dead, and more to come, but it would have 
been above two hundred without Flinn and the rest who could manage Healing to 
one degree or another. Gedwyn and Rochaid had not wanted to dirty their hands 
and grimaced when Rand drove them to it. One of the dead was a Soldier, and 
another Soldier, a round-faced Cairhienin, sat slumped beside a fire with a 
dazed look that Rand hoped came from being tossed through the air by the ground 
erupting almost under his feet.
Down there on the furrowed flats, Ailil was conferring with her Lance-captain, a 
pale little man called Denharad. Their horses stood nearly touching, and 
occasionally they looked up the mountain toward Rand. What were they scheming?
"We'll do better next time," Bashere murmured. He ran his gaze around the 
valley, then shook his head. "The worst mistake is to make the same one twice, 
and we won't."
Weiramon heard him and repeated the same thing, but using twenty times the 
words, and flowery enough for a garden in spring. Without admitting that there 
had been any mistakes, certainly not on his part. He avoided Rand's mistakes 
with equal adroitness.
Rand nodded, his mouth tight. Next time they would do better. They had to, 
unless he wanted to leave half his men buried in these mountains. Right then, he 
was wondering what to do with the prisoners.
Most of those who escaped death on the mountainside had managed to withdraw 
through the trees that remained standing. With amazingly good order considering, 
Bashere claimed, yet they were unlikely to be much threat now. Not unless they 
had the damane with them. But a hundred or so men sat huddled on the ground, 
stripped of weapons and armor, under the watchful eyes of two dozen mounted 
Companions and Defenders. Taraboners, for the most part, they had not fought 
like men driven to it by conquerors. A fair number held their heads up, and 
jeered at their guards. Gedwyn had wanted to kill them, after putting them to 
the question. Weiramon did not care whether they had their throats slit, but he 
considered torture a waste of time. None would know anything useful, he 
maintained; there was not a one nobly born.
Rand glanced at Bashere. Weiramon was still going on sonorously. " . . . sweep 
these mountains clean for you, my Lord Dragon. We'll trample them beneath our 
hooves, and . . . " Anai-yella was nodding grim approval.
"Six up, and half a dozen down," Bashere said softly. He scraped mud from one of 
his thick mustaches with a fingernail. "Or as some of my tenants say, what you 
gain on the swings, you lose on the roundabouts." What in the Light was a 
roundabout? A great help that was!
And then one of Bashere's patrols made matters worse. The six men came prodding 
a prisoner along the slope ahead of their horses with the butts of their lances. 
She was a black-haired woman in a torn and dirty dark blue dress, with red 
panels ion the breast and skirts bearing forked lightning. Her face was dirty, 
too, and tear-streaked. She stumbled and half-fell, but the prodding was more 
gesture than actual touching. She glared scornfully at her captors, even 
spitting once. She sneered at Rand, too.
"Did you hurt her?" he demanded. A strange question, perhaps, about an enemy 
after what had happened in this valley. About a sul'dam. But it popped out.
"Not us, my Lord Dragon," the gruff-faced patrol leader said. "We found her like 
this." Scratching his chin through a black flowing beard, he eyed Bashere as if 
for support. "She claims we killed her Gille. A pet dog, or cat, or some such, 
the way she carries on. Her name's Nerith. We got that much out of her." The 
woman turned and snarled at him again.
Rand sighed. Not a pet dog. No! That name did not belong on the list! But he 
could hear the litany of names reciting itself in his head, and "Gille the 
damane" was there. Lews Therin moaned for his Ilyena. Her name also was on the 
list. Rand thought it had a right.
"This is a Seanchan Aes Sedai?" Anaiyella asked suddenly, leaning over the 
pommel of her saddle to peer hard at Nerith. Nerith spat at her, as well, eyes 
widening in outrage. Rand explained the little he knew of sul'dam, that they 
controlled women who could channel with the aide of a leash-and-collar 
ter'angreal but could not themselves channel, and to his surprise, the dainty 
simpering High Lady said coldly, "If my Lord Dragon feels constrained, I'll hang 
her for him." Nerith spat at her again! Contemptuously, this time. No shortfall 
of courage there.
"No!" Rand growled. Light, the things people would do to get on his good side! 
Or maybe Anaiyella had been closer to her Master of the Horse that was 
considered proper. The man had been stout and balding  --  and a commoner; that 
counted heavily with Tairens  --  but women did have strange tastes in men. He knew 
that for a pure fact.
"As soon as we're ready to move again," he told Bashere, "turn the men down 
there loose." Taking prisoners along when he launched his next attack was out of 
the question, and leaving a hundred men  --  a hundred now; more later, for sure  --  
leaving them to follow with the supply carts risked fifty kinds of mischief. 
They could cause no trouble left behind. Even the fellows who had gotten away on 
horseback could not carry a warning faster than he could Travel.
Bashere shrugged faintly; he thought it might be so, but then again there was 
always the odd chance. Strange things happened even without a ta'veren around.
Weiramon and Anaiyella opened their mouths almost together, faces set in 
protest, but Rand pressed on. "I've spoken, and it's done! We'll keep the woman, 
though. And any more women we capture."
"Burn my soul," Weiramon exclaimed. "Why?" The man appeared dumbfounded, and for 
that matter, Bashere gave a startled jerk of his head. Anaiyella's mouth twisted 
in contempt before she managed to turn it to a simpering smile for the Lord 
Dragon. Plainly, she thought him too soft to send a woman off with the others. 
They would have hard walking in this terrain, not to mention short rations. And 
the weather was not weather to turn a woman out in.
"I have enough Aes Sedai against me without sending sul'dam back to their 
trade," he told them. The Light knew that was true! They nodded, if Weiramon was 
slow about it; Bashere looked relieved, Anaiyella disappointed. But what to do 
with the woman, and any more he captured? He did not intend to turn the Black 
Tower into a prison. The Aiel could hold them. Except that the Wise Ones might 
slit their throats the moment his back was turned. What about the sisters that 
Mat was taking to Caemlyn with Elayne, though? "When this is done, I'll hand her 
over to some Aes Sedai I choose." They might see it as a gesture of goodwill, a 
little honey to sweeten their having to accept his protection.
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Nerith's face went dead white and 
she screamed at the top of her lungs. Howling without cease, she flung herself 
down the slope, scrabbling over downed trees, falling and scrambling back up.
"Bloody  -- ! Catch her!" Rand snapped, and the Saldaean patrol leaped after the 
woman, jumping their mounts across the tree-littered slope careless of broken 
legs and necks. Still wailing, she dodged and darted among the horses with even 
less care.
In the mouth of the easternmost pass, a gateway opened in a flash of silver 
light. A black-coated Soldier pulled his horse through, jumped to the saddle as 
the gateway winked out and put his mount to a gallop, toward the hilltop where 
Gedwyn and Rochaid waited. Rand watched impassively. In his head, Lews Therin 
snarled of killing, killing all the Asha'man before it was too late.
By the time the three of them started up the slope toward Rand, four of the 
Saldaeans had Nerith down on the ground, binding her hand and foot. It took 
four, the way she thrashed and bit at them, and an amused Bashere was offering 
odds on whether she might not overcome them instead. Anaiyella muttered 
something about cracking the woman's head. Did she mean cracking it open? Rand 
frowned at her.
The Soldier between Gedwyn and Rochaid glanced at Nerith uneasily as they rode 
past. Rand vaguely remembered seeing him at the Black Tower, the day he first 
handed out the silver Swords, and gave Taim the very first Dragon pin. He was a 
young man, Varil Nensen by name, still wearing a transparent veil to cover his 
thick mustaches. He had not hesitated when he found himself facing his 
countrymen, though. Allegiance was to the Black Tower and the Dragon Reborn, 
now, so Taim always said. The second part of that always sounded an 
afterthought.
"You may have the honor of making your report to the Dragon Reborn, Soldier 
Nensen," Gedwyn said. Wryly.
Nensen sat up straight in his saddle. "My Lord Dragon!" he barked, slapping fist 
to chest. "There's more of them about thirty miles west, my Lord Dragon." Thirty 
miles was as far as Rand had told the scouts to go before returning. What good 
if one Soldier found Seanchan while the rest kept moving ever farther west? 
"Maybe half what were here," Nensen went on. "And . . . " His dark eyes 
flickered toward Nerith again. She was tied, now, the Saldaeans struggling to 
get her over a horse. "And I saw no sign of women, my Lord Dragon."
Bashere squinted at the sky. Dark clouds lay in a blanket from mountain peak to 
mountain peak, but the sun should still be high. "Time to feed the men before 
the rest return," he said, nodding in satisfaction. Nerith had managed to sink 
her teeth into a Saldaean's wrist and was hanging on like a badger.
"Feed them quick," Rand said irritably. Would every sul'dam he captured be as 
difficult? Very likely. Light, what if they took a damane'? "I don't want to 
spend all winter in these mountains." Gille the damane. He could not erase a 
name once it went onto that list.
The dead are never silent, Lews Therin whispered. The dead never sleep.
Rand rode down toward the fires. He did not feel like eating.
 
From the point of a thrusting shoulder of stone, Furyk Karede carefully studied 
the forested mountains rising all around him, sharp peaks like dark fangs. His 
horse, a tall dappled gelding, stiffened his ears as though catching a sound he 
had missed, but otherwise the animal was still. Every so often, Karede had to 
stop and wipe the lens of his looking glass. A light rain fell from a gray 
morning sky. His helmet's two black plumes were bent over instead of standing 
straight, and water ran down his back. A light rain compared to yesterday, 
anyway, and probably compared to tomorrow. Or this afternoon, perhaps. Thunder 
rumbled ominously in the south. Karede's concern had nothing to do with weather, 
though.
Below him, the last of twenty-three hundred men snaked through the winding 
passes, men gathered from four outposts. Well-mounted, reasonably well-led, yet 
a bare two hundred were Seanchan, and just two besides himself wore the 
red-and-green of the Guard. Most of the remainder were Taraboners  --  he knew 
their mettle  --  but a good third were Amadicians and Altarans, too new to their 
oaths for any to be sure how they would stand up. Some Altarans and Amadicians 
had switched allegiance two or three times already. Tried to, anyway. People 
this side of the Aryth Ocean had no shame. A dozen sul'dam rode near the front 
of the column, and he wished all twelve had leashed damanes walking by their 
horses instead of only two.
Fifty paces farther on, the ten men of the spearhead were watching the slopes 
above them, though not as carefully as they should have. Too many men who rode 
spearhead relied on the forward scouts to find any dangers. Karede made a note 
to speak to them personally. They would do their duties properly after that, or 
he would send them to the labor levies.
A raken appeared in the east ahead, skimming low over the treetops, twisting and 
turning to follow the curves of the land like a man running his hand down a 
woman's back. Peculiar. Morat'raken, fliers, always liked to soar high unless 
the sky was actually full of lightning. Karede lowered the looking glass to 
watch.
"Maybe we'll finally get another scouting report," Jadranka said. To the other 
officers waiting behind Karede, not to him. Three of the ten matched Karede's 
rank, yet few except the Blood disturbed a man in the blood-red and nearly black 
green of the Deathwatch Guard. Not that many among the Blood did.
According to the tales he had heard as a child, one of his ancestors, a noble, 
had followed Luthair Paendrag to Seanchan at Artur Hawkwing's command, but two 
hundred years later, with only the north secure, another ancestor tried to carve 
out a kingdom of his own and ended sold from the block instead. Perhaps it was 
so; many da'covale claimed noble ancestors. Among themselves, at least; few of 
the Blood found such chatter amusing. In any case, Karede had felt lucky when 
the Choosers picked him out, a sturdy boy not yet old enough to be assigned 
duties, and he still felt pride in the ravens tattooed on his shoulders. Many 
Deathwatch Guards went without coat or shirt whenever possible, to display 
those. The humans, anyway. Ogier Gardeners were not marked or owned, but that 
was between them and the Empress.
Karede was da'covale and proud of it, like every man of the Guard, the property 
of the Crystal Throne, body and soul. He fought where the Empress pointed, and 
would die the day she said die. To the Empress alone did the Guard answer, and 
where they appeared, they appeared as her hand, a visible reminder of her. No 
wonder that some among the Blood could become uneasy watching a detachment of 
Guardsmen pass. A far better life than mucking out a Lord's stables or serving 
kaf to a Lady. But he cursed the luck that had sent him into these mountains to 
inspect the outposts.
The raken darted on westward, the two fliers crouched low in their saddle. There 
was no scouting report, no message for him. Furyk knew it was his imagination, 
but the creature's long, outstretched neck somehow looked . . . anxious. Had he 
been anyone else, he might have been anxious, too. There had been few messages 
for him since his orders three days ago to assume command and move east. Each 
message had thickened the fog more than cleared it.
The locals, these Altarans, had moved into the mountains in force, it seemed, 
but how? The roads along the northern border of this range were patrolled and 
watched nearly to the border of Illian, by fliers and Morat'torm as well as 
horse-mounted parties. What could have made the Altarans decide to show so many 
teeth? To stand together? A man might find himself in a duel for a look  --  though 
they had begun to learn challenging a Guardsman was just a slower way of cutting 
your own throat  --  but he had seen nobles of this so-called nation trying to sell 
each other and their Queen for the mere suggestion that their own lands might be 
protected and perhaps those of their neighbor added to them.
Nadoc, a big man with a deceptively mild face, twisted in his saddle to watch 
the raken. "I don't like marching blind," he muttered. "Not when the Altarans 
have managed to put forty thousand men up here. Forty, at least."
Jadranka snorted so hard that his tall white gelding shifted. Jadranka was the 
senior of the three captains behind Karede, having served as long as Karede 
himself. A short thin man with a prominent nose and such airs you might have 
thought him of the Blood. That horse would stand out at a mile. "Forty thousand 
or a hundred, Nadoc, they're scattered from here to the end of the range, too 
far apart to support one another. Stab my eyes, likely half are dead already. 
They must be tangling with outposts everywhere. That's why we aren't getting 
reports. We're just expected to sweep up the remnants."
Karede swallowed a sigh. He had hoped Jadranka was not a fool atop his airs. 
Praise of victors spread quickly, whether they were an army or half a Banner. It 
was the rare defeats that were swallowed in silence and forgotten. So much 
silence was . . . ominous.
"That last report didn't sound like remnants to me," Nadoc persisted. He was no 
fool. "There are five thousand men not fifty miles ahead of us, and I doubt 
we'll take them with brooms."
Jadranka snorted again. "We'll crush them, with swords or brooms. The Light burn 
my eyes, I can hardly wait for a decent engagement. I told the scouts to press 
on until they found them. I won't have them slipping away from us." 
"You did what?" Karede said softly.
Soft or not, his words jerked every eye toward him. Though Nadoc and a few of 
the others had to struggle to stop gaping at Jadranka. Scouts told to press 
ahead, scouts told what to look for. What had gone unseen for those orders?
Before anyone could open his mouth shouts rose from the men in the pass, screams 
and the shrieks of horses.
Karede pressed the leather tube of the looking glass to his eye. Along the pass 
ahead of him, men and horses were dying under a hail of what he thought must be 
crossbow bolts, the way they hammered through steel breastplates, exploded 
through chests protected by mail. Hundreds were down already, hundreds more 
sagging wounded in their saddles or afoot and running from horses thrashing on 
the ground. Too many were running. Even as he looked, men still mounted whirled 
their horses to try fleeing back up the pass. Where in the Light were the 
sul'dam! He could not find them. He had faced rebels who had sul'dam and damane, 
and they always had to be killed as fast as possible. Maybe the locals had 
learned that.
Suddenly, shockingly, the ground began to erupt in roaring fountains all along 
the writhing snake of his command, fountains that flung men and horses into the 
air as easily as dirt and stones. Lightning flashed out of the sky, blue-white 
bolts shattering earth and men alike. Other men simply exploded, ripped to 
shreds by nothing he could see. Did the locals have damane of their own? No, it 
would be those Aes Sedai.
"What are we going to do?" Nadoc said. He sounded shaken. As well he might.
"Do you think to abandon your men?" Jadranka snarled. "We rally them and attack, 
you  -- !" He cut off, gurgling, as Karede's swordpoint went neatly into his 
throat. There were times fools could be tolerated, and times not. As the man 
toppled from his saddle, Karede deftly wiped his blade on the gelding's white 
mane before the animal bolted. There were times for a little show, too.
"We rally what can be rallied, Nadoc," he said as if Jadranka had never spoken. 
As if he had never been. "We save what can be saved, and fall back."
Turning to ride down into the pass where lightnings flashed and thunders roared, 
he ordered Anghar, a steady-eyed young man with a fast horse, to ride east and 
report what had transpired here. Perhaps a flier would see and perhaps not, 
though Karede suspected he knew why they flew low, now. He suspected the High 
Lady Suroth and the generals in Ebou Dar already knew what was occurring up 
here, too. Was today the day he died for the Empress? He dug his heels into his 
horse's flanks.
 
From the flat, thinly treed ridge, Rand peered westward over the forest before 
him. With the Power in him  --  life, so sweet; vile-ness, oh, so vile  --  he could 
see individual leaves, but it was not enough. Tai'daishar stamped a hoof. The 
jagged peaks behind, to either side, and all around overtopped the ridge by a 
mile or more, but the ridge stood well above the treetops below, a rolling 
wooded valley over a league in length and nearly as wide. All was still down 
there. As quiet as the Void he floated in. Quiet for the moment, anyway. Here 
and there plumes of smoke rose from where two or three trees in a clump burned 
like torches. Only the general wet stopped them turning the valley into a 
conflagration. Flinn and Dashiva were the only Asha'man still with him. All the 
rest were down in the valley. The pair stood a little way from him at the edge 
of the trees, holding their horses by the reins and staring at the forest below. 
Well, Flinn stared, as intently as Rand himself. Dashiva glanced occasionally, 
twisting his mouth, sometimes muttering to himself in a way that made Flinn 
shift his feet and eye him sideways. The Power filled both men, nearly to 
overflowing, but for a change, Lews Therin said nothing. The man seemed 
increasingly to have gone back into hiding over the last few days.
In the sky there was actually sunlight, and the scattered clouds were gray. It 
was five days since Rand had brought his small army to Altara, five days since 
he had seen his first Seanchan dead. He had seen quite a few since. Thought slid 
across the surface of the Void. He could feel the heron branded into his palm 
pressing against the Dragon Scepter through his glove. Silent. There were none 
of the flying creatures to be seen. Three of those had died, slashed from the 
sky by lightning, before their riders learned to stay clear. Bashere was 
fascinated by the creatures. Quiet.
"Perhaps it is finished, my Lord Dragon." Ailil's voice was calm and cool, but 
she patted her mare's neck, though the animal did not need soothing. She eyed 
Flinn and Dashiva sideways and straightened, unwilling to reveal a shred of 
unease in front of them.
Rand found himself humming and stopped abruptly. That was Lews Therin's habit, 
looking at a pretty woman, not his. Not his! Light, if he started taking on the 
fellow's mannerisms, and when he was not there, at that . . .!
Abruptly, hollow thunder boomed up the valley. Fire fountained out of the trees 
a good two miles away or more, then again, and again, again. Lightning streaked 
down into the forest not far from where the tall flames had bloomed, single 
slashes like jagged blue-white lances. A flurry of lightning bolts and fire, and 
all was still again. No trees had caught fire, this time.
Some of that had been saidin. Some of it.
Shouts rose, dim and distant, from another part of the valley, he thought. Too 
far for even his saidin-enhanced ears to hear the crash of steel. Despite 
everything, not all of the fighting was being done by Asha'man and Dedicated and 
Soldiers.
Anaiyella let out a long breath she must have been holding since the exchange 
with the Power began. Men fighting with steel did not disturb her. Then she 
patted her mount's neck. The gelding had only flickered an ear. Rand had noticed 
that about women. Quite often, when a woman was agitated, she tried to soothe 
others whether they required soothing or not. A horse would do. Where was Lews 
Therin?
Irritably he leaned forward to study the forest canopy again. A good many of 
those trees were evergreens  --  oak and pine and leatherleaf  --  and despite the 
late drought, they made an effective screen, even to his intensified vision. As 
if idly, he touched the narrow bundle under his stirrup leather. He could take a 
hand. And strike blindly. He could ride down into the woods. And be able to see 
ten paces at most. Down there, he would be little more effective than one of the 
Soldiers.
A gateway opened among the trees a little way along the ridge, silvery slash 
widening into a hole that showed different trees and thick winter brown 
underbrush. A copper-skinned Soldier with a thin mustache on his upper lip and a 
small pearl in his ear exited afoot and let the gateway vanish. He was shoving a 
sul'dam ahead of him with her wrists tied behind her, a handsome woman except 
for the purple knot on the side of her head. That seemed to go along with her 
scowl, though, as well as it did with her rumpled, leaf-stained dress. She 
sneered over her shoulder at the Soldier while he pushed her along the ridgetop 
to Rand, and then she sneered up at Rand.
The Soldier stiffened, saluting smartly. "Soldier Arlen Nalaam, my Lord Dragon," 
he barked, staring straight at Rand's saddle. "My Lord Dragon's orders were to 
bring any women captured to him."
Rand nodded. It was only to give him the appearance of doing something, 
inspecting prisoners to be sure they were what any idiot could see they were. 
"Take her back to the carts, Soldier Nalaam, then return to the fighting." He 
almost ground his teeth saying that. Return to the fighting. While Rand al'Thor, 
Dragon Reborn and King of Illian, sat his horse and watched treetops!
Nalaam saluted again before pushing away the woman ahead of him, but he was not 
slow about it. She kept peering over her shoulder again, yet not at the Soldier 
this time. At Rand. With wide-eyed, openmouthed astonishment. For some reason, 
Nalaam did not pull her to a halt until he reached the spot where he had come 
out. All that was necessary was to go far enough to avoid injuring the horses.
"What are you doing?" Rand demanded as saidin filled the man.
Nalaam half turned back to him, hesitating briefly. "It seems easier, here, if I 
use a place I've already made a gateway, my Lord Dragon. Saidin . . . Saidin 
feels . . . strange . . . to me here." His prisoner turned to frown at him.
After a moment, Rand gestured him to go ahead. Flinn pretended to be interested 
in his horse's saddle girth, but the balding old man smiled faintly. Smugly. 
Dashiva . . . giggled. Flinn had been the first to mention an odd feel to saidin 
in this valley. Of course, Narishma and Hopwil had heard him, and Morr added his 
tales of the "strangeness" around Ebou Dar. Small wonder everyone was claiming 
to feel something now, though not a one could say what. Saidin just felt . . . 
peculiar. Light, with the taint thick on the male half of the Source, what else 
would it feel? Rand hoped they were not all coming down with his new sickness.
Nalaam's gateway opened, and vanished behind him and his prisoner. Rand let 
himself really feel saidin. Life and corruption commingled; ice to make winter's 
heart seem warm, and fire to make a forge's flames cold; death, waiting for him 
to slip. Wanting him to slip. It did not feel any different. Did it? He scowled 
at where Nalaam had disappeared. Nalaam and the woman.
She was the fourth sul'dam taken this afternoon. That made twenty-three sul'dam 
prisoners with the carts. And two damane, each still in her silvery leash and 
collar, carried on separate carts; in those collars, they could not walk three 
steps before becoming more violently sick than Rand did seizing the Source. He 
was not sure the sisters with Mat would be pleased to receive them after all. 
The first damane, three days before, he had not thought of as a prisoner. A 
slender woman with pale yellow hair and big blue eyes, she was a Seanchan 
captive to be freed. He thought. But when he forced a sul'dam to remove the 
woman's collar, her a'dam, she screamed for the sul'dam to help her and 
immediately began lashing out with the Power. She had even offered her neck for 
the sul'dam to replace the thing! Nine Defenders and a Soldier died before she 
could be shielded. Gedwyn would have killed her on the spot had Rand not stopped 
it. The Defenders, nearly as uncomfortable around women who could channel as 
others were around men who could  --  the Defenders still wanted her dead. They had 
taken casualties in the fighting these past days, but having men killed by a 
prisoner seemed to offend them.
There had been more casualties than Rand had expected. Thirty-one Defenders 
dead, and forty-six Companions. More than two hundred among the Legionmen and 
the noble's armsmen. Seven Soldiers and a Dedicated, men Rand had never met 
before they answered his summons to Illian. Too many, considering that all 
except the gravest injury could be Healed, if a man could only hang on until 
there was time. But he was driving the Seanchan west. Driving them hard.
More shouting rose somewhere far off down in the valley. Fire blossomed a good 
three miles to the west, and lightning struck, toppling trees. Trees and stone 
erupted from a mountainside farther on, strange fountains marching along the 
slope. The roaring booms swallowed shouts. The Seanchan were retreating.
"Get down there," Rand told Flinn and Dashiva. "Both of you. Find Gedwyn and 
tell him I said push! Push!"
Dashiva grimaced at the forest below, then began awkwardly tugging his horse 
along the ridge. The man was ungainly with horses, riding or leading. He nearly 
tripped over his sword!
Flinn looked up at Rand worriedly. "You mean to stay here alone, my Lord 
Dragon?"
"I'm hardly alone," Rand said dryly, glancing at Ailil and Anaiyella. They had 
ridden back to their armsmen, almost two hundred lancers waiting just short of 
where the ridge began to slope down to the east. At their head, Denharad frowned 
through the face-bars of his helmet. He had command of both lots, now, and if 
his concern was for Ailil and Anaiyella, his fellows still made a show fit to 
keep away most attackers. Besides, Weiramon had the northern end of this ridge 
secured so a fly could not pass, he claimed, and Bashere held the south. Without 
boasting; Bashere just erected a wall of lances without talking about it. And 
the Seanchan were retreating. "And I'm hardly helpless, anyway, Flinn."
Flinn actually looked doubtful and scratched his fringe of white hair before 
saluting and leading his horse toward where Dashiva's gateway was already 
winking out. Limping along, Flinn shook his head, muttering to himself fit for 
Dashiva. Rand wanted to snarl. He could not go mad, and neither could they.
Flinn's gateway vanished, and Rand returned to his study of the treetops. It was 
quiet again. Time stretched in stillness. This notion of taking the outposts in 
the mountains had been a bad one; he was willing to admit that, now. In this 
terrain, you could be half a mile from an army without knowing. In those tangled 
woods down there, you could be ten feet from them without knowing! He needed to 
face the Seanchan on better ground. He needed . . . 
Abruptly he was fighting saidin, fighting wild surges that tried to ream out his 
skull. The Void was vanishing, melting beneath the onslaught. Frantic, dazed, he 
released the Source before it could kill him. Nausea twisted his middle. Double 
vision showed him two Crowns of Swords. Lying on the thick mulch of dead leaves 
in front of his face! He was on the ground! He could not seem to breathe 
properly, and struggled to suck in air. There was a chip broken off one of the 
crown's golden laurel leaves, and blood stained several of the tiny golden 
swordpoints. A knot of hot pain in his side told him those never-healing wounds 
had broken open. He tried to push himself up, and cried out. In stunned 
amazement he stared at the dark fletchings of an arrow stuck through his right 
arm. With a groan he collapsed. Something ran down his face. Something dripped 
in front of his eye. Blood.
Vaguely he became aware of ululating cries. Horsemen appeared among the trees to 
the north, galloping along the ridge, some with lowered lances, some working 
short bows as fast as they could nock and draw. Horsemen in blue-and-yellow 
armor of overlapping plates, and helmets like huge insects' heads. Seanchan, 
several hundred of them it seemed. From the north. So much for Weiramon's fly.
Rand struggled to reach the Source. Too late to worry about sicking up, or 
falling on his face. Another time, he might have laughed at that. He struggled . 
. . It was like fumbling for a pin in the dark with numbed fingers.
Time to die, Lews Therin whispered. Rand had always known Lews Therin would be 
there at the end.
Not fifty paces from Rand, screaming Tairens and Cairhien plowed into the 
Seanchan.
"Fight, you dogs!" Anaiyella shrieked, swinging down from her saddle beside him. 
"Fight!" The willow lady in her silks and laces hurled a string of curses that 
would have made a wagon driver's tongue go dry.
Anaiyella stood holding her mount's reins, glaring from the mill of men and 
steel to Rand. It was Ailil who turned him onto his back. Kneeling there, she 
looked down at him with an unreadable expression in her big dark eyes. He could 
not seem to move. He felt drained. He was not sure he could blink. Screams and 
the clash of steel rang in his ears.
"If he dies on our hands, Bashere will hang both of us!" Anaiyella certainly was 
not simpering now. "If those black-coated monsters get hold of us . . .!" She 
shuddered, and bent closer to Ailil, gesturing with a belt knife he had not 
noticed in her hand before. A ruby sparkled blood-red on the hilt. "Your 
Lance-captain could break off enough men to get us away. We could be miles away 
before he's found, and back to our estates by the time  --  "
"I think he can hear us," Ailil broke in calmly. Her red-gloved hands moved at 
her waist. Sheathing a belt knife? Or drawing one? "If he dies here  --  " She cut 
off as sharply as the other woman had, and her head jerked around.
Hooves thundered past Rand on either side in thick streams. Galloping north, 
toward the Seanchan. Sword in hand, Bashere barely reined in before leaping from 
his saddle. Gregorin Panar dismounted more slowly, but he waved his sword at the 
men flooding by. "Strike home for King and Illian!" he shouted. "Strike home! 
The Lord of the Morning! The Lord of the Morning!" The crash of steel rose 
higher. And the screaming.
"It would be like this at the last of it," Bashere growled, favoring the two 
women with suspicious glares. He wasted only an instant, though, before raising 
his voice above the din of battle. "Morr! Burn your Asha'man hide! Here, now!" 
He did not shout that the Lord Dragon was down, thank the Light.
With an effort, Rand turned his head perhaps a hand. Enough to see Illianers and 
Saldaeans driving on north. The Seanchan must have given way.
"Morr!" The name roared through Bashere's mustaches, and Morr himself dropped 
from a galloping horse nearly on top of Anaiyella. She looked disgruntled at the 
lack of an apology as the man knelt beside Rand, scrubbing dark hair out of his 
face. She moved back quickly enough when she realized he intended to channel, 
though, practically bounding away. Ailil was much smoother about rising, but not 
noticeably slower in stepping clear. And she slipped a silver-handled belt knife 
back into its sheath at her waist.
Healing was a simple matter, if not exactly comfortable. The fletchings were 
broken off and the arrow drawn the rest of the way through with a sharp jerk 
that brought a gasp to Rand's lips, but that was just to clear the way. Dirt and 
lightly embedded fragments would fall way as flesh knit itself up, but only 
Flinn and a few others could use the Power to remove what was driven deep. 
Resting two fingers on Rand's chest, Morr caught his tongue between his teeth 
with a fixed expression and wove Healing. That was how he always did it; it did 
not work for him, otherwise. It was not the complex weaves that Flinn used. Few 
could manage that, and none as well as Flinn, so far. This was simpler. Rougher. 
Waves of heat rushed through Rand, strong enough to make him grunt and send 
sweat gushing from every pore. He quivered violently from head to foot. A roast 
in the oven must have felt that way.
The sudden flood of heat ebbed slowly, and Rand lay panting. In his head, Lews 
Therin panted, too. Kill him! Kill him! Over and over.
Muting the voice to a faint buzz, Rand thanked Morr  --  the young man blinked as 
if surprised!  --  then grabbed the Dragon Scepter from the ground and forced 
himself to his feet. Erect, he swayed slightly. Bashere started to offer an arm, 
then backed away at a gesture. Rand could stand unaided. Barely. He could as 
soon have flown by waving his arms as channeled, though. When he touched his 
side, his shirt slipped on blood, yet the old round scar and the newer slash 
across it merely felt tender. Half-healed only, but they had never been better 
than that since he got them. For a moment, he studied the two women. Anaiyella 
murmured something vaguely congratulatory and offered him a smile that made him 
wonder whether she intended to lick his wrist. Ailil stood very straight, very 
cool, as if nothing had happened. Had they meant to leave him to die? Or to kill 
him? But if so, why send their armsmen charging in and rush to check on him?
On the other hand, Ailil had drawn her knife once the talk of him dying began.
Most of the Saldaeans and Illianers were galloping north or riding down the 
slope of the ridge, pursuing the last of the Seanchan. And then Weiramon 
appeared from the north, riding a tall, glossy black at a slow canter that 
picked up when he saw Rand. His armsmen rode in double file at his back.
"My Lord Dragon," the High Lord intoned as he dismounted. He still seemed as 
clean as he had in Illian. Bashere simply looked rumpled and a bit grimy here 
and there, but Gregorin's finery was decidedly dirt-stained, and slashed down 
one sleeve besides. Weiramon flourished a bow to shame a king's court. "Forgive 
me, my Lord Dragon. I thought I saw Seanchan advancing in front of the ridge and 
went to meet them. I never suspected this other company. You can't know how it 
would pain me if you were injured."
"I think I know," Rand said dryly, and Weiramon blinked. Seanchan advancing? 
Perhaps. Weiramon would always snatch at a chance for glory in the charge. "What 
did you mean, 'at the last,' Bashere?"
"They're pulling back," Bashere replied. In the valley, fire and lightning 
erupted for a moment as if to give him the lie, but nearly to the far end.
"Your . . . scouts do say they all do be retreating," Gregorin said, rubbing his 
beard, and gave Morr a sidelong, uncomfortable glance. Morr grinned at him 
toothily. Rand had seen the Illianer in the thick of fighting heading his men, 
shouting encouragement and laying his sword about with wild abandon, but he 
flinched at Morr's grin.
Gedwyn strode up then, leading his horse carelessly, insolently. He almost 
sneered at Bashere and Gregorin, frowned at Weiramon as if already knowing the 
man's blunder, and eyed Ailil and Anaiyella as though he might pinch them. The 
two women drew back from him hastily, but then, so did the men except for 
Bashere. Even Morr. Gedwyn's salute to Rand was a casual tap of fist to chest. 
"I sent scouts out as soon as I saw this lot was done. There are three more 
columns inside ten miles."
"All headed west," Bashere put in quietly, but he looked at Gedwyn sharp enough 
to slice stone. "You've done it," he told Rand. "They're all falling back. I 
doubt they'll stop short of Ebou Dar. Campaigns don't always end with a grand 
march into the city, and this one is finished."
Surprisingly  --  or perhaps not  --  Weiramon began arguing for an advance, to "take 
Ebou Dar for the glory of the Lord of the Morning," as he put it, but it was 
certainly a shock to hear Gedwyn say he would not mind taking a few more swipes 
at these Seanchan and he certainly would not mind seeing Ebou Dar. Even Ailil 
and Anaiyella added their voices in favor of "putting an end to the Seanchan 
once and for all," though Ailil did add that she would as soon like to avoid 
having to return to finish. She was quite sure the Lord Dragon would insist on 
her company for it. That in a tone as cool and dry as night in the Aiel Waste.
Only Bashere and Gregorin spoke for turning back, and raise their voices they 
did increasingly as Rand stood silent. Silent and staring west. Toward Ebou Dar.
"We did do what we came for," Gregorin insisted. "Light's mercy, do you think to 
take Ebou Dar itself?"
Take Ebou Dar, Rand thought. Why not? No one would expect that. A total 
surprise, for the Seanchan and everybody else.
"Times are, you seize the advantage and ride on," Bashere growled. "Other times, 
you take your winnings and go home. I say it's time to go home."
I would not mind you in my head, Lews Therin said, sounding almost sane, if you 
were not so dearly mad.
Ebou Dar. Rand tightened his hand on the Dragon Scepter, and Lews Therin 
cackled.
Chapter 24
A Time for Iron
A dozen leagues east of Ebou Dar, raken glided in out of the cloud-streaked 
sunrise to land in a long pasture marked as the fliers' field by colored 
streamers on tall poles. The brown grasses had been trampled and scored days 
since. All of the creatures' grace in the air was lost as soon as their claws 
touched the ground in a lumbering run, leathery pinions thirty paces or more 
wide held high as if the animal wanted to sweep itself back upward. There was 
little beauty, either, in the raken that ran awkwardly down the field beating 
ribbed wings, fliers crouching in the saddle as if to pull the beast up by main 
force, ran on until at last they stumbled into the air, wingtips barely clearing 
the tops of the olive trees at the end of the field. Only as they gained height 
and turned toward the sun, soared toward the clouds, did the raken regain 
dignified grandeur. Fliers who landed did not bother to dismount. While a 
groundling held a basket up for the raken to gulp whole shriveled fruits by the 
double-handful at a time, one of the fliers would hand down their scouting 
report to a still more senior groundling, and the other bent on the other side 
to receive new orders from a flier too senior to handle reins personally very 
often. Almost that quickly after coming to a halt, the creature was reined 
around to waddle over to where four or five others waited their turn to make 
that long, ungainly run to the sky.
At a dead run, dodging between moving formations of cavalry and infantry, 
messengers carried the scouting reports to the huge red-bannered command tent. 
There were haughty Taraboner lancers and stolid Amadician pikemen in 
well-ordered squares, breastplates striped horizontally in the colors of the 
regiments they were attached to. Altar an light horse in disordered bunches made 
their mounts prance, vain of the red slashes crisscrossing their chests, so 
different from the markings anyone else wore. The Altarans did not know those 
indicated irregulars of doubtful reliability. Among the Seanchan soldiers, named 
regiments with proud honors were represented, from every corner of the Empire, 
pale-eyed men from Alqam, honey-brown men from N'Kon, men black as coal from 
Khoweal and Dalenshar. There were Morat'torm on their sinuous bronze-scaled 
mounts that made horses whicker and dance in fright, and even a few morat'grolm 
with their squat, beak-mouthed charges, but one thing that always accompanied a 
Seanchan army was conspicuous by it absence. The sul'dam and damane were still 
in their tents. Captain-General Kennar Miraj thought of sul'dam and damane a 
great deal.
From his seat on the dais he could see the map table clearly, where helmetless 
under-lieutenants checked the reports and placed markers to represent the forces 
in the field. A small paper banner stood above each marker, inked symbols giving 
the size and composition of the force. Finding decent maps in these lands was 
next to impossible, but the map copied atop the large table was sufficient. And 
worrying, in what it told him. Black discs for outposts overrun or dispersed. 
Far too many of those, dotting the whole eastern half of the Venir range. Red 
wedges, for commands on the move, marked the western end as thickly, all pointed 
back toward Ebou Dar. And scattered among the black discs, seventeen stark 
white. As he watched, a young officer in the brown-and-black of a Morat'torm 
carefully placed an eighteenth. Enemy forces. A few might be the same group seen 
twice, but for the most part they were much too far apart, the timing of the 
sightings wrong.
Along the walls of the tent, clerks in plain brown coats, marked only with 
insignia of rank among clerks on the wide collars, waited at their writing 
tables, pens in hand, for Miraj to issue orders that they would copy out for 
distribution. He had already given what orders he could. There were as many as 
ninety thousand enemy soldiers in the mountains, nearly twice what he could 
muster here even with the native levies. Too many for belief, except that scouts 
did not lie; liars had their throats slit by their fellows. Too many, springing 
out of the ground like trap-worms in the Sen T'jore. At least they had a hundred 
miles of mountain yet to cover if they intended to threaten Ebou Dar. Almost two 
hundred, for the white discs furthest east. And hill country after that for 
another hundred miles. Surely the enemy general could not mean to let his 
dispersed forces be confronted one by one. Gathering them together would take 
more time. Time alone was on his side, right then.
The entry flaps of the tent swept open, and the High Lady Suroth glided in, 
black hair a proud crest spilling down her back, pleated snow-white gown and 
richly embroidered over-robe somehow untouched by the mud outside. He had 
thought her still in Ebou Dar; she must have flown out by to'raken. She was 
accompanied by a small entourage, for her. A pair of Deathwatch Guards with 
black tassels on their sword hilts held the tentflaps, and more were visible 
outside, stone-faced men in red-and-green. The embodiment of the Empress, might 
she live forever. Even the Blood took note of them. Suroth sailed past as if 
they were as much servants as the lushly bodied da'covale in slippers and a 
nearly transparent white robe, her honey-yellow hair in a multitude of thin 
braids, who carried the High Lady's gilded writing desk a meek two paces behind. 
Suroth's Voice of the Blood, Alwhin, a glowering woman in green robes with the 
left side of her head shaved and the remainder of her pale brown hair in a 
severe braid, followed close on her mistress's heels. As Miraj stepped down from 
the dais, he realized with shock that the second da'covale behind Suroth, short 
and dark-haired and slim in her diaphanous robe, was damane! A damane garbed as 
property was unheard of, but odder still, it was Alwhin who led her by the 
a'dam!
He let none of his amazement show as he went to one knee, murmuring, "The Light 
be upon the High Lady Suroth. All honor to the High Lady Suroth." Everyone else 
prostrated themselves on the canvas groundcloth, eyes down. Miraj was of the 
Blood, if too low to shave the sides of his scalp like Suroth. Only the nails of 
his little fingers were lacquered. Much too low to register surprise if a High 
Lady allowed her Voice to continue acting as ml'dam after being raised to the 
so'jhin. Strange times in a strange land, where the Dragon Reborn walked and 
marath'damane ran wild to kill and enslave where they would.
Suroth barely glanced at him before turning to study the map table, and if her 
black eyes tightened at what she saw, she had cause. Under her, the Hailene had 
done far more than had been dreamed, reclaiming great stretches of the stolen 
lands. All they had been sent for was to scout the way, and after Falme, some 
had thought even that impossible. She drummed fingers on the table irritably, 
the long blue-lacquered fingernails on the first two clicking. Continued 
success, and she might be able to shave her head entirely and paint a third nail 
on each hand. Adoption into the Imperial family was not unheard of for 
achievements so great. And if she stepped too far, overstepped, she might find 
her fingernails clipped and herself stuffed into a filmy robe to serve one of 
the Blood, if not sold to a farmer to help till his fields, or sweat in a 
warehouse. At worst, Miraj would only have to open his own veins.
He continued to watch Suroth in patient silence, but he had been a scout 
lieutenant, Morat'raken, before being raised to the Blood, and he could not help 
being aware of everything around him. A scout lived or died by what he saw or 
did not, and so did others. The men lying on their faces around the tent; some 
hardly seemed to breathe. Suroth should have taken him aside and let them 
continue with their work. A messenger was being turned back by the soldiers at 
the entrance. How dire was the message that the woman tried to push past 
Deathwatch Guards?
The da'covale with the writing desk in her arms caught his eye. Scowls flashed 
across her pretty doll's face, never pushed down for more than moments. Property 
showing anger? And there was something else. His gaze flickered to the damane, 
who stood with her head down but still looked around with curiosity. Brown-eyed 
da'covale and pale-eyed damane looked about as different as two women could, yet 
there was something about them. Something in their faces. Strange. He could not 
have said how old either was. Quick as his glance was, Alwhin noticed. With a 
twitch of the a'dam's silvery leash she put the damane facedown on the 
groundcloth. Snapping her fingers, she pointed to the canvas with the hand not 
encumbered by the a'dam's bracelet, then grimaced when the honey-haired 
da'covale did not move. "Down, Liandrin!" she hissed almost under her breath. 
With a glare for Alwhin  --  a glare!  --  the da'covale sank to her knees, features 
painted with sulkiness.
Most strange. But hardly important. Face impassive, and otherwise bursting with 
impatience, he waited. Impatience and no little discomfort. He had been raised 
to the Blood after riding fifty miles in a single night with three arrows in him 
to bring word of a rebel army marching on Seandar itself, and his back still 
pained him.
Finally, Suroth turned from the map table. She did not give him leave to rise, 
much less embrace him as one of the Blood. Not that he had expected that. He was 
far beneath her. "You are ready to march?" she demanded curtly. At least she did 
not speak to him through her Voice. Before so many of his officers, the shame 
would have put his eyes on the ground for months if not years.
"I will be, Suroth," he replied calmly, meeting her gaze. He was of the Blood, 
however low. "They cannot combine in fewer than ten days, with at least another 
ten before they can exit the mountains. Well before then, I  --  "
"They could be here tomorrow," she snapped. "Today! If they come, Miraj, they 
will come by the ancient art of Traveling, and it seems very possible that they 
will come."
He heard men shifting on their bellies before they could restrain themselves. 
Suroth lost control of her emotions and babbled of legends? "Are you certain?" 
The words popped out of his mouth before he could stop them.
He had only thought she had lost control before. Her eyes blazed. She gripped 
the edges of her flower-worked robe, white-knuckled, and her hands shook. "Do 
you question me?" she snarled incredulously. "Suffice it that I have my sources 
of information." And was furious with them as much as with him, he realized. "If 
they come, there will be perhaps as many as fifty of these grandly named 
Asha'man, but no more than five or six thousand soldiers. It seems there have 
been no more since the beginning, whatever the fliers say."
Miraj nodded slowly. Five thousand men, moved about in some way with the One 
Power, would explain a great deal. What were her sources, that she knew numbers 
so precisely? He was not fool enough to ask. She certainly had Listeners and 
Seekers in her service. Watching her, too. Fifty Asha'man. The very idea of a 
man channeling made him want to spit in disgust. Rumor claimed they were being 
gathered from every nation by the Dragon Reborn, this Rand al'Thor, but he had 
never expected there could be so many. The Dragon Reborn could channel, it was 
said. That might be true, but he was the Dragon Reborn.
The Prophecies of the Dragon had been known in Seanchan even before Luthair 
Paendrag began the Consolidation. In corrupted form, it was said, much different 
from the pure version Luthair Paendrag brought. Miraj had seen several volumes 
of The Karaethon Cycle printed in these lands, and they were corrupted too  --  not 
one mentioned him serving the Crystal Throne!  --  but the Prophecies held men's 
minds and hearts still. More than a few hoped the Return came soon, that these 
lands could be reclaimed before Tarmon Gai'don so the Dragon Reborn could win 
the Last Battle for the glory of the Empress, might she live forever. The 
Empress surely would want al'Thor sent to her, so she could see what sort of man 
served her. There would be no difficulty with al'Thor once he had knelt to her. 
Few easily shook off the awe they felt, kneeling before the Crystal Throne, with 
the thirst to obey drying their tongues. But it seemed obvious that bundling the 
fellow onto a ship would be easier if disposing of the Asha'man  --  they had to be 
disposed of, certainly  --  waited until al'Thor was well on his way across the 
Aryth Ocean to Seandar.
Which brought him back to the problem he had been trying to avoid, he realized 
with an inward start. He was not a man to shy from difficulties, much less 
ignore them blindly, but this was different from any he had faced before. He had 
fought in two dozen battles with damane used on both sides; he knew the way of 
them. It was not only a matter of striking out with the Power. Experienced 
sul'dam could somehow see what damane or marath'damane did and damane would tell 
the others, so they could defend as well. Could sul'dam see what a man did, too? 
Worse . . . 
"You will release the sul'dam and damane to me?" he said. Taking a deep breath 
in spite of himself, he added, "If they're still sick, it will be a short fight 
and bloody. On our side."
Which produced another stir among the men waiting on their faces. Every second 
rumor in the camp was about what illness had confined the sul'dam and damane to 
their tents. Alwhin reacted quite openly, most improper in a so'jhin, with a 
furious glare. The damane flinched again, and began to shiver where she lay. 
Oddly, the honey-haired da'covale flinched, as well.
Smiling, Suroth glided to where the da'covale knelt. Why would she smile at a 
poorly trained serving girl? She began stroking the kneeling woman's thin 
braids, and a sullen pout appeared on that rosebud mouth. A former noblewoman of 
these lands? Suroth's first words supported that, though obviously meant for 
him. "Small failures bring small costs; great failures bring painfully great 
costs. You will have the damane you require, Miraj. And you will teach these 
Asha'man they should have remained in the north. You will wipe them from the 
face of the earth, the Asha'man, the soldiers, all of them. To the man. Miraj. I 
have spoken."
"It will be as you say, Suroth," he replied. "They will be destroyed. To the 
man." There was nothing else he could say, now. He wished, though, that she had 
given him an answer about whether the sul'dam and damane were still sick.
 
Rand reined Tai'daishar around near the crest of the bare, stony hill to watch 
most of his small army spilling out of other holes in the air. He held hard to 
the True Source, so hard it seemed to tremble in his grasp. With the Power in 
him, the sharp points of the Crown of Swords pricking his temples felt at once 
keener than ever and utterly removed, the midmorning chill both colder and 
beneath notice. The never-healing wounds in his side were a dull and distant 
ache. Lews Therin seemed to be panting in uncertainty. Or perhaps fear. Maybe 
after coming so close to death the day before, he did not want so much to die 
anymore. But then, he did not always want to die. The only constant in the man 
was the desire to kill. Which just happened to include killing himself, often 
enough.
There'll be killing enough for anybody, soon, Rand thought. Light, the last six 
days were enough to sicken a vulture. Had it only been six days? The disgust did 
not touch him, though. He would not let it. Lews Therin did not answer. Yes. It 
was a time for iron hearts. And iron stomachs, too. He bent a moment to touch 
the long cloth-wrapped package under his stirrup leather. No. Not time, yet. 
Maybe not at all. Uncertainty shimmered across the Void, and maybe something 
else. Not at all, he hoped. Uncertainty, yes, but the other had not been fear. 
It had not!
Half the surrounding low hills were covered with squat, gnarled olive trees, 
dappled by the sunlight, where lancers already rode along the rows to make sure 
they were clear. There was no sign of workers in those orchards, no farmhouse, 
no structure of any kind in sight. A few miles to the west, the hills were 
darker, forested. Legionmen, emerging in trotting files below Rand, formed up, 
trailed by a ragged square of Illianer volunteers, now enlisted into the Legion. 
As soon as their ranks were aligned, they marched out of the way to make room 
for Defenders and Companions. The ground seemed mostly clay, and boots and 
hooves alike skidded in the thin skim of mud. For a wonder, though, only a few 
clouds hung in the sky, white and clean. The sun was a pale yellow ball. And 
nothing flew up there larger than a sparrow.
Dashiva and Flinn were among the men holding gateways, as were Adley and Hopwil, 
Morr and Narishma. Some of the gateways lay out of Rand's sight behind the 
folded hills. He wanted everyone through as quickly as possible, and except for 
a few Soldiers scanning the sky, every man in a black coat who was not already 
out scouting held a weave. Even Gedwyn and Rochaid, though both grimaced over 
it, at each other and in his direction. Rand thought them no longer used to 
doing anything so common as holding a gateway for others to use.
Bashere cantered up the slope, very much at ease with himself, and with his 
short bay. His cloak was flung back despite the morning's coolness, not so cold 
as the mountains, but still wintery. He nodded casually to Anaiyella and Ailil, 
who gave bleak stares in return. Bashere smiled through those thick mustaches, 
like down-curving horns, a not entirely pleasant smile. He had as many doubts of 
the women as Rand did. The women knew, about Bashere's reservations at least. 
Turning her head quickly from the Saldaean, Anaiyella returned to stroking her 
gelding's mane; Ailil held her reins too rigidly.
That pair had not strayed far from Rand since the incident on the ridge, even 
having their tents pitched in earshot of his the night before. On a brown-grass 
hillside opposite, Denharad shifted to study the two noblewomen's retainers, 
arrayed together behind him, then quickly returned to watching Rand. Very likely 
he watched Ailil, and maybe Anaiyella as well, but he watched Rand without 
doubt. Rand was unsure whether they still feared to take the blame if he was 
killed or simply wanted to see it happen. The one thing he was certain of was 
that if they did want him dead, he would give them no opportunity.
Who knows a woman's heart? Lews Therin chuckled wryly. He sounded in one of his 
saner moods. Most women will shrug off what a man would kill you for, and kill 
you for what a man would shrug off. Rand ignored him. The last gateway in Rand's 
sight winked out. The Asha'man mounting their horses were too far for him to say 
for sure whether any still held on to saidin, but it did not matter so long as 
he did. Clumsy Dashiva tried to mount quickly and nearly fell off twice before 
successfully reaching his saddle. Most of the black-coated men in view began 
riding north or south.
The rest of the nobles gathered quickly with Bashere on the slope just below 
Rand, the highest ranking and those with the most power in front after a little 
jostling here and there, where precedence remained uncertain. Tihera and 
Marcolin kept their horses on the fringes, on opposite sides of the mass of 
nobles, faces carefully blank; they might be asked for advice, but both knew the 
final decisions rested with others. Weiramon opened his mouth with a grand 
gesture, doubtless to begin another splendid peroration on the glories of 
following the Dragon Reborn. Sunamon and Torean, accustomed to his speeches and 
powerful enough to take no care around him, reined their horses together and 
began talking quietly. Sunamon's face wore an unaccustomed hardness, and Torean 
seemed ready to squabble over a boundary line despite the red satin stripes on 
his coatsleeves. Square-jawed Bertome and some of the other Cairhienin were not 
quiet at all, laughing at each other's jokes. Everyone had had a bellyful of 
Weiramon's grand declamations. Though Semaradrid's scowl deepened every time he 
looked at Ailil and Anaiyella  --  he did not like them remaining close to Rand, 
especially his countrywoman  --  so perhaps his sourness had more root than 
Weiramon's windiness.
"About ten miles from us," Rand said loudly, "a good fifty thousand men are 
preparing to march." They were aware of that, but it pulled every eye to him and 
silenced every tongue. Weiramon's mouth snapped shut sourly; the fellow did love 
to hear himself talk. Gueyam and Maraconn, tugging at sharp oiled beards, smiled 
in anticipation, the fools. Semaradrid looked like a man who had eaten an entire 
bowl of bad plums; Gregorin and the three lords of the Nine with him merely wore 
grim determination on their faces. Not fools. "The scouts saw no signs of 
sul'dam or damane" Rand went on, "but even without them, even with Asha'man, 
that's enough to kill a lot of us if anybody forgets the plan. No one will 
forget, though, I'm sure." No charges without orders, this time. He had made 
that clear as glass, and hard as stone. No haring off because you thought maybe 
you just might have seen something, either.
Weiramon smiled, managing to put as much oil into it as Sunamon ever could.
It was a simple plan, in its way. They would advance west in five columns, each 
with Asha'man, and attempt to fall on the Seanchan from every side at once. Or 
as close to all sides as could be managed. Simple plans were best, Bashere 
insisted. If you won't be satisfied with a whole litter of fat piglets, he had 
muttered, if you have to rush into the woods to find the old sow, then don't get 
too fancy, or she'll gut you.
No plan of battle survives first contact, Lews Therin said in Rand's head. For a 
moment, he still seemed lucid. For a moment. Something is wrong, he growled 
suddenly. His voice began to gain intensity, and drift into wild disbelieving 
laughter. It can't be wrong, but it is. Something strange, something wrong, 
skittering, jumping, twitching. His cackles turned to weeping. It can't be! I 
must be mad! And he vanished before Rand could mute him. Burn him, there was 
nothing wrong with the plan, or Bashere would have been on it like a duck on a 
beetle.
Lews Therin was mad, no doubt of it. But so long as Rand al'Thor remained sane . 
. . A bitter joke on the world, if the Dragon Reborn went mad before the Last 
Battle even began. "Take your places," he commanded with a wave of the Dragon 
Scepter. He had to fight down the urge to laugh at that joke.
The large clump of nobles broke apart at his order, milling and muttering as 
they sorted themselves out. Few liked the way Rand had divided them up. Whatever 
breaking down of barriers had occurred in the shock of the first fight in the 
mountains, they had sprung up again almost immediately.
Weiramon frowned over his undelivered speech, but after an elaborate bow that 
thrust his beard at Rand like a spear he rode north over the hills followed by 
Kiril Drapeneos, Bertome, Doressin, and several minor Cairhienin lords, every 
last one of them stony-faced at a Tairen being placed over them. Gedwyn rode by 
Weiramon's side almost as if he were the one leading, and got dark scowls for it 
that he affected not to notice. The other groupings were as mixed. Gregorin also 
headed north, with a sullen Sunamon trying to pretend he was heading in the same 
direction by happenstance, and Dalthanes leading lesser Cairhienin behind. 
Jeordwyn Semaris, another of the Nine, followed Bashere south with Amondrid and 
Gueyam. Those three had accepted the Saldaean almost eagerly for the simple 
reason that he was not Tairen, or Cairhienin, or Illianer, depending on the man. 
Rochaid seemed to be trying the same with Bashere that Gedwyn was with Weiramon, 
but Bashere appeared to ignore it. A little way from Bashere's party, Torean and 
Maraconn rode with their heads together, likely venting spleen at having 
Semaradrid placed over them. For that matter, Ershin Netari kept glancing toward 
Jeordwyn, and standing in his stirrups to look back toward Gregorin and Kiril, 
though it was improbable he could see them any longer past the hills. 
Semaradrid, his back iron-rod straight, looked as unflappable as Bashere.
It was the same principle Rand had used all along. He trusted Bashere, and he 
thought he might be able to trust Gregorin, and none of the others could dare 
think of turning against him with so many outlanders around him, so many old 
enemies and so few friends. Rand laughed softly, watching them all ride off from 
his hillside. They would fight for him, and fight well, because they had no 
other choice. Any more than he had.
Madness, Lews Therin hissed. Rand shoved the voice away angrily.
He was hardly alone, of course. Tihera and Marcolin had most of the Defenders 
and Companions mounted in ranks among the olive trees on hills flanking the one 
where he sat his horse. The rest were out as a screen against surprise. A 
company of blue-coated Legionmen waited patiently in the hollow below under 
Masond's eye, and at their rear, as many men in what they had worn surrendering 
on the heath back in Illian. They were trying to emulate the Legionmen's calm  --  
the other Legionmen, now  --  trying without a great deal of success.
Rand glanced at Ailil and Anaiyella. The Tairen woman gave him a simpering 
smile, but it faltered weakly. The Cairhienin woman's face was frost. He could 
not forget them, or Denharad and their armsmen. His column, in the center, would 
be the largest, and the strongest by a fair margin. A very fair margin.
Flinn and the men Rand had chosen out after Dumai's Wells rode up the hill 
toward him. The balding old man always led, though all save Adley and Narishma 
now wore the Dragon as well as the Sword, and Dashiva had worn it first. In part 
it was because the younger men deferred to Flinn, with his long experience as a 
bannerman in the Andoran Queen's Guards. In part it was because Dashiva did not 
seem to care. He only appeared amused by the others. When he could spare time 
from talking to himself, that was. Most often, he hardly seemed aware of 
anything past his own nose.
For that reason, it was something of a shock when Dashiva awkwardly booted his 
slab-sided mount ahead of the rest. That plain face, so often vague or bemused 
with the fellow's own thoughts, was fixed in a worried frown. It was more than 
something of a shock when he seized saidin as soon as he reached Rand and wove a 
barrier around them against eavesdropping. Lews Therin did not waste breath  --  if 
a disembodied voice had breath  --  on mutters about killing; he lurched for the 
Source snarling wordlessly, tried to claw the Power away from Rand. And just as 
abruptly fell silent and vanished. 
"There's something askew with saidin here, something amiss," Dashiva said, 
sounding not at all vague. In fact, he sounded . . . precise. And testy. A 
teacher lecturing a particularly dense pupil. He even stabbed a finger at Rand. 
"I don't know what it is. Nothing can twist saidin, and if it could be twisted, 
we'd have felt it back in the mountains. Well, there was something there, 
yesterday, but so small . . . I feel it clearly here, though. Saidin is . . . 
eager. I know; I know. Saidin is not alive. But it . . . pulses, here. It is 
difficult to control."
Rand forced his hand to loosen its grip on the Dragon Scepter. He had always 
been sure Dashiva was nearly as mad as Lews Therin himself. Usually the man 
maintained a better hold on himself, though, however precariously. "I've been 
channeling longer than you, Dashiva. You're just feeling the taint more." He 
could not soften his tone. Light, he could not go mad yet, and neither could 
they! "Get to your place. We'll be moving soon." The scouts had to return soon. 
Even in this flatter country, even limited to no further than they could see, 
ten miles would not take long to cover, Traveling.
Dashiva made no move to obey. Instead, he opened his mouth angrily, then snapped 
it shut. Shaking visibly, he drew a deep breath. "I am well aware how long you 
have channeled," he said in an icy, almost contemptuous voice, "but surely even 
you can feel it. Feel, man! I don't like 'strange' applied to saidin, and I 
don't want to die or . . . or be burned out because you're blind! Look at my 
ward! Look at it!"
Rand stared. Dashiva pushing himself forward was peculiar enough, but Dashiva in 
a temper? And then he did look at the ward. Really look. The flows should have 
been as steady as the threads in tight-woven canvas. They vibrated. The ward 
stood solid as it should be, but the individual threads of the Power shimmered 
with faint movement. Morr had said saidin was strange near Ebou Dar, and for a 
hundred miles around. They were closer than a hundred miles, now.
Rand made himself feel saidin. He was always aware of the Power  --  anything else 
meant death or worse  --  yet he had become used to the struggle. He fought for 
life, but the fight had become as natural as life. The struggle was life. He 
made himself feel that battle, his life. Cold to make stone shatter into dust. 
Fire to make stone flash to vapor. Filth to make a rotten cesspit smell a garden 
in full flower. And . . . a pulsing, like something quivering in his fist. This 
was not the sort of throbbing he had felt in Shadar Logoth, when the taint on 
saidin had resonated with the evil of that place, and saidin had pulsed with it. 
The vileness was strong, but steady here. It was saidin itself that seemed full 
of currents and surges. Eager, Dashiva called it, and Rand could see why.
Down the slope, behind Flinn, Morr scrubbed a hand through his hair and looked 
around uneasily. Flinn alternated shifting on his saddle and easing his sword in 
its scabbard. Narishma, watching the sky for flying creatures, blinked too 
often. A muscle twitched in Adley's cheek. Every one of them displayed some sign 
of nervousness, and little wonder. Relief welled up in Rand. Not madness after 
all.
Dashiva smiled, a twisted self-satisfied smile. "I cannot believe you didn't 
notice before." There was very close to a sneer in his voice. "You've been 
holding saidin practically day and night since we began this mad expedition. 
This is a simple ward, but it did not want to form, then it snapped together 
like pulling out of my hands."
The silver-blue slash of a gateway rotated open atop one of the bare hills, half 
a mile to the west, and a Soldier pulled his horse through and mounted 
hurriedly, returning from the scout. Even at a distance, Rand could make out the 
faint shimmer of the weaves surrounding the gateway before they vanished. The 
rider had not reached the bottom of the hill before another gateway opened on 
the crest, and then a third, a fourth, more, one after another, almost as fast 
as the preceding man could get out of the way.
"But it did form," Rand said. So had the scouts' gateways. "If saidin is hard to 
control, it's always hard, and it still does what you want." But why more 
difficult here? A question for another time. Light, he wished Herid Pel were 
still alive; the old philosopher might have had an answer. "Get back with the 
others, Dashiva," he ordered, but the man stared at him in astonishment, and he 
had to repeat himself before the fellow let the ward vanish, jerked his horse 
around without a salute and thumped the animal back down the slope with his 
heels.
"Some trouble, my Lord Dragon?" Anaiyella simpered. Ailil merely looked at Rand 
with flat eyes.
Seeing the first scout on the way toward Rand, the others fanned off to north 
and south, where they would join one of the other columns. Finding them the 
old-fashioned way would be faster than casting about with gateways. Drawing rein 
in front of Rand, Nalaam slapped fist to chest  --  did he look a bit wild-eyed? No 
matter. Saidin still did what the man wielding it made it do. Nalaam saluted and 
gave his report. The Seanchan were not encamped ten miles away, they were no 
more than five or six distant, marching east. And they had sul'dam and damane by 
the score.
Rand issued his orders as Nalaam galloped away, and his column began moving 
west. The Defenders and the Companions rode on either flank. The Legionmen 
marched at the rear, just behind Denharad. A reminder to the noblewomen, and 
their armsmen, if they needed one. Anaiyella certainly looked over her shoulder 
often enough, and Ailil's refusal to was pointed. Rand formed the main thrust of 
the column, Rand and Flinn and the others, just as it would be with the other 
columns. Asha'man to strike, and men with steel to guard their backs while they 
killed. The sun still had a long way to climb before midday. Nothing had changed 
to alter the plan.
Madness waits for some, Lews Therin whispered. It creeps up on others.
 
Miraj rode near the head of his army marching east along a muddy road that wound 
through hilly olive groves and patchy forest. Not at the head. A full regiment, 
most Seanchan, rode between him and the forward scouts. He had known generals 
who wanted to be at the very front. Most were dead. Most had lost the battles 
they died in. Mud kept down dust, yet word of an army on the move ran like 
wildfire on the Sa'las Plains, whatever the land. Here and there among the olive 
trees he spotted an overturned wheelbarrow or an abandoned pruning hook, but the 
workers had vanished long since. Luckily, they would avoid his opponents as much 
as they did him. With luck, lacking raken, his opponents would not know he was 
on them until it was too late. Kennar Miraj did not like trusting to luck.
Aside from under-officers ready to produce maps or copy orders and messengers 
ready to carry them, he rode accompanied only by Abaldar Yulan, small enough to 
make his quite ordinary brown gelding seem immense, a fiery man with the nails 
of his little fingers painted green who wore a black wig to conceal his 
baldness, and Lisaine Jarath, a gray-haired woman from Seandar itself, whose 
pale plump face and blue eyes were a study in serenity. Yulan was not calm; 
Miraj's coal-dark Captain of the Air often wore a scowl for the rules that 
seldom let him touch the reins of a raken anymore, but today his frown went bone 
deep. The sky was clear, perfect weather for raken, but by Suroth's command, 
none of his fliers would be in the saddle today, not here. There were too few 
raken with the Hailene to risk them unnecessarily. Lisaine's calm troubled Miraj 
more. More than the senior der'sul'dam under his command, she was a friend with 
whom he had shared many a cup of kaf and many a game of stones. An animated 
woman, always bubbling over with enthusiasms and amusement. And she was icy 
calm, as silent as any sul'dam he had tried to question.
Within his sight were twenty damane flanking the horsemen, each walking beside 
her sul'dam's mount. The sul'dam bobbed in their saddles, bending to pat a 
damane's head, straightening only to bend again to stroke her hair. The damane 
looked steady enough to his eye, but plainly the sul'dam were on razor's edge. 
And ebullient Lisaine rode silent as a stone.
A torm appeared ahead, racing down the column. Well off to the side, on the edge 
of the groves, yet horses whickered and shied as the bronze-scaled creature 
flowed past. A trained torm would not attack horses  --  at least not unless the 
killing frenzy overtook it, the reason torm were no good in battle  --  but horses 
trained to be calm around torm were in as short supply as torm themselves.
Miraj sent a skinny under-lieutenant named Varek to fetch the Morat'torm's 
scouting report. Afoot, and the Light consume whether Varek lost sei'taer. He 
would not waste time on Varek trying to control a mount acquired locally. The 
man returned faster than he went and made a crisp bow, beginning his report 
before his back was straight again.
"The enemy is less than five miles due east, my Lord Captain-General, marching 
in our direction. They are deployed in five columns spaced approximately one 
mile apart."
So much for luck. But Miraj had considered how he would attack forty thousand 
with only five himself, and fifty damane. Quickly men were galloping with orders 
to deploy to meet an attempted envelopment, and the regiments behind him began 
turning into the groves, sul'dam riding among them with their damane.
Gathering his cloak against a sudden cold wind, Miraj noticed something that 
made him feel colder still. Lisaine was watching the sul'dam vanish into the 
trees, too. And she had begun to sweat.
 
Bertome rode easily, letting the wind stream his cloak to one side, but he 
studied the forested country ahead with a wariness he barely attempted to 
conceal. Of his four countrymen at his back, only Doressin was truly skilled in 
the Game of Houses. That fool Tairen dog Weiramon was blind, of course. Bertome 
glared at the puffed-up buffoon's back. Weiramon rode well ahead of the rest in 
deep conversation with Gedwyn, and if Bertome needed any further proof that the 
Tairen would smile at what gagged a goat, it was how he tolerated that hot-eyed 
young monster. He noticed Kiril glancing sideways at him, and reined his gray 
further from the towering man. He had no particular enmity toward the Illianer, 
but he did hate people looming over him. He could not wait to return to 
Cairhien, where he did not have to be surrounded by ungainly giants. Kiril 
Drapeneos was not blind, though, however over-tall. He had sent a dozen scouts 
forward, too. Weiramon had sent one.
"Doressin," Bertome said softly, then, a little louder, "Doressin, you lump!"
The bony man gave a start in his saddle. Like Bertome, like the other three, he 
had shaved and powdered the front of his head; the style of marking yourself 
like a soldier had become quite fashionable. Doressin should have called him a 
toad in return, the way they had since boyhood, but instead he heeled his 
gelding up beside Bertome's and leaned close. He was worried, and letting it 
show, his forehead furrowed deeply. "You realize the Lord Dragon means us to 
die?" he whispered, glancing at the column trailing behind them. "Blood and 
fire, I only listened to Colavaere, but I have known I was a dead man since he 
killed her."
For a moment, Bertome eyed the column of armsmen, snaking back through the 
rolling hills. The trees were more scattered here than ahead, but still enough 
to shield an attack until it was right on top of you. The last olive grove lay 
nearly a mile behind. Weiramon's men rode at the fore, of course, in those 
ridiculous coats with their fat white-striped sleeves, and then Kiril's 
Illianers in enough green and red to shame Tinkers. His own people, decently 
clad in dark blue beneath their breastplates, were still beyond his sight with 
Doressin's and the others', ahead only of the company of Legionmen. Weiramon had 
seemed surprised that the foot kept up, though he had hardly set a difficult 
pace.
It was not really the armsmen Bertome glanced at, though. Seven men rode before 
even Weiramon's, seven men with hard faces and death-cold eyes, in black coats. 
One wore a pin in the shape of a silver sword on his tall collar.
"An elaborate way to go about it," he told Doressin dryly. "And I doubt al'Thor 
would have sent those fellows with us, if we were just being fed into a sausage 
grinder." Forehead still creased, Doressin opened his mouth again, but Bertome 
said, "I need to talk to the Tairen." He disliked seeing his childhood friend 
this way. Al'Thor had unhinged him.
Absorbed in one another, Weiramon and Gedwyn did not hear him riding up on them. 
Gedwyn was idly playing with his reins, his features cold with contempt. The 
Tairen was red-faced. "I don't care who you are," he was saying to the 
black-coated man in a low, hard voice, spittle flying, "I won't take more risk 
without a command direct from the lips of  --  "
Abruptly the pair became aware of Bertome, and Weiramon's mouth snapped shut. He 
glared as if he wanted to kill Bertome. The Asha'man's ever-present smile melted 
away. The wind gusted, cold and sharp as clouds drifted across the sun, but no 
colder than Gedwyn's sudden stare. With a small shock Bertome realized the man 
also wanted to strike him dead on the spot.
Gedwyn's icily murderous gaze did not change, but Weiramon's face underwent a 
remarkable transformation. The red faded slowly as he produced a smile in an 
instant, an oily smile with only a trace of mocking condescension. "I've been 
thinking about you, Bertome," he said heartily. "A pity al'Thor strangled your 
cousin. With his own hands, I hear. Frankly, I was surprised you came when he 
called. I've seen him watching you. I fear he plans something more . . . 
interesting . . . for you than thrashing your heels on the floor while his 
fingers tighten on your throat." Bertome suppressed a sigh, and not only at the 
fool's clumsiness. A good many thought to manipulate him with Colavaere's death. 
She had been his favorite cousin, but ambitious beyond reason. Saighan had good 
claims to the Sun Throne, yet she could not have held it against the strength of 
Riatin or Damodred either one, let alone both together, not without the open 
blessings of the White Tower or the Dragon Reborn. Still, she bad been his 
favorite. What did Weiramon want? Certainly not what it seemed on the surface. 
Even this Tairen oaf was not that simple.
Before he could frame any response, a horseman came galloping toward them 
through the trees ahead. A Cairhienin, and as he reined to a sudden halt in 
front of them, that made his horse sit back on its haunches, Bertome recognized 
one of his own arms-men, a gap-toothed fellow with seamed scars on both cheeks. 
Doile, he thought. From the Colchaine estates.
"My Lord Bertome," the fellow panted, bowing hastily. "There are two thousand 
Taraboners hard on my heels. And women with them! With lightning on their 
dresses!"
"Hard on his heels," Weiramon murmured disparagingly. "We'll see what my man has 
to say when he gets back. I certainly don't see any  -- !"
Sudden whoops in the near distance ahead cut him off, and the thunder of hooves, 
and then quickly galloping lancers appeared, a flowing tide spreading through 
the trees. Straight toward Bertome and the others.
Weiramon laughed. "Kill whoever you wish, wherever you wish, Gedwyn," he said, 
drawing sword with a flourish. "I use the methods I use, and that's that!" 
Racing back toward his arms-men, he waved the blade over his head shouting, 
"Saniago! Saniago and glory!" It was no surprise he did not add a shout for his 
country to those for his House and his greatest love.
Spurring in the same direction, Bertome raised his own voice. "Saighan and 
Cairhien!" No need for sword waving yet. "Saighan and Cairhien!" What had the 
man been after?
Thunder rumbled, and Bertome looked to the sky, perplexed. There were few more 
clouds than earlier. No; Doile  --  Dalyn?  --  had mentioned those women. And then he 
forgot all about whatever the fool Tairen wanted as steel-veiled Taraboners 
poured over the wooded hills toward him, the earth blooming fire and the sky 
raining lightning ahead of them.
"Saighan and Cairhien!" he shouted.
The wind rose.
Horsemen clashed amid thick trees and heavy underbrush, where shadows hung 
heavily. The light seemed to be failing, the clouds thickening overhead, but it 
was hard to say with the dense forest canopy for a roof. Booming roars 
half-drowned the ring of steel on steel, the shouts of men, the screams of 
horses. Sometimes the ground shook. Sometimes the enemy raised shouts.
"Den Lushenos! Den Lushenos and the Bees!"
"Annallin! Rally to Annallin!"
"Haellin! Haellin! For the High Lord Sunamon!"
The last was the only cry Varek understood in the least, though he suspected any 
of the locals who named themselves High Lords or Ladies might not be offered the 
chance to swear the Oath.
He jerked his sword free from where he had jammed it into his opponent's armpit, 
just above the breastplate, and let the pale little man topple. A dangerous 
fighter, until he made the mistake of raising his blade too high. The man's bay 
crashed off through the undergrowth, and Varek spared a moment for regret. The 
animal looked better than the white-footed dun he was forced to ride. A moment 
only, and then he was peering through the close-set trees, where it seemed vines 
dangled from half the branches and bunches of some gray, feathery plant from 
nearly all.
Sounds of battle rose from every direction, but at first he could see nothing 
that moved. Then a dozen Altaran lancers appeared at fifty paces, walking their 
horses and peering about carefully, though the way they talked loudly among 
themselves more than justified the red slashes crisscrossing their breastplates. 
Varek gathered his reins, meaning to take them in. An escort, even this 
undisciplined rabble, might be the difference between the urgent message he 
carried reaching Banner-General Chianmai and not. Black streaks flashed from 
among the trees, emptying Altaran saddles. Their horses dashed in every 
direction as the riders fell, and then there were only a dozen corpses sprawled 
on the damp carpet of dead leaves, at least one crossbow bolt jutting from every 
man. Nothing moved. Varek shivered in spite of himself. Those foot in blue coats 
had seemed easy at first, with no pikes to stand behind, but they never came 
into the open, hiding behind trees, in dips in the ground. They were not the 
worst. He had been sure after the frantic retreat to the ships at Falme that he 
had seen the worse he ever could see, the Ever Victorious Army in a rout. Not 
half an hour gone, though, he had seen a hundred Taraboners face one lone man in 
a black coat. A hundred lancers against one, and the Taraboners had been ripped 
to shreds. Literally ripped to shreds, men and horses simply exploding as fast 
he could count; the slaughter had continued after the Taraboners turned to flee, 
went on so long as one of them remained in sight. Perhaps it was really no worse 
than having the ground erupt beneath your feet, but at least damane usually left 
enough of you to be buried.
He had been told by the last man he managed to speak to in these woods, a 
grizzled veteran from home leading a hundred Amadician pikes, that Chianmai was 
in this direction. Ahead, he spotted riderless horses tied to trees, and men 
afoot. Maybe they could give him further direction. And he would give them the 
lash of his tongue for standing about while a battle raged.
When he rode in among them, he forgot tongue-lashings. He had found what he was 
looking for, but not at all what he wanted to find. A dozen badly burned corpses 
lay in a row. One, his honey-brown face untouched, was recognizably Chianmai. 
The men on their feet were all Taraboners, Amadicians, Altarans. Some of them 
were injured, too. The only Seanchan was a tight-faced sul'dam soothing a 
weeping damane.
"What happened here?" Varek demanded. He did not think it was like these 
Asha'man to leave survivors. Maybe the ml'dam had fought him off.
"Madness, my lord." A hulking Taraboner shrugged away the man who was spreading 
ointment down his seared left arm. The sleeve appeared to have been burned away 
clear to the fellow's breastplate, yet despite his burns, he did not grimace. 
His veil of steel mail hung by a corner from his red-plumed conical helmet, 
baring a hard face with thick gray mustaches that nearly hid his mouth, and his 
eyes were insultingly direct. "A group of Illianers, they fell on us without 
warning. At first, all went well. They had none of the blackcoats with them. 
Lord Chianmai, he led us bravely, and the . . . the woman . . . channeled 
lightnings. Then, just as the Illianers broke, the lightnings, they fell among 
us, too." He cut off with a significant look at the sul'dam.
She was on her feet in an instant, shaking her free fist and striding as far 
toward the Taraboner as the leash attached to her other wrist would allow. Her 
damane lay in a weeping heap. "I will not hear this dog's words against my 
Zakai! She is a good damane! A good damane!"
Varek made soothing gestures to the woman. He had seen sul'dam make their 
charges howl for misdeeds, and a few who crippled the recalcitrant, but most 
would bristle even at one of the Blood who cast aspersions on a favorite. This 
Taraboner was not of the Blood, and by the look of the quivering sul'dam, she 
was ready to do murder. Had the man voiced his ridiculous, unspoken charge, 
Varek thought she might have killed him on the spot.
"Prayers for the dead must wait," Varek said bluntly. What he was about to do 
would end with him in the hands of the Seekers, if he failed, but there was not 
a Seanchan left standing here except the sul'dam. "I am assuming command. We 
will disengage and turn south."
"Disengage!" the heavy-shouldered Taraboner barked. "It will take us days to 
disengage! The Illianers, they fight like badgers backed into a corner, the 
Cairhienin like ferrets in a box. The Tairens, they are not so hard as I have 
heard, but there are maybe a dozen of these Asha'man, yes? I do not even know 
where three-quarters of my men are, in this jolly-bag!" Emboldened by his 
example, the others began giving protest, too.
Varek ignored them. And forbore asking what a "jolly-bag" was; looking at the 
tangled forest all around, listening to the clash of battle, the booms of 
explosions and lightnings, he could imagine. "You will gather your men and begin 
pulling back," he said loudly, cutting through their chatter. "Not too fast; you 
will act in unison." Miraj's orders to Chianmai said "with all possible speed"  --  
he had memorized them, in case something happened to the copy in his saddlebags 
 --  "all possible speed," but too much speed in this, and half the men would be 
left behind, chopped to flinders at the enemy's leisure. "Now, move! You fight 
for the Empress, may she live forever!"
That last was the sort of thing you told fresh recruits, but for some reason, 
the listening men jerked as if he had struck them all with his quirt. Bowing 
quickly and deeply, hands on knees, they all but flew to their horses. Strange. 
Now it was up to him to find the Seanchan units. One of those would be commanded 
by someone above him, and he could pass his responsibility.
The sul'dam was on her knees, stroking her still weeping damane's hair and 
crooning softly. "Get her soothed down," he told her. With all possible speed. 
And he thought he had seen a touch of anxiety in Miraj's eyes. What could make 
Kennar Miraj anxious? "I think we will be depending on you sul'dam to the 
south." Now, why would that make the blood drain from her face?
 
Bashere stood just inside the edge of the trees, frowning through his helmet's 
face-bars at what he saw. His bay nuzzled his shoulder. He held his cloak close 
against the wind. More to avoid any motion that would draw eyes than for the 
cold, though that chilled his flesh. It would have been a spring breeze back in 
Saldaea, but months in the southlands had softened him. Shining bright between 
gray clouds that sailed along quickly, the sun still lay a little short of 
midday. And ahead of him. Just because you began a battle facing west did not 
mean you ended it that way. Before him lay a broad pasture where flocks of 
black-and-white goats cropped at the brown grass in desultory fashion just as if 
there was no battle raging all around them. Not that there was any sign of it 
here. For the moment. A man could get himself cut to doll rags crossing that 
meadow. And in the trees, whether forest or olive groves or thickets, you did 
not always see the enemy before you were on top of him, scouts or no scouts.
"If we're going to cross," Gueyam muttered, rubbing a wide hand over his bald 
head, "we should cross. Light's truth, we're wasting time." Amondrid snapped his 
mouth shut; likely, the moon-faced Cairhienin had been about to say much the 
same thing. He would agree with a Tairen when horses climbed trees. Jeordwyn 
Semaris snorted. The man should have grown a beard to hide that narrow jaw. It 
made his head look like a forester's splitting wedge. "I do say go around," he 
muttered. "I've lost enough men to those Light-cursed damane, and . . . " He 
trailed off with an uneasy glance toward Rochaid.
The young Asha'man stood by himself, mouth tight, fingering that Dragon pin on 
his collar. Maybe wondering whether it was worth it, by the look of him. There 
was no knowing air about the boy now, only frowning worry.
Leading Quick by the reins, Bashere strode to the Asha'man and drew him farther 
aside in the trees. Pushed him farther aside. Rochaid scowled, going 
reluctantly. The man was tall enough to loom over Bashere, but Bashere was 
having none of it.
"Can I count on your people next time?" Bashere demanded, jerking a mustache in 
irritation. "No delays?" Rochaid and his fellows seemed to have grown slower and 
slower responding when they found themselves opposite damane.
"I know what I'm about, Bashere," Rochaid snarled. "Aren't we killing enough of 
them for you? As far as I can see, we're about done!"
Bashere nodded slowly. Not in agreement with the last. There were plenty of 
enemy soldiers left, almost anywhere you looked hard enough. But a good many 
were dead. He had patterned his movements on what he had studied of the Trolloc 
Wars, when the forces of the Light seldom came anywhere near the numbers they 
had to face. Slash at the flanks, and run. Slash at the rear, and run. Slash, 
and run, and when the enemy chased after, turn on the ground you had chosen 
beforehand, where the legionmen lay waiting with their crossbows, turn and cut 
at him until it was time to run again. Or until he broke. Already today he had 
broken Taraboners, Amadicians, Altarans and these Seanchan in their strange 
armor. He had seen more enemy dead than in any fight since the Blood Snow. But 
if he had Asha'man, the other side had those damane. A good third of his 
Saldaeans lay dead along the miles behind. Nearly half his force was dead, all 
told, and there were still more Seanchan out there with their cursed women, and 
Taraboners, and Amadicians and Altarans. They just kept coming, more appearing 
as soon as he finished the last. And the Asha'man were growing . . . hesitant.
Swinging into Quick's saddle, he rode back to Jeordwyn and the others. "We go 
around," he ordered, ignoring Jeordwyn's nods as much as he did Gueyam and 
Amondrid's scowls. "Triple scouts out. I mean to push hard, but I don't want to 
trip over a damane." No one laughed.
Rochaid had gathered the other five Asha'man around him, one with a silver sword 
pinned to his collar, the others without. There had been two more with bare 
collars when they started out that morning, but if Asha'man knew how to kill, so 
did damane. Waving his arms angrily, Rochaid appeared to be arguing with them. 
His face was red, theirs blank and stubborn. Bashere just hoped Rochaid could 
keep all of them from deserting. Today had been costly enough without adding 
that sort of man wandering about loose.
A light rain fell. Rand scowled at the thick black clouds gathering the sky, 
already beginning to obscure a pale sun halfway down to the far horizon. Light 
rain now, but it would thicken like those clouds! Irritably he returned to 
studying the land ahead of him. The Crown of Swords pricked his temples. With 
the Power in him, the land was clear as a map despite the weather. Clear enough, 
anyway. Hills sinking away, some covered with thickets or olive trees, others 
bare grass or just stone and weeds. He thought he saw movement at the edge of a 
copse, then again among the rows of an olive orchard on another hill a mile from 
the copse. Thinking was not enough. Dead men lay across the miles behind, dead 
enemies. Dead women, too, he knew, but he had stayed away from anywhere sul'dam 
and damane had died, refused to see their faces. Most thought it was hatred for 
those who killed so many of his followers.
Tai'daishar frisked a few steps on the hilltop before Rand settled him with a 
firm hand and the pressure of his knees. A fine thing if a sul'dam spotted his 
movement. The few trees around him were not enough to hide much. Vaguely, he 
realized he did not recognize a one of them. Tai'daishar tossed his head. Rand 
tucked the Dragon Scepter into his saddlebags, just the carved butt-end sticking 
out, to free both hands in case the gelding was not satisfied. He could have 
taken weariness from the horse with saidin, but he knew no way to make it obey 
with the Power.
He could not see how the gelding retained enough energy. Saidin filled him, 
bubbled in him, but his distantly felt body wanted to sag with weariness. Part 
of that was the sheer amount of the Power he had handled today. Part was the 
strain of fighting saidin to make it do what he wanted. Always, saidin had to be 
conquered, forced, but never before like today. The half-healed, never-healing 
wounds in his left side were agony, the older an auger trying to drill through 
the Void, the newer a blaze of raw flame.
"It was an accident, my Lord Dragon," Adley said suddenly. "I swear it was!"
"Shut up and watch!" Rand told him harshly. Adley's eyes sank to his hands on 
his own reins for a moment, then he raked damp hair out of his face and jerked 
his head up obediently.
Today, here, controlling saidin was harder than ever, but letting it slip 
anytime, anywhere, could kill you. Adley had let it slip, and men had died in 
uncontrolled bursts of fire, not just the Amadicians he had been aiming at, but 
near thirty of Ailil's arms-men and almost as many of Anaiyella's.
Except for his slip, Adley would have been with Morr, with the Companions in the 
woods half a mile to the south. Narishma and Hopwil were with the Defenders, to 
the north. Rand wanted Adley under his eye. Had any other "accidents" happened, 
out of his sight? He could not watch everyone, all the time. Flinn's face was 
grim as day-old death, and Dashiva, far from looking vague, seemed on the point 
of sweating with concentration. He still muttered to himself under his breath, 
so low Rand could not hear even with the Power in him, but the man mopped rain 
from his face continually with a sodden lace-edged linen handkerchief that had 
grown more than grimy as the day wore on. Rand did not think they had slipped. 
In any case, neither they nor Adley held the Power now. Nor would until he 
instructed them to seize it.
"Is it done?" Anaiyella asked behind him.
Heedless of who might be watching out there, Rand wheeled Tai'daishar around to 
face her. The Taken woman started back in her saddle, the hood of her richly 
elaborate rain cape falling to her shoulders. Her cheek gave a twitch. Her eyes 
might have been full of fear, or hate. At her side, Ailil fingered her reins 
calmly with red-gloved hands.
"What more can you want?" the smaller woman asked in a cool voice. A lady being 
polite to a menial. Barely. "If the size of a victory is accounted by dead 
enemies, I think today alone will put your name in the histories."
"I mean to drive the Seanchan into the sea!" Rand snapped. Light, he had to 
finish them now, when he had the chance! He could not fight the Seanchan and the 
Forsaken and the Light alone knew who or what else, all at the same time! "I did 
it before, and I will again!"
Do you have the Horn of Valere hidden in your pocket this time? Lews Therin 
asked slyly. Rand snarled at him silently.
"There's someone below," Flinn said suddenly. "Riding up this way. From the 
west."
Rand pulled his mount back around. Legionmen ringed the slopes of the hill, 
though they hid well enough that he seldom caught sight of a blue coat. None of 
them had a horse. Who would be riding . . . 
Bashere's bay trotted up the slope almost as though it were level ground. 
Bashere's helmet hung from his saddle, and the man himself looked tired. Without 
preamble, he spoke in a flat voice. "We're finished, here. Part of fighting is 
knowing when to go, and it's time. I've left five hundred dead behind, near 
enough, and two of your Soldiers for salt. I sent three more to find Semaradrid, 
Gregorin and Weiramon and tell them to rally on you. I doubt they're in any 
better condition than I am. How does your butcher's bill run?"
Rand ignored the question. His own dead topped Bashere's by close to two 
hundred. "You had no right sending orders to the others. So long as there are 
half a dozen Asha'man left  --  so long as there's me!  --  I have enough! I mean to 
find the rest of the Seanchan army and destroy it, Bashere. I won't let them add 
Altara to Tarabon and Amadicia."
Bashere knuckled his thick mustaches with a wry laugh. "You want to find them. 
Look out there." He swept a gauntleted hand across the hills to the west. "I 
can't point to a particular spot, but there are ten, maybe fifteen thousand 
close enough to see from here, if those trees weren't in the way. I danced with 
the Dark One getting through them unseen to reach you. Maybe a hundred damane 
down there. Maybe more. More coming, for sure, and more men. Seems their general 
has decided to concentrate on you. I suppose it isn't always cheese and ale 
being ta'veren."
"If they're out there . . . " Rand scanned the hills. The rain fell more 
heavily. Where had he seen movement? Light, he was tired. Saidin hammered at 
him. Unconsciously he touched the wrapped bundled beneath his stirrup leather. 
His hand jerked away of its own accord. Ten thousand, even fifteen . . . Once 
Semaradrid reached him, and Gregorin, and Weiramon . . . More important, once 
the rest of the Asha'man did . . . "If they're out there, that's where I'll 
destroy them, Bashere. I'll hit them from all sides, the way we intended in the 
first place."
Frowning, Bashere reined his horse closer, until his knee almost touched Rand's. 
Flinn moved his mount away, but Adley was too focused on staring through the 
rain to notice anything so near, and Dashiva, still wiping his face incessantly, 
stared with open interest. Bashere lowered his voice to a murmur. "You aren't 
thinking straight. That was a good plan, in the beginning, but their general 
thinks fast. He spread out to blunt our attacks before we could fall on him 
spread out marching. We've cost him even so, it seems, and he now he's pulling 
everything together. You won't catch him by surprise. He wants us to come at 
him. He's out there waiting for it. Asha'man or no Asha'man, if we stand 
nose-to-nose with this fellow, I think maybe the vultures grow fat and nobody 
rides away."
"Nobody stands nose-to-nose with the Dragon Reborn," Rand growled. "The Forsaken 
could tell him that, whoever he is. Right, Flinn? Dashiva?" Flinn nodded 
uncertainly. Dashiva flinched. "You think I can't surprise him, Bashere? Watch!" 
Pulling the long bundle loose, he stripped away the cloth covering, and Rand 
heard gasps as raindrops glistened on a sword seemingly made of crystal. The 
Sword That Is Not a Sword. "Let's see if he's surprised by Callandor in the 
hands of the Dragon Reborn, Bashere."
Cradling the translucent blade in the crook of his elbow, Rand rode Tai'daishar 
forward a few steps. There was no reason to. He had no clearer view from there. 
Except . . . Something spidered across the outer surface of the Void, a 
wriggling black web. He was afraid. The last time he had used Callandor, really 
used it, he had tried to bring the dead back to life. He had been sure he could 
do anything, then, anything at all. Like a madman thinking he could fly. But he 
was the Dragon Reborn. He could do anything. Had he not proved it time and 
again? He reached for the Source through the Sword That Is Not a Sword.
Saidin seemed to leap into Callandor before he touched the Source through it. 
From pommel to point, the crystal sword shone with a white light. He had only 
thought the Power filled him before. Now he held more than ten men could have 
unaided, a hundred, he did not know how many. The fires of the sun, searing 
through his head. The cold of all of the winters of all the Ages, eating into 
his heart. In that torrent, the taint was all the midden heaps in the world 
emptying into his soul. Saidin still tried to kill him, tried to scour away, 
burn away, freeze away, every scrap of him, but he fought, and he lived for a 
moment more, and another moment, another. He wanted to laugh. He could do 
anything!
Once, holding Callandor, he had made a weapon that searched out Shadowspawn 
through the Stone of Tear, struck them dead with hunting lightning wherever they 
stood or ran or hid. Surely there must be something like that, to use against 
his enemies here. But when he called to Lews Therin, only anguished whimpers 
answered, as if that disembodied voice feared the pain of saidin.
With Callandor blazing in his hand  --  he did not remember raising the blade 
overhead  --  he stared at the hills where his enemies hid. They were gray now, 
with thickening rain, and dense black clouds blocking the sun. What was it he 
had told Eagan Padros?
"I am the storm," he whispered  --  a shout in his ears, a roar  --  and he channeled.
Overhead, the clouds boiled. Where they had been the black of soot, they became 
midnight, the heart of midnight. He did not know what he was channeling. So 
often, he did not, in spite of Asmodean's teaching. Maybe Lews Therin was 
guiding him, in spite of the man's weeping. Flows of saidin spun across the sky, 
Wind and Water and Fire. Fire. The sky truly did rain lightning. A hundred bolts 
at once, hundreds, forked blue-white shafts stabbing down as far as he could 
see. The hills before him erupted. Some flew apart under the torrent of 
lightning like kicked anthills. Flames sprang up in thickets, trees turning to 
torches in the rain, flames racing through olive orchards.
Something struck him hard, and he realized he was picking himself up from the 
ground. The crown had fallen from his head. Callandor still blazed in his hand, 
though. Vaguely, he was aware of Tai'daishar scrambling to his feet, trembling. 
So they thought to strike back at him, did they.
Shoving Callandor high, he screamed at them. "Come against me, if you dare! I am 
the storm! Come if you dare, Shai'tan! I am the Dragon Reborn!" A thousand 
sizzling lightning bolts hailed down from the clouds.
Again something struck him down. He tried to fight up again. Callandor, still 
shining, lay a pace from his outstretched hand. The sky shattered with 
lightnings. Suddenly, he realized that the weight atop him was Bashere, that the 
man was shaking him. It must have been Bashere who had flung him down!
"Stop it!" the Saldaean shouted. Blood fanned down his face from a split across 
his scalp. "You're killing us, man! Stop!"
Rand turned his head, and one stunned look was enough. Lightnings flashed all 
around him, in every direction. A bolt stabbed down onto the reverse slope, 
where Denharad and the armsmen were; the screams of men and horses rose. 
Anaiyella and Ailil were both afoot, trying vainly to quiet mounts that reared, 
eyes rolling, trying to rip reins free. Flinn was bending over someone, not far 
from a dead horse with legs already stiff.
Rand let saidin go. He let it go, but for moments it still flowed into him, and 
lightning raged. The flow into him dwindled, tailed off and vanished. Dizziness 
swept through him in its place. For three more heartbeats, two of Callandor 
shone where they lay on the ground, and lightning fell. Then, silence except for 
the rising drum of the rain. And the screams from behind the hill.
Slowly Bashere climbed off of him, and Rand rose unaided on tottering legs, 
blinking as his sight returned to normal. The Saldaean watched him as he might 
have a rabid lion, fingering his sword hilt. Anaiyella took one look at Rand on 
his feet and collapsed in a faint; her horse dashed away, reins dangling. Ailil, 
still fighting her rearing animal, spared few glances for Rand. Rand let 
Callandor lie where it was for the moment. He was not sure he dared pick it up. 
Not yet.
Flinn straightened, shaking his head, then stood silently as Rand went 
unsteadily to stand beside him. The rain fell on Jonan Adley's sightless eyes, 
bulging as if in horror. Jonan had been one of the first. Those screams from 
behind the hill seemed to slice through the rain. How many more, Rand wondered. 
Among the Defenders? The Companions? Among . . .?
Rain thick as a blanket hid the hills where the Seanchan army lay. Had he hurt 
them at all, striking out blindly? Or were they still waiting out there with all 
their damane? Waiting to see how many more of his own he could kill for them.
"Set whatever guard you think we need," Rand told Bashere. His voice was iron. 
One of the first. His heart was iron. "When Gregorin and the others reach us, 
we'll Travel to where the carts are waiting as fast as we can." Bashere nodded 
without speaking, and turned away in the rain.
I've lost, Rand thought dully. I'm the Dragon Reborn, but for the first time, 
I've lost.
Suddenly, Lews Therin raged up inside him, sly digs forgotten. I've never been 
defeated, he snarled. I am the Lord of the Morning! No one can defeat me!
Rand sat in the rain, turning the Crown of Swords in his hands, looking at 
Callandor lying in the mud. He let Lews Therin rage.
 
Abaldar Yulan wept, grateful for the downpour that hid the tears on his cheeks. 
Someone would have to give the order. Eventually someone would have to apologize 
to the Empress, might she live forever, and maybe to Suroth sooner. Those were 
not why he wept, though, nor even for a dead comrade. Roughly ripping a sleeve 
from his coat, he laid it across Miraj's staring eyes so the rain would not fall 
in them.
"Send out orders for retreat," Yulan ordered, and saw the men standing around 
him jerk. For the second time on these shores, the Ever Victorious Army had 
suffered a devastating defeat, and Yulan did not think he was the only one who 
wept.
Chapter 25
An Unwelcome Return
Seated behind her gilded writing table, Elaida fingered an age-dark ivory 
carving of a strange bird with a beak as long as its body and listened with some 
amusement to the six women standing on the other side on the table. Each a 
Sitter for her Ajah, they frowned sideways at one another, shifted velvet 
slippers on the brightly patterned carpet that covered most of the russet floor 
tiles, twitched at vine-worked shawls so the colored fringes danced, and 
generally looked and sounded like a gaggle of peevish serving girls wishing they 
had the nerve to go for each others' throats in front of their mistress. Frost 
coated the glassed casements fitted into the windows so that it was hardly 
possible to see the snow swirling outside, though sometimes the winds howled 
with an icy rage. Elaida felt quite warm, and not just for the thick logs 
blazing in the white marble fireplace. Whether these women knew it or not  --  
well, Duhara knew, certainly, and perhaps the others did  --  she was their 
mistress. The elaborate gold-covered case clock that Cemaile had commissioned 
ticked away. Cemaile's vanished dream would come true; The Tower returned to its 
glory. And firmly in the capable hands of Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan.
"No ter'angreal has ever been found that can 'control' a woman's channeling," 
Velina was saying in a voice cool and precise but almost girlishly high-pitched, 
a voice at strong odds with her eagle's beak of a nose and her sharp, tilted 
eyes. She sat for the White, and was the very model of a White sister, in all 
but her fierce appearance. Her plain, snowy dress seemed stark and cold. "Very 
few have ever been found that perform the same function. Therefore, logically, 
if such a ter'angreal were found, or more than one, improbable as that must be, 
there could not be sufficient of them to control more than two or three women at 
most. It follows that the reports of these so-called Seanchan are exaggerated 
wildly. If women on 'leashes' exist, they cannot channel. Plainly not. I do not 
deny these people hold Ebou Dar, and Amador, and perhaps more, but clearly they 
are but a creation of Rand al'Thor, perhaps to frighten people into flocking to 
him. Like this Prophet of his. It is simple logic."
"I am very glad you don't deny Amador and Ebou Dar at least, Velina," Shevan 
said drily. And she could be very dry indeed. As tall as most men, and bonily 
thin with it, the Brown Sitter had an angular face and a long chin, not improved 
by a cap of curls. With spidery fingers she rearranged her shawl and smoothed 
skirts of dark golden silk, and her voice took on pointed amusement. "I'm 
uncomfortable saying what can and can't be. For example, not long gone, everyone 
'knew' only a shield woven by a sister could stop a woman channeling. Then comes 
a simple herb, forkroot, and anyone at all can feed you a tea that leaves you 
unable as a stone to channel for hours. Useful with unruly wilders or the like, 
I suppose, but a nasty little surprise for those who think they knew everything, 
eh? Maybe next, someone will learn to make ter'angreal again."
Elaida's mouth tightened. She did not concern herself with impossibilities, and 
if no sister had managed to rediscover the making of ter'angreal in three 
thousand years, one never would and that was that. It was knowledge slipping 
through her fingers when she wanted it held close that curled Elaida's tongue. 
In spite of all her efforts, every last initiate in the Tower had learned of 
forkroot, now. No one liked knowing in the least. No one liked suddenly being 
vulnerable to anyone with a knowledge of herbs and a little hot water. That 
knowledge was worse than poison, as the Sitters here made clear.
At mention of the herb, Duhara's big, dark eyes grew uneasy in her coppery face, 
and she held herself more stiffly than usual, hands clutching skirts so red they 
seemed nearly black. Sedore actually swallowed, and her fingers tightened on the 
worked leather folder Elaida had handed her, though the round-faced Yellow 
usually carried herself with a frosty elegance. Andaya shivered! She actually 
wrapped her gray-fringed shawl around her convulsively.
Elaida wondered what they would do if they learned the Asha'man had rediscovered 
Traveling. As it was, they were barely able to make themselves speak of them. At 
least she had managed to hold that knowledge to a handful.
"I think we might better concern ourselves with what we know to be true, yes?" 
Andaya said firmly, back in control of herself. Her light brown hair, brushed 
till it gleamed, hung flowing down her back, and her silver-slashed blue dress 
was cut in the style of Andor, but Tarabon still rested strongly on her tongue. 
Though neither particularly small nor particularly slim, she somehow always 
reminded Elaida of a sparrow about to hop on a branch. A most unlikely-appearing 
negotiator, though her reputation had been earned. She smiled at the others, not 
very pleasantly, and that seemed sparrowlike, too. Perhaps it was how she held 
her head. "Idle speculation, it wastes precious time. The world hangs by a 
thread, and myself, I do not wish to fritter away valuable hours prattling about 
supposed logic or chattering over what every fool and novice knows. Does anyone 
have anything useful to say?" For a sparrow, she could put acid on her words. 
Velina's face went red, and Shevan's darkened.
Rubinde twisted her lips at the Gray. Perhaps they were meant to make a smile, 
but they merely seemed to writhe. With raven-black hair and eyes like sapphires, 
the Mayener usually looked as if she intended to walk through a stone wall, and 
planting her fists on her hips now, she seemed ready to walk through two. "We've 
dealt with what we can for the time being, Andaya. Most of it, anyway. The 
rebels are caught by the snows in Murandy, and we'll make winter hot enough for 
them that in the spring they'll come crawling back to apologize and beg penance.
Tear will be taken care of as soon as we find where the High Lord Darlin has 
vanished to, and Cairhien once we root Caraline Damodred and Toram Riatin out of 
their hiding places. Al'Thor has the crown of Illian for the moment, but that's 
in work. So, unless you have a scheme for snaffling the man into the Tower or 
making these so-called 'Asha'man' vanish, I have the business of my Ajah to be 
about."
Andaya drew herself up, her feathers well and truly ruffled. For that matter, 
Duhara's eyes narrowed; mention of men who could channel always lit fires in her 
head. Shevan clicked her tongue as if at children squabbling  --  though she looked 
pleased to see it  --  and Velina frowned, for some reason sure Shevan had aimed at 
her. This was amusing, but getting out of hand.
"The business of the Ajahs is important, daughters." Elaida did not raise her 
voice, but every head swiveled toward her. She replaced the ivory carving with 
the rest of her collection in the large box covered with roses and golden 
scrolls, carefully adjusted the positions of her writing case and correspondence 
box so the three lacquered boxes lined up just so on the table, and once their 
silence was perfect she went on. "The business of the Tower is more important, 
though. I trust you will effect my decrees promptly. I see too much sloth in the 
Tower. I fear Silviana may find herself very busy if matters do not come right 
soon." She did not voice any further threat. She merely smiled.
"As you command, Mother," murmured six voices not so steady as their owners 
might have wished. Even Duhara's face was pasty pale as they made their 
curtsies. Two Sitters had been stripped of their chairs, and half a dozen had 
served days of Labor for penance  --  which was humiliating enough in their 
position to be Mortification of the Spirit besides; Shevan and Sedore certainly 
wore tight mouths as they remembered all too well scrubbing floors and working 
in the laundries  --  but none had been sent to Silviana for Mortification of the 
Flesh. No one wanted to be. The Mistress of Novices had two or three visits each 
week from sisters who been given penance by their Ajahs or set one for 
themselves  --  a dose of the strap, however painful, was done with much more 
quickly than raking garden paths for a month  --  but Silviana possessed 
considerably less mercy with sisters than with the novices and Accepted in her 
charge. More than one sister must have spent the next few days wondering whether 
a month pulling a rake might not have been preferable after all.
They scurried toward the doors, eager to be away. Sitters or no, not one would 
have set foot this high in the Tower without Elaida's direct summons. Fingering 
her striped stole, Elaida let her smile become one of pleasure. Yes, she was the 
mistress in the White Tower. As was only proper for the Amyrlin Seat.
Before that fast-stepping knot of Sitters reach the doorway, the left-hand door 
opened, and Alviarin stepped in, the narrow white stole of the Keeper almost 
vanishing against a silk dress that made Velina's seem dingy.
Elaida felt her smile go crooked and begin sliding from her face. Alviarin had a 
single sheet of parchment in one slim hand. Odd, what one noticed at a time like 
this. The woman had been gone almost two weeks, vanished from the Tower without 
word or note, without anyone so much as seeing her go, and Elaida had begun to 
think fond thoughts of Alviarin lying in a snowbank, or swept away in a river, 
sliding beneath the ice.
The six Sitters skidded to a halt uncertainly when Alviarin did not move out of 
their way. Even a Keeper with Alviarin's influence did not impede Sitters. 
Though Velina, normally the most self-possessed woman in the Tower, flinched for 
some reason. Alviarin glanced once at Elaida, coolly, studied the Sitters for a 
moment, and understood everything.
"I think you should leave that with me," she said to Sedore in tones only a 
fraction warmer than the snow outside. "The Mother likes to consider her decrees 
carefully, as you know. This would not be the first time she changed her mind 
after signing." She held out a slim hand.
Sedore, whose arrogance was notable even among Yellows, barely hesitated before 
giving her the leather folder.
Elaida ground her teeth in fury. Sedore had hated her  --  five days up to her 
elbows in hot water and scrub boards. Elaida would find something less 
comfortable for her next time. Maybe Silviana after all. Maybe cleaning the 
cesspits!
Alviarin stepped aside without a word, and the Sitters went, adjusting shawls, 
muttering to themselves, reassuming the dignity of the Hall. Briskly, Alviarin 
closed the door behind them and walked toward Elaida thumbing through the papers 
in the folder. The decrees she had signed hoping Alviarin was dead. Of course, 
she had not rested on hope. She had not spoken to Seaine, in case someone might 
see and tell Alviarin when she returned, but Seaine was certainly working away 
as instructed, following the path of treason that surely would lead to Alviarin 
Freidhen. But Elaida had hoped. Oh, how she had hoped.
Alviarin murmured to herself as she rifled the folder. "This can go through, I 
suppose. But not this  --  Or this  --  And certainly not this!" She crumpled a 
decree, signed and sealed by the Amyrlin Seat, and tossed it to the floor 
contemptuously. Stopping beside Elaida's gilded chair, with the Flame of Tar 
Valon in moonstones atop its high back, she slapped the folder and her own 
parchment down on the table. And then slapped Elaida's face so hard she saw 
black flecks.
"I thought we had settled this, Elaida." The monstrous woman's voice made the 
snowstorm outside seem warm. "I know how to save the Tower from your blunders, 
and I won't have you making new ones behind my back. If you persist, be assured 
that I will see you deposed, stilled, and howling under the birch before every 
initiate and even the servants!"
With an effort, Elaida kept her hand away from her cheek. She did not need a 
mirror to tell her it was red. She had to be careful. Seaine had found nothing 
yet, or she would have come. Alviarin could open her mouth before the Hall and 
reveal the whole disastrous kidnapping of the al'Thor boy. She might see her 
deposed, and stilled and birched with that alone, but Alviarin had another 
string to her bow. Toveine Gazal was leading fifty sisters and two hundred of 
the Tower Guard against a Black Tower Elaida had been sure, when she gave the 
orders, held perhaps two or three men who could channel. Yet even with the 
hundreds  --  hundreds!  --  with Alviarin staring coldly down at her, that thought 
still curdled Elaida's stomach!  --  even with hundreds of these Asha'man, she had 
hope for Toveine. The Black Tower would be rent in fire and blood, she had 
Foretold, and sisters would walk its grounds. Surely that meant that somehow, 
Toveine would triumph. More, the rest of the Foretelling had told her that the 
Tower would regain all its old glories under her, that al'Thor himself would 
quail at her anger. Alviarin had heard the words coming out of Elaida's mouth 
when the Foretelling took her. And she had not remembered later, when she began 
her blackmail, had not understood her own doom. Elaida waited in patience. She 
would repay the woman threefold! But she could be patient. For now.
Making no attempt to hide her sneer, Alviarin pushed the folder aside and moved 
the single parchment in front of Elaida. She flipped open the green-and-gold 
writing case, dipped Elaida's pen in the inkwell and thrust it at her. "Sign."
Elaida took the pen wondering what madness she would be putting her name to this 
time. Yet another increase in the Tower Guard, when the rebels would be done 
before there was any use for soldiers? Another attempt to make the Ajahs reveal 
publicly which sisters headed them? That had certainly fallen on its nose! 
Reading quickly, she felt a knot of ice grow in her belly and keep growing. 
Giving each Ajah final authority over any sister in its quarter no matter her 
own Ajah had been the worst insanity so far  --  how could picking apart the very 
fabric of the Tower save it?  --  but this  -- !
 
    The world now knows that Rand al'Thor is the Dragon Reborn. The world knows 
    that he is a man who can touch the One Power. Such men have lain within the 
    authority of the White Tower since time immemorial. The Dragon Reborn is 
    granted the protection of the Tower, but whosoever attempts to approach him 
    save through the White Tower lies attainted of treason against the Light, 
    and anathema is pronounced against them now and forever. The world may rest 
    easily knowing that the White Tower will safely guide the Dragon Reborn to 
    the Last Battle and the inevitable triumph.
     
Automatically, numbly, she added "of the Light" after "triumph," but then her 
hand froze. Publicly acknowledging al'Thor as the Dragon Reborn could be borne, 
since he was, and this might lead many to accept the rumors that he had knelt to 
her already, which would prove useful, but for the rest, she could not believe 
so much damage could be contained in so few words.
"The Light have mercy," she breathed fervently. "If this is proclaimed, it will 
be impossible to convince al'Thor that his abduction was unsanctioned." It would 
be hard enough without, but she had seen people convinced before that what had 
happened, had not, and them in the middle of it happening. "And he will be ten 
times on his guard against another attempt. Alviarin, at best, this will 
frighten away a few of his followers. At best!" Many likely had waded so deep 
with him they did not dare try to wade back. Certainly not if they thought 
anathema already hung over their heads! "I might as well set fire to the Tower 
with my own hand as sign this!"
Alviarin sighed impatiently. "You haven't forgotten your catechism, have you? 
Say it for me, as I taught you."
Elaida's lips compressed of their own accord. One pleasure in the woman's 
absence  --  not the greatest, but a very real pleasure  --  had been not being forced 
to repeat that vile litany every day. "I will do as I am told," she said at 
last, in a flat voice. She was the Amyrlin Seat! "I will speak the words you 
tell me to speak, and no more." Her Foretelling ordained her triumph, but, oh, 
Light, let it come soon! "I will sign what you tell me to sign, and nothing 
else. I am . . . " She choked over the last. "I am obedient to your will."
"You sound as if you need to be reminded of the truth of that," Alviarin said 
with another sigh. "I suppose I've left you alone too long." She tapped the 
parchment with a peremptory finger. "Sign."
Elaida signed, dragging the pen across the parchment. There was nothing else she 
could do.
Alviarin barely waited for the pen's nib to lift before snatching up the decree. 
"I will seal this myself," she said, heading for the door. "I shouldn't have 
left the Amyrlin's seal where you could find it. I want to talk to you later. I 
have left you to yourself too long. Be here when I return."
"Later?" Elaida said. "When? Alviarin? Alviarin?" The door closed behind the 
woman, leaving Elaida to fume. Be there when Alviarin returned! Confined to her 
quarters like a novice in the punishment cells!
For a time she fingered her correspondence box, with its golden hawks fighting 
among white clouds in a blue sky, yet she could not make herself open it. With 
Alviarin gone, that box had begun once more to hold letters and reports of 
importance, not just the table scraps Alviarin let fall to her, yet with the 
woman's return, it might as well have been empty. Rising, she began rearranging 
the roses in their white vases, each atop a white marble plinth in a corner of 
the room. Blue roses; the most rare.
Abruptly she realized that she was staring at a broken rose stem in her hands, 
snapped in two. Half a dozen more littered the floor tiles. She made a vexed 
sound in her throat. She had been thinking of her hands around Alviarin's 
throat. It was not the first time she had considered killing the woman. But 
Alviarin would have taken precautions. Sealed documents, to be opened should 
anything untoward happen, had no doubt been left with the last sisters Elaida 
would suspect. That had been her one real worry during Alviarin's absence, that 
someone else might think the woman dead, and come forward with the evidence that 
would drag the stole from her shoulders. Sooner or later, though, one way or 
another, Alviarin was finished, as surely as those roses were  -- 
"You didn't answer my knock, Mother, so I came on in," a woman said gruffly 
behind her.
Elaida turned, ready to flay with her tongue, but at the sight of the stocky, 
square-faced woman in a red-fringed shawl standing just inside the room, the 
blood drained from her own cheeks.
"The Keeper said you wanted to speak me," Silviana said irritably. "About a 
private penance." Even to the Amyrlin Seat, she made no effort to hide her 
disgust. Silviana believed private penance a ridiculous affectation. Penance was 
public; only punishment took place in private. "She also asked me to remind you 
of something, but she rushed off before saying what." She finished with a snort. 
Silviana saw anything that took time away from her novices and Accepted as 
needless interruption.
"I think I remember," Elaida told her dully.
When Silviana finally left  --  after only half an hour by the chimes of Cemaile's 
clock, yet an endless eternity  --  all that kept Elaida from calling the Hall to 
sit immediately so she could demand Alviarin be stripped of the Keeper's stole 
were the certainty of her Foretelling and the certainty that Seaine would trace 
that trail of treason back to Alviarin. That, and the sure fact that whether or 
not Alviarin fell in the confrontation, she herself definitely would. So, Elaida 
do Avriny a'Roihan, Watcher of the Seals, the Flame of Tar Valon, the Amyrlin 
Seat, surely the most powerful ruler in the world, lay facedown on her bed and 
blubbered into her pillows, too tender to don the shift that lay discarded on 
the floor, certain that when Alviarin returned, the woman would insist on her 
sitting through the entire interview. She blubbered, and through her tears she 
prayed for Alviarin's downfall to come soon.
 
"I did not tell you to have Elaida . . . beaten," that voice of crystal chimes 
said. "Do you rise above yourself?"
Alviarin flung herself from her knees onto her belly before the woman who seemed 
made of dark shadows and silvery light. Seizing the hem of Mesaana's dress, she 
rained kisses on it. The weave of Illusion  --  it must be that, though she could 
not see a single thread of saidar any more than she could sense the ability to 
channel in the woman who stood over her  --  did not hold completely, with her 
frantically shifting the skirt's edge. Flickers of bronze silk with a thin 
border of intricately embroidered black scrollwork showed through.
"I live to serve and obey you, Great Mistress," Alviarin panted between kisses. 
"I know that I am among the lowest of the low, a worm in your presence, and I 
pray only for your smile." She had been punished once for "rising above herself" 
 --  not for disobedience, thanks be to the Great Lord of the Dark!  --  and she knew 
that whatever howls Elaida might be raising right then, they could not be half 
so loud as her own had been.
Mesaana let the kissing go on for some time, and finally signaled an end by 
tipping Alviarin's face up with the toe of a slipper beneath the chin. "The 
decree has gone out." It was not a question, but Alviarin answered hastily.
"Yes, Great Mistress. Copies went to Northharbor and Southharbor even before I 
had Elaida sign. The first couriers have gone, and no merchant will leave the 
city without copies to distribute." Mesaana knew all that, of course. She knew 
everything. A cramp tightened the back of Alviarin's awkwardly craned neck, but 
she did not move. Mesaana would tell her when to move. "Great Mistress, Elaida 
is an empty husk. With all humility, would it not be better without the need to 
use her?" She held her breath. Questions could be dangerous, with the Chosen.
A shadow-nailed silvery finger tapped silver lips pursed in an amused smile. 
"Better if you wore the Amyrlin's stole, child?" Mesaana said at last. "An 
ambition small enough to fit you, but all in its time. For now, I have a tiny 
task for you. In spite of all the walls that have gone up between the Ajahs, the 
heads of the Ajahs seem to encounter one another with surprising frequency. By 
chance, they make it seem. All but the Red, at least; a pity Galina got herself 
killed, or she could tell you what they are about. Very probably it is trivial, 
but you will learn why they bare teeth at one another in public, then whisper 
together in private."
"I hear and obey, Great Mistress," Alviarin replied promptly, grateful that 
Mesaana considered it unimportant. The great "secret" of who headed the Ajahs 
was none to her  --  every Black sister was required to relay to the Supreme 
Council every whisper inside her supposed Ajah  --  but only Galina among them had 
been Black. That meant querying the Black sisters among the Sitters, which meant 
going through all the layers between them and her. That would take time, and 
without any certainty of success. Except for Ferane Neheran and Suana Dragand, 
who were the heads of the their Ajahs, Sitters rarely seemed to know what their 
Ajah's head was thinking until they were told. "I will tell you as soon as I 
learn, Great Mistress."
But she did file away a tidbit for herself. Trivial matter or not, Mesaana did 
not know everything that happened in the White Tower. And Alviarin would keep 
her eyes open for a sister in bronze skirts bordered on the hem in black 
scrollwork. Mesaana was hiding herself in the Tower, and knowledge was power.
Chapter 26
The Extra Bit
Seaine strode the hallways of the Tower with a growing sense of being confounded 
at every turn. The White Tower was quite large, true, but she had been at this 
for hours. She very much wanted to be snug in her own rooms. Despite casements 
in place in every window, drafts drifted along the broad, tapestry-hung 
corridors and made the stand-lamps flicker. Cold drafts, and difficult to ignore 
when they slipped under her skirts. Her rooms were warm and comfortable, and 
safe.
Maids bobbed curtsies and manservants bowed in her wake, half-seen and 
completely ignored. Most sisters were in their own Ajahs' quarters, and those 
few out and about moved with wary pride, often in pairs, always of the same 
Ajah, shawls spread along their arms and displayed like banners. She smiled and 
nodded pleasantly to Talene, but the statuesque, golden-haired Sitter returned a 
hard stare, beauty carved from ice, then stalked away twitching her 
green-fringed shawl.
Too late now to approach Talene about being part of the search, even had Pevara 
been agreeable. Pevara counseled caution, then more caution, and truth to tell, 
Seaine was more than willing to listen under the circumstances. It was just that 
Talene was a friend. Had been a friend.
Talene was not the worst. Several ordinary sisters sniffed at her openly. At a 
Sitter! None White, of course, but that should have made no difference. No 
matter what was going on in the Tower, proprieties should be observed. Juilaine 
Madome, a tall, attractive woman with short-cut black hair who had held a chair 
for the Brown less than a year, brushed past her without so much as a murmur of 
apology and went off with those mannish strides of hers. Saerin Asnobar, another 
Brown Sitter, gave Seaine a fierce scowl and fingered that curved knife she 
always carried behind her belt before disappearing down a side corridor. Saerin 
was Altaran, slight touches of white at her dark temples emphasizing a thin 
age-faded white scar across one olive cheek, and only a Warder could match her 
for scowling.
Perhaps these things were all to be expected. There had been several unfortunate 
incidents recently, and no sister would forget being bundled unceremoniously 
from the hallways around another Ajah's quarters, much less what had sometimes 
gone with it. Rumor said a Sitter  --  a Sitter!  --  had had more than her dignity 
ruffled by the Reds, though not who. A great pity the Hall could not obstruct 
Elaida's mad decree, but first one Ajah, then another, had leaped on the new 
prerogatives, few Sitters were willing to think of giving them up now they were 
in place, and the result was a Tower divided very nearly into armed camps. Once 
Seaine had thought the air in the Tower felt like a quivering hot jelly of 
suspicion and backbiting; now it was quivering hot jelly with an acid bite.
Clicking her tongue in vexation, she adjusted her own white-fringed shawl as 
Saerin vanished. It was illogical to flinch because an Altaran scowled  --  even 
Saerin would go no further; surely not  --  and more than illogical to worry over 
what she could not change when she had a task.
And then, after all of her search that morning, she took a single step and saw 
her long-sought quarry walking toward her. Zerah Dacan was a slim, black-haired 
girl with a prideful air, properly self-possessed, and by all outward evidence 
untouched by the heated currents flowing through the Tower these days. Well, not 
a girl precisely, but Seaine was sure she had not worn that white-fringed shawl 
fifty years yet. She was inexperienced. Relatively inexperienced. That might 
help.
Zerah made no move to avoid a Sitter of her own Ajah, bowing her head in respect 
as Seaine fell in beside her. Quite a lot of intricate golden embroidery climbed 
the sleeves of her snowy dress and made a wide band at the bottom of her skirt. 
It was an unusual degree of show for the White Ajah. "Sitter," she murmured. Did 
her blue eyes hold a touch of worry?
"I need you for something," Seaine said more calmly than she felt. Very likely 
she was transplanting her own feelings into Zerah's big eyes. "Come with me." 
There was nothing to fear, not in the heart of the White Tower, but keeping her 
hands folded at her waist, unclenched, required surprising effort.
As expected  --  as hoped  --  Zerah went along with only another murmur, this of 
acquiescence. She glided at Seaine's side quite gracefully as they descended 
broad marble staircases and wide curving ramps, and gave only the slightest 
frown when Seaine opened a door on the ground floor, onto narrow stairs that 
spiraled down into darkness.
"After you, sister," Seaine said, channeling a small ball of light. By protocol, 
she should have preceded the other woman, but she could not bring herself to do 
that.
Zerah did not hesitate in going down. Logically, she had nothing to fear from a 
Sitter, a White Sitter. Logically, Seaine would tell her what she wanted when 
the time was ripe, and it would be nothing she could not do. Illogically, 
Seaine's stomach fluttered like a huge moth. Light, she held saidar and the 
other woman did not. Zerah was weaker in any case. There was nothing to fear. 
Which did nothing to quiet those fluttering wings in her middle. Down they 
climbed and down, past doors letting onto basements and sub-basements, until 
they reached the very lowest level, below even where the Accepted were tested. 
The dark hallway was lit only by Seaine's small light. They held their skirts 
high, but their slippers kicked up small clouds of dust however carefully they 
stepped. Plain wooden doors lined the smooth stone walls, many with great lumps 
of rust for hinges and locks.
"Sitter," Zerah asked, finally showing doubt, "whatever can we be after down 
here? I don't believe anyone has been this deep for years."
Seaine was sure her own visit, a few days earlier, had been the first to this 
level in at least a century. That was one of the reasons she and Pevara had 
chosen it. "Just in here," she said, swinging open a door that moved with only a 
little squealing. No amount of oil could loosen all the rust, and efforts to use 
the Power had been useless. Her abilities with Earth were better than Pevara's, 
but that was not saying very much.
Zerah stepped in, and blinked in surprise. In an otherwise empty room, Pevara 
sat behind a sturdy if rather worn table with three small benches around it. 
Getting those few pieces down unseen had been difficult  --  especially when 
servants could not be trusted. Clearing out the dust had been much simpler if no 
more pleasant, and smoothing the dust in the hall outside, necessary after every 
visit, had been simply onerous.
"I was about to give up sitting here in the dark," Pevara growled. The glow of 
saidar surrounded her as she lifted a lantern from beneath the table and 
channeled it alight, casting as much illumination as the rough-walled former 
storeroom deserved. Somewhat plump and normally pretty, the Red Sitter looked a 
bear with two sore teeth. "We want to ask you a few questions, Zerah." And she 
shielded the woman as Seaine shut the door.
Zerah's shadowed face remained utterly calm, but she swallowed audibly. "About 
what, Sitters?" There was the faintest tremor in the younger woman's voice, as 
well. It could be simply the mood of the Tower, though.
"The Black Ajah," Pevara replied curtly. "We want to know whether you're a 
Darkfriend."
Amazement and outrage shattered Zerah's calm. Most would have taken that for 
sufficient denial without her snapped "I don't have to take that from you! You 
Reds have been setting up false Dragons for years! If you ask me, there's no 
need to look further than the Red quarters to find Black sisters!"
Pevara's face darkened with fury. Her loyalty to her Ajah was strong, which went 
without saying, but worse, she had lost her entire family to Darkfriends. Seaine 
decided to step in before Pevara resorted to brute force. They had no proof. Not 
yet.
"Sit, Zerah," she said with as much warmth as she could muster. "Sit down, 
sister."
Zerah turned toward the door as though she might disobey an order from a Sitter 
 --  and of her own Ajah!  --  but at last she settled onto one of the benches, 
stiffly, sitting right at the edge.
Before Seaine had finished taking a seat that placed Zerah between them, Pevara 
laid the ivory-white Oath Rod on the battered tabletop. Seaine sighed. They were 
Sitters, with a perfect right to use any ter'angreal they wished, but she had 
been the one to filch it  --  she could not help thinking of it as filching when 
she had observed none of the proper procedures  --  and the whole time, in the back 
of her head, she had been sure she would turn to find long-dead Sereille Bagand 
standing here, ready to haul her off to the Mistress of Novices' study by her 
ear. Irrational, but no less real.
"We want to make sure you tell the truth," Pevara said, still sounding like an 
angry bear, "so you will swear an oath on this, and then I'll ask again."
"I should not be subjected to this," Zerah said with an accusing look at Seaine, 
"but I will re-swear all of the Oaths, if that's what it needs to satisfy you. 
And I will demand an apology from you both, afterward." She hardly sounded like 
a women shielded and asked such a question. Almost contemptuously, she reached 
for the slim, foot-long rod. It shone in the dim light of the lantern.
"You'll swear to obey the two of us absolutely," Pevara told her, and that hand 
snatched back as if from a coiled viper. Pevara went right on, even sliding the 
Rod closer to the woman with two fingers. "That way, we can tell you to answer 
truthfully and know you will, and if you give the wrong answer, we can know 
you'll be obedient and helpful in helping us hunt down your Black sisters. The 
Rod can be used to free you of the oath, if you give the right answer."
"To free  -- ?" Zerah exclaimed. "I've never heard of anyone being loosed horn an 
oath on the Oath Rod."
"That is why we are taking all these precautions," Seaine told her. "Logically, 
a Black sister must be able to lie, which means she must have freed of at least 
that Oath and likely all three. Pevara and I tested, and found the procedure 
much the same as taking an oath." She did not mention how painful it had been, 
though, leaving the pair of them weeping. She also did not mention that Zerah 
would not be freed of her oath whatever her answer, not until the search for the 
Black Ajah came to a conclusion. For one thing, she could not be allowed to run 
off and complain about this questioning, which she most certainly would, with 
every right, if she was not of the Black. If.
Light, but Seaine wished they had found a sister from another Ajah who fit the 
criteria they had set. A Green or a Yellow would have done quite nicely. That 
lot were overweening at the best of times, and of late . . .! No. She was not 
going to fall prey to the sickness spreading through the Tower. Yet she could 
not help the names that flashed through her head, a dozen Greens, twice as many 
Yellows, and every one long past due taking down a few rungs. Sniff at a Sitter?
"You've freed yourselves from one of the Oaths?" Zerah sounded startled, 
disgusted, uneasy, all at the same time. Perfectly reasonable responses.
"And took it again," Pevara muttered impatiently. Snatching up the slim rod, she 
channeled a little Spirit into one end while maintaining Zerah's shield. "Under 
the Light, I vow to speak no word that is not true. Under the Light, I vow to 
make no weapon for one man to kill another. Under the Light, I vow not to use 
the One Power as a weapon except against Shadowspawn, or in the last defense of 
my life, the life of my Warder, or that of another sister." She did not grimace 
over the part about Warders; new sisters bound for the Red often did. "I am not 
a Darkfriend. I hope that satisfies you." She showed Zerah her teeth, but 
whether in smile or snarl was hard to say.
Seaine retook the Oaths in turn, each producing a slight momentary pressure 
everywhere from her scalp to the soles of her feet. In truth, the pressure was 
difficult to detect at all, with her skin still feeling too tight from retaking 
the Oath against speaking a lie. Claiming that Pevara had a beard or that the 
streets of Tar Valon were paved with cheese had been strangely exhilarating for 
a time  --  even Pevara had giggled  --  but hardly worth the discomfort now. Testing 
had not really seemed necessary, to her. Logically, it must be so. Saying that 
she was not of the Black twisted her tongue  --  a vile thing to be forced to deny 
 --  but she handed Zerah the Oath Rod with a decisive nod.
Shifting on her bench, the slender woman turned the smooth white rod in her 
fingers, swallowing convulsively. The pale lantern light made her appear ill. 
She looked from one of them to the other, wide-eyed, then her hands tightened on 
the Rod, and she nodded.
"Exactly as I said," Pevara growled, channeling Spirit to the Rod again, "or 
you'll be swearing until you have it right."
"I vow to obey the two of you absolutely," Zerah said in a tight voice, then 
shuddered as the oath took hold. It was always tighter at the first. "Ask me 
about the Black Ajah," she demanded. Her hands shook holding the Rod. "Ask me 
about the Black Ajah!" Her intensity told Seaine the answer even before Pevara 
released the flow of Spirit and asked the question, commanding utter truth. 
"No!" Zerah practically shouted. "No, I am not Black Ajah! Now take this oath 
from me! Free me!"
Seaine slumped dejectedly, resting her elbows on the table. She certainly had 
not wanted Zerah to answer yes, but she had been sure they had found the other 
woman out in a lie. One lie found, or so it had seemed, after weeks of 
searching. How many more weeks of searching lay ahead? And of looking over her 
shoulder from waking to sleeping? When she managed to sleep. Pevara stabbed an 
accusing finger at the woman. "You told people that you came from the north."
Zerah's eyes went wide again. "I did," she said slowly. "I rode down the bank of 
the Erinin to Jualdhe. Now free me of this oath!" She licked her lips.
Seaine frowned at her. "Goldenthorn seeds and a red cockle-burr were found on 
your saddlecloth, Zerah. Goldenthorn and red cockleburr can't be found for a 
hundred miles south of Tar Valon." Zerah leaped to her feet, and Pevara snapped, 
"Sit down!" The woman dropped onto the bench with a loud smack, but she did not 
even wince. She was trembling. No, shaking. Her mouth was clamped shut, 
otherwise Seaine was sure her teeth would have been chattering. Light, the 
question of north or south frightened her more than an accusation of being a 
Darkfriend.
"From where did you start out," Seaine asked slowly, "and why  -- ?" She meant to 
ask why the woman had gone roundabout  --  which plainly she had  --  just to hide 
which direction she came from, but answers burst from Zerah's mouth.
"From Salidar," she squealed. There was no other word for it. Still clutching 
the Oath Rod, she writhed on her bench. Tears spilled from her eyes, eyes as 
wide as they would go and fixed on Pevara. Words poured out, though her teeth 
truly did chatter now. "I c-came to m-make sure all the sisters here know about 
the R-Reds and Logain, so they'll d-depose Elaida and the T-Tower can be whole 
again." With a wail she collapsed into openmouthed bawling as she stared at the 
Red Sitter.
"Well," Pevara said. Then again, more grimly, "Well!" Her face was all 
composure, but the glitter in her dark eyes was far from the mischief Seaine 
remembered as novice and Accepted. "So you are the source of that . . . rumor. 
You are going to stand before the Hall and reveal it for the lie it is! Admit 
the lie, girl!"
If Zerah's eyes had been wide before, they bulged now. The Rod dropped from her 
hands to roll across the tabletop, and she clutched her throat. A choking sound 
came from her suddenly gaping mouth. Pevara stared at her in shock, but suddenly 
Seaine understood.
"Light's mercy," she breathed. "You do not have to lie, Zerah." Zerah's legs 
thrashed beneath the table as if she were trying to rise and could not get her 
feet under her. "Tell her, Pevara. She believes it's true! You've commanded her 
to speak the truth and to lie. Don't look at me that way! She believes!" A 
bluish tinge appeared on Zerah's lips. Her eyelids fluttered. Seaine gathered 
calm with both hands. "Pevara, you gave the order so apparently you must release 
her, or she will suffocate right in front of us."
"She's a rebel." Pevara's mutter invested that word with all the scorn it could 
hold. But then she sighed. "She hasn't been tried, yet. You don't have to . . . 
lie . . . girl." Zerah toppled forward and lay with her cheek pressed against 
the tabletop, gulping air between whimpers.
Seaine shook her head in wonder. They had not considered the possibility of 
conflicting oaths. What if the Black Ajah did not merely remove the Oath against 
lying, but replaced it with one of their own? What if they replaced all Three 
with their own oaths? She and Pevara would need to go very carefully if they did 
find a Black sister, or they might have her fall dead before they knew what the 
conflict was. Perhaps first a renunciation of all oaths  --  no way to go about it 
more carefully without knowing what Black sisters swore  --  followed by retaking 
the Three? Light, the pain of being loosed from everything at once would be 
little short of being put to the question. Maybe not short of it at all. But 
certainly a Darkfriend deserved that and more. If they ever found one.
Pevara glared down at the gasping woman without the slightest touch of pity on 
her face. "When she stands trial for rebellion, I intend to sit on her court."
"When she is tried, Pevara," Seaine said thoughtfully. "A pity to lose the 
assistance of one we know isn't a Darkfriend. And since she is a rebel, we need 
not be overly concerned about using her." There had been a number of 
discussions, none to a conclusion, about the second reason for leaving the new 
oath in place. A sister sworn to obey could be compelled  --  Seaine shifted 
uneasily; that sounded entirely too close to the forbidden vileness of 
Compulsion  --  she could be induced to help in the hunt, so long as you did not 
mind forcing her to accept the danger, whether she wished to or not. "I cannot 
think they would send only one," she went on. "Zerah, how many of you came to 
spread this tale?"
"Ten," the woman mumbled against the tabletop, then jerked erect, glaring in 
defiance. "I will not betray my sisters! I won't  -- !" Abruptly she cut off, lips 
twisting bitterly as she realized she had done just that.
"Names!" Pevara barked. "Give me their names, or I will have your hide here and 
now!"
Names spilled from Zerah's unwilling lips. At the command, certainly, more than 
the threat. Looking at Pevara's grim face, though, Seaine was sure she needed 
little provocation to stripe Zerah like a novice caught stealing. Strangely, she 
herself did not feel the same animosity. Revulsion, yes, but clearly not as 
strong. The woman was a rebel who had helped break the White Tower when a sister 
must accept anything to keep the Tower whole, and yet . . . Very strange.
"You agree, Pevara?" she said when the list concluded. The stubborn woman gave 
her only a fierce nod for agreement. "Very well. Zerah, you will bring Bernaile 
to my rooms this afternoon." There were two from each Ajah excepting the Blue 
and the Red, it seemed, but best to begin with the other White. "You will say 
only that I wish to speak to her on a private matter. You will give her no 
warning by word, deed, or omission. Then you will stand quietly and let Pevara 
and me do what is necessary. You are being recruited into a worthier cause than 
your misguided rebellion, Zerah." Of course it was misguided. No matter how mad 
with power Elaida had become. "You are going to help us hunt down the Black 
Ajah."
Zerah's head jerked unwilling nods at each injunction, her face pained, but at 
mention of a hunt for the Black Ajah, she gasped. Light, her wits must have been 
totally unhinged by her experiences not to see that!
"And you will stop spreading these . . . stories," Pevara put in sternly. "From 
this moment, you'll not mention the Red Ajah and false Dragons together. Am I 
understood?"
Zerah's face donned a mask of sullen stubbornness. Zerah's mouth said, "I 
understand, Sitter." She looked ready to begin weeping again from sheer 
frustration.
"Then get out of my sight," Pevara told her, releasing the shield and saidar 
together. "And compose yourself! Wash your face and straighten your hair!" That 
last was directed at the back of the woman already darting from the table. Zerah 
had to pull her hands away from her hair to open the door. As the door squeaked 
shut behind her, Pevara snorted. "I wouldn't put it past her to have gone to 
this Bernaile like a sloven, hoping to warn her that way."
"A valid point," Seaine admitted. "But who will we warn if we scowl right and 
left at these women? At the very least, we will attract notice."
"The way matters are, Seaine, we wouldn't attract notice kicking them across the 
Tower grounds." Pevara sounded as if that were an attractive notion. "They are 
rebels, and I intend to hold them so hard they squeak if one of them so much as 
has a wrong thought!"
They went round and round about that. Seaine insisted that care in the orders 
they gave, leaving no loopholes, would be sufficient. Pevara pointed out that 
they were letting ten rebels  --  ten!  --  walk the Tower's halls unpunished. Seaine 
said they would face punishment eventually, and Pevara growled that eventually 
was not soon enough. Seaine had always admired the other woman's strength of 
will, but really, sometimes it was pure stubbornness.
A faint creak from a hinge was all the warning Seaine had to snatch the Oath Rod 
into her lap, hiding it in folds of her skirt as the door opened wide. She and 
Pevara embraced the Source almost as one.
Saerin walked into the room calmly, holding a lantern, and stood aside for 
Talene, who was followed by tiny Yukiri, with a second light, and boyishly slim 
Doesine, tall for a Cairhienin, who closed the door quite firmly and settled her 
back against it as if to keep anyone from leaving. Four Sitters, representing 
all the remaining Ajahs in the Tower. They seemed to ignore the fact that Seaine 
and Pevara held saidar. Suddenly, to Seaine, the room felt rather crowded. 
Imagination, and irrational, but . . . 
"Strange to see the pair of you together," Saerin said. Her face might be 
serene, but she slid fingers along the hilt of that curved knife behind her 
belt. She had held her chair forty years, longer than anyone else in the Hall, 
and everyone had learned to be careful of her temper.
"We might say the same of you," Pevara replied dryly. Saerin's temper never 
upset her. "Or did you come down here to help Doesine try to get some of her own 
back?" A sudden flush made the Yellow's face look even more that of a pretty boy 
despite her elegant bearing, and told Seaine which Sitter had strayed too near 
the Red quarters with unfortunate results. "I wouldn't have thought that would 
bring you together, though. Greens at Yellows' throats, Browns at Grays'. Or did 
you just bring them down for a quiet duel, Saerin?"
Frantically, Seaine cast around for what reason would have these four this deep 
into the bedrock of Tar Valon. What could tie them together? Their Ajahs  --  all 
of the Ajahs  --  truly were at one another's throats. All four had been handed 
penances by Elaida. No Sitter could enjoy Labor, especially when everyone knew 
exactly why she was scrubbing floors or pots, yet that was hardly a bond. What 
else? None were nobly born. Saerin and Yukiri were the daughters of innkeepers, 
Talene of farmers, while Doesine's father had been a cutler. Saerin had been 
trained first by the Daughters of Silence, the only one of that lot to reach the 
shawl. Absolutely useless drivel. Suddenly, something did strike her, and dried 
her throat. Saerin with her temper often barely in rein. Doesine, who had 
actually run away three times as a novice, though she had only once made it as 
far as the bridges. Talene, who might have earned more punishments than any 
other novice in the history of the Tower. Yukiri, always the last Gray to join 
her sisters' consensus when she wanted to go another way, the last to join the 
Hall's, for that matter. All four were considered rebels, in a way, and Elaida 
had humiliated every one. Could they be thinking they had made a mistake, 
standing to depose Siuan and raise Elaida? Could they have found about Zerah and 
the others? And if so, what did they intend to do?
Mentally, Seaine prepared herself to weave saidar, though without much hope that 
she could escape. Pevara matched Saerin and Yukiri in strength, but she herself 
was weaker than any here save Doesine. She prepared herself, and Talene stepped 
forward and burst all of her logical deductions to flinders.
"Yukiri noticed you two sneaking about together, and we want to know why." Her 
surprisingly deep voice held heat despite the ice that seemed to coat her face. 
"Did the heads of your Ajahs set you a secret task? In public, the Ajahs' heads 
snarl at one another worse than anyone else, but they've been sneaking off into 
corners to talk, it seems. Whatever they're scheming, the Hall has a right to 
know."
"Oh, do give over, Talene." Yukiri's voice was always an even bigger surprise 
than Talene's. The woman looked a miniature queen, in dark silver silk with 
ivory lace, but she sounded a comfortable country woman. She claimed the 
contrast helped in negotiations. She smiled at Seaine and Pevara, a monarch 
perhaps unsure how gracious she should be. "I saw the pair of you sniffing about 
like ferrets at the hencoop," she said, "but I held my tongue  --  you might be 
pillow friends, for all I know, and whose business is that but yours?  --  I held 
my tongue till Talene here started yelping about who's been huddling in corners. 
I've seen a bit of huddling in corners myself, and I suspect some of those women 
might head their Ajahs as well, so . . . Sometimes six and six make a dozen, and 
sometimes they make a mess. Tell us if you can, now. The Hall does have a 
right."
"We are not leaving until you do tell," Talene put in even more heatedly than 
before.
Pevara snorted and folded her arms. "If the head of my Ajah spoke two words to 
me, I'd see no reason to tell you what they were. As it happens, what Seaine and 
I were discussing has nothing to do with the Red or the White. Snoop elsewhere." 
But she did not release saidar. Neither did Seaine.
"Bloody useless and I bloody knew it," Doesine muttered from her place by the 
door. "Why I ever flaming let you talk me into this . . . Just as bloody well 
nobody else knows, or we'd have sheepswallop all over faces for the whole bloody 
Tower to see." At times she had a tongue like a boy, too, a boy who needed his 
mouth washed out.
Seaine would have stood to leave if she had not feared her knees would betray 
her. Pevara did stand, and raised an impatient eyebrow at the women between her 
and the door.
Saerin fingered her knife hilt and eyed them quizzically, not shifting a step. 
"A puzzle," she murmured. Suddenly she glided forward, her free hand dipping 
into Seaine's lap so quickly that Seaine gasped. She tried to keep the Oath Road 
hidden, but the only result was that she ended with Saerin holding the Rod waist 
high with one hand while she held the other end and a fistful of her skirts. "I 
enjoy puzzles," Saerin said.
Seaine let go and adjusted her dress; there seemed nothing else to do.
The appearance of the Rod produced a momentary babble as nearly everyone spoke 
at once.
"Blood and fire," Doesine growled. "Are you down here raising new bloody 
sisters?"
"Oh, leave it with them, Saerin," Yukiri laughed right on top of her. "Whatever 
they're up to, it's their own business."
Atop both, Talene barked, "Why else are they sneaking about  --  together!  --  if it 
isn't to do with the Ajah heads?"
Saerin waved a hand, and after a moment gained quiet. All present were Sitters, 
but she had the right to speak first in the Hall, and her forty years counted 
for something, too. "This is the key to the puzzle, I think," she said, stroking 
the Rod with her thumb. "Why this, after all?" Abruptly the glow of saidar 
surrounded her, too, and she channeled Spirit to the Rod. "Under the Light, I 
will speak no word that is not true. I am not a Dark-friend."
In the silence that followed, a mouse sneezing would have sounded loud.
"Am I right?" Saerin said, releasing the Power. She held the Rod out toward 
Seaine.
For the third time, Seaine retook the Oath against lying, and for the second 
time repeated that she was not of the Black. Pevara did the same with frozen 
dignity. And eyes sharp as an eagle's.
"This is ridiculous," Talene said. "There is no Black Ajah."
Yukiri took the Rod from Pevara and channeled. "Under the Light, I will speak no 
word that is not true. I am not Black Ajah." The light of saidar around her 
winked out, and she handed the Rod to Doesine.
Talene frowned in disgust. "Stand aside, Doesine. I for one will not put up with 
this filthy suggestion."
"Under the Light, I will speak no word that is not true," Doesine said almost 
reverently, the glow around her like a halo. "I am not of the Black Ajah." When 
matters were serious, her tongue was as clean as any Mistress of Novices could 
have wished. She extended the Rod to Talene.
The golden-haired woman started back as from a poisonous snake. "Even to ask 
this is a slander. Worse than slander!" Something feral moved in her eyes. An 
irrational thought, perhaps, but that was what Seaine saw. "Now move out of my 
way," Talene demanded with all the authority of a Sitter in her voice. "I am 
leaving!"
"I think not," Pevara said quietly, and Yukiri nodded slowly in agreement. 
Saerin did not stroke her knife hilt; she gripped it till her knuckles went 
white.
 
Riding through the deep snows of Andor, floundering through them, Toveine Gazal 
cursed the day she was born. Short and slightly plump, with smooth copper skin 
and long glossy dark hair, she had seemed pretty to many over the years, but 
none had ever called her beautiful. Certainly none would now. The dark eyes that 
had once been direct now bored into whatever she looked at. That was when she 
was not angry. She was angry today. When Toveine was angry, serpents fled.
Four other Reds rode  --  floundered  --  at her back, and behind them twenty of the 
Tower Guard in dark coats and cloaks. None of the men liked it that their armor 
was stowed away on the packhorses, and they watched the forest lining both sides 
of the road as though expecting attack any moment. How they thought to cross 
three hundred miles of Andor unnoticed, wearing coats and cloaks with the Flame 
of Tar Valon shining bright on them, Toveine could not imagine. The journey was 
almost done, though. In another day, perhaps two with roads knee-deep in snow on 
the horses, she would join with nine other parties exactly like hers. Not all of 
the sisters in them were Red, unfortunately, but that did not trouble her 
overmuch. Toveine Gazal, once a Sitter for the Red, would go into the histories 
as the woman who destroyed this Black Tower.
She was sure Elaida thought her grateful for the chance, called back from exile 
and disgrace, given the opportunity for redemption. She sneered, and if a wolf 
had been looking into the deep hood of her cloak, it might have quailed. What 
had been done twenty years ago was necessary, and the Light burn all those who 
muttered that the Black Ajah must have been involved. It had been necessary and 
right, but Toveine Gazal had been driven from her chair in the Hall, and forced 
to howl for mercy under the birch, with the assembled sisters watching, and even 
novices and Accepted witnessing that Sitters, too, lay beneath the law, though 
they were not told what law. And then she had been sent to work these last 
twenty years on the isolated Black Hills farm of Mistress Jara Doweel, a woman 
who considered an Aes Sedai serving penance in exile no different from any other 
hand laboring in sun and snow. Toveine's hands shifted on her reins; she could 
feel the calluses. Mistress Doweel  --  even now, she could not think of the woman 
without the honorific she had demanded  --  Mistress Doweel believed in hard work. 
And discipline as tight as any novice faced! She had no mercy on anyone who 
tried to shirk the backbreaking labor that she herself shared, and less than 
none for a woman who sneaked away to comfort herself with a pretty boy. That had 
been Toveine's life these past twenty years. And Elaida had slipped through the 
cracks uncaught, danced her way to the Amyrlin Seat that Toveine had once 
dreamed of for herself. No, she was not grateful. But she had learned to wait 
her chance.
Abruptly, a tall man in a black coat, dark hair falling to his shoulders, 
spurred his horse out of the forest into the road ahead of her, spraying snow. 
"There's no point struggling," he announced firmly, raising a gloved hand. 
"Surrender peacefully, and no one will be hurt."
It was neither his appearance nor his words that made Toveine rein up short, 
letting the other sisters gather beside her. "Take him," she said calmly. "You 
had better link. He has me shielded." It seemed one of these Asha'man had come 
to her. How convenient of him.
Abruptly she realized that nothing was happening and took her eyes from the 
fellow to frown at Jenare. The woman's pale, square face seemed absolutely 
bloodless. "Toveine," she said unsteadily, "I also am shielded."
"I am shielded, too," Lemai breathed in disbelief, and the others chimed in, 
increasingly frantic. All shielded.
More men in black coats appeared from among the trees, their horses stepping 
slowly, all around. Toveine stopped counting at fifteen. The Guards muttered 
angrily, waiting on a sister's command. They knew nothing yet except that a band 
of rogues had waylaided them. Toveine clicked her tongue in irritation. These 
men could not all channel, of course, but apparently every Asha'man who could do 
so had come against her. She did not panic. Unlike some of the sisters with her, 
these were not the first men who channeled that she had confronted. The tall man 
began riding toward her, smiling, apparently thinking they had obeyed his 
ridiculous order.
"At my command," she said quietly, "we will break in every direction. As soon as 
you are far enough away that the man loses the shield," men always thought they 
had to be able to see to hold their weaves, which meant that they did have to, 
"turn back and help the Guards. Ready yourselves." She raised her voice to a 
shout. "Guardsmen, fight them!"
Roaring, the Guardsmen surged forward, waving their swords and no doubt thinking 
to surround and protect the sisters. Pulling her mare around to the right, 
Toveine dug in her heels and crouched low over Sparrow's neck, dodging between 
startled Guardsmen, then between two very young men in black coats who gaped at 
her in astonishment. Then she was into the trees, urging more speed, snow 
spraying wildly, careless of whether the mare broke a leg. She liked the animal, 
but more than a horse would die today. Behind her, shouts. And one voice, 
roaring through all the cacophony. The tall man's voice.
"Take them alive, by order of the Dragon Reborn! Harm an Aes Sedai, and you'll 
answer to me!"
By order of the Dragon Reborn. For the first time, Toveine felt fear, an icicle 
worming into her middle. The Dragon Reborn. She thrashed Sparrow's neck with the 
reins. The shield was still on her! Surely there were enough trees between them 
already to block the cursed men's sight of her! Oh, Light, the Dragon Reborn!
She grunted as something struck her across the middle, a branch where there was 
no branch, snatching her out of the saddle. She hung there watching Sparrow plow 
off at as much of a gallop as the snow allowed. She hung there. In the middle of 
the air, arms trapped at her sides, feet dangling a pace or more above the 
ground. She swallowed. Hard. It had to be the male part of the Power holding her 
up. She had never been touched by saidin before. She could feel the thick band 
of nothing snug around her middle. She thought she could feel the Dark One's 
taint. She quivered, fighting down screams.
The tall man reined his horse to a halt in front of her, and she floated down to 
sit sideways in front of his saddle. He did not seem particularly interested in 
the Aes Sedai he had captured, though. "Hardlin!" he shouted. "Norley! Kajima! 
One of you bloody young louts come here now!"
He was very tall, with shoulders an axe-handle wide. That was how Mistress 
Doweel would have put it. Just short of his middle years, handsome in a 
brooding, rugged fashion. Not at all like the pretty boys Toveine liked, eager 
and grateful and so easily controlled. A silver sword decorated the tall collar 
of his black wool coat on one side, with a peculiar creature in gold and red 
enamel on the other. He was a man who could channel. And he had her shielded and 
a prisoner.
The shriek that burst from her throat startled even her. She would have held it 
back if she could, but another leaped out behind it, higher still, and another 
even higher, another and another. Kicking wildly, she flung herself from side to 
side. Useless against the Power. She knew that, but only in a tiny corner of her 
mind. The rest of her howled at the top of her lungs, howled wordless pleas for 
rescue from the Shadow. Screaming, she struggled like a mad beast.
Dimly she was aware of his horse plunging and dancing as her heels drummed its 
shoulder. Dimly she heard the man talking. "Easy, you lump-eared sack of coal! 
Calm down, sister. I'm not going to  --  Easy, you spavined mule! Light! My 
apologies, sister, but this is how we learn to do it." And then he kissed her.
She had only a heartbeat to realize his lips were touching hers, then sight 
vanished, and warmth flooded through her. More than warmth. She was melted honey 
inside, bubbling honey, rushing toward the boil. She was a harpstring, vibrating 
faster and faster, vibrating to invisibility and faster still. She was a thin 
crystal vase, quivering on the brink of shattering. The harpstring broke; the 
vase shattered.
" Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
At first, she did not realize that sound had come from her gaping mouth. For a 
moment, she could not think coherently. Panting, she stared up at the male face 
above her, wondering who it belonged to. Yes. The tall man. The man who could  --  
"I could have done without the extra bit," he sighed, patting the horse's neck; 
the animal snorted, but it no longer leaped about, "yet I suppose it is 
necessary. You're hardly a wife. Be calm. Don't try to escape, don't attack 
anyone in a black coat, and don't touch the Source unless I give you permission. 
Now, what's your name?"
Unless he gave permission? The effrontery of the man! "Toveine Gazal," she said, 
and blinked. Now, why had she answered him?
"There you are," another black-coated man said, splashing his horse through the 
snow to them. This one would be much more to her liking  --  if he could not 
actually channel, at least. She doubted this pink-cheeked lad shaved more than 
twice in the week. "Light, Logain!" the pretty boy exclaimed. "Did you take a 
second one? The M'Hael won't like that! I don't think he likes us taking any! 
Maybe it won't matter, though, you two being so close and all."
"Close, Vinchova?" Logain said wryly. "If the M'Hael had his way, I'd be hoeing 
turnips with the new boys. Or buried under the field," he added in a mutter she 
did not think he meant to be heard.
However much he heard, the pretty boy laughed with incredulous disbelief. 
Toveine barely heard him. She was gazing up at the man looming over her. Logain. 
The false Dragon. But he was dead! Stilled and dead! And holding her before his 
saddle with a casual hand. Why was she not screaming, or striking at him? Even 
her belt knife would do, this near. Yet she had no desire at all to reach for 
the ivory haft. She could, she realized. That band around her middle was gone. 
She could at least slip down off the horse and try to  --  She had no desire to do 
that, either.
"What did you do to me?" she demanded. Calmly. At least she had managed to hold 
on to that!
Turning his horse to ride back to the road, Logain told her what he had done, 
and she put her head against that wide chest, not caring at all how big he was, 
and wept. She was going to make Elaida pay for this, she vowed. If Logain ever 
let her, she would. That last was an especially bitter thought.
Chapter 27
The Bargain
Seated cross-legged in a heavily gilded, high-backed chair, Min tried to lose 
herself in the leather-bound copy of Herid Pel's Reason and Unreason lying open 
on her knees. It was not easy. Oh, the book itself was mesmerizing; Master Pel's 
writings always swept her into worlds of thought she had not dreamed of while 
working in stables. She very much regretted the sweet old man's death. She hoped 
to find a clue in his books to why he had been killed. Her dark ringlets swung 
as she shook her head and tried to apply herself.
The book was fascinating, but the room was oppressive. Rand's small throne room 
in the Sun Palace was thick with gilt from the wide cornices to the tall mirrors 
on the walls replacing those Rand had smashed, from the two rows of chairs like 
the one she sat in to the dais at the head of the rows and the Dragon Throne 
atop the dais. That was a monstrosity, in the style of Tear as imagined by 
Cairhienin craftsmen, resting on the backs of a pair of Dragons with two more 
Dragons for the arms and others climbing the back, all with large sunstones for 
eyes, the whole glittering with gilt and red enamel. A huge golden, wavy-rayed 
Rising Sun set in the polished stone floor only added to the sense of heaviness. 
At least the fires blazing in two great fireplaces, tall enough for her to walk 
into, gave a pleasing warmth, especially with snow spilling down outside. And 
these were Rand's rooms; the comfort of that alone outweighed any amount of 
oppression. An irritating thought. This was Rand's room if he ever deigned to 
return. A very irritating thought. Being in love with a man seemed to consist 
largely of a great many irritating admissions to yourself!
Shifting in a vain attempt to make the hard chair comfortable, she tried to 
read, but her eyes kept swinging to the tall doors, each climbed by its own line 
of gilded Rising Suns. She hoped to see Rand walk in; she feared to see Sorilea, 
or Cadsuane. Unconsciously, she adjusted her pale blue coat, fingering the tiny 
snow-flowers embroidered on the lapels. More twined around the sleeves, and the 
legs of breeches made as snug as she could manage to wriggle herself into. Not 
that great a change from what she had always worn. Not really. So far, she had 
avoided dresses, however much embroidery she wore, but she very much feared that 
Sorilea meant to stuff her into a dress if the Wise One had to peel her out of 
what she was wearing with her own hands.
The woman knew all about her and Rand. All about. She felt her cheeks heating. 
Sorilea seemed to be trying to decide whether Min Farshaw was a suitable . . . 
lover . . . for Rand al'Thor. That word made her feel foolishly giddy; she was 
not a fluff-brained girl! That word made her want to look over her shoulder 
guiltily for the aunts who had raised her. No, she thought wryly, you're not 
fluff-brained. Fluff has its wits about it compared to you!
Or maybe Sorilea wanted to know whether Rand was suitable for Min; it seemed 
that way, at times. The Wise Ones accepted Min as one of them, or very nearly, 
but these past weeks, Sorilea had wrung her out like a laundress's mangle. The 
leather-faced, white-haired Wise One wanted to know every scrap about Min, and 
every shred about Rand. She wanted the dust from the bottoms of his pockets! 
Twice Min had tried balking at the incessant interrogation, and twice Sorilea 
had produced a switch! That terrible old woman simply bundled her over the side 
of the nearest table, and afterward told her that maybe that would loosen 
another scrap in her head. None of the other Wise Ones gave the slightest 
commiseration, either! Light, the things you had to put up with for a man! And 
she could not have him for herself alone, at that!
Cadsuane was a different proposition altogether. The immensely dignified Aes 
Sedai, as gray-haired as Sorilea was white, did not seem to care two figs for 
Min or Rand either one, but she spent a great deal of time in the Sun Palace. 
Avoiding her entirely was impossible; she seemed to wander wherever she wanted. 
And when Cadsuane looked at Min, however briefly, Min could not help seeing a 
woman who could teach bulls to dance and bears to sing. She kept expecting the 
woman to point at her and announce that it was time Min Farshaw learned to 
balance a ball on her nose. Sooner or later, Rand had to face Cadsuane again, 
and the thought tied Min's stomach in knots.
She made herself bend back over her book. One of the doors swung open, and Rand 
strolled in with the Dragon Scepter nestled in the crook his arm. He wore a 
golden crown, a broad circlet of laurel leaves  --  that must be this Crown of 
Swords everyone was talking about  --  snug breeches that showed his legs to 
advantage, and a gold-worked green silk coat that fit him beautifully. He was 
beautiful.
Marking her place with the note Master Pel had written saying she was "too 
pretty," she carefully closed the book and carefully set it on the floor beside 
her chair. Then she folded her arms and waited. Had she been standing, she would 
have tapped her foot, but she would not have the man thinking she was springing 
up just because he finally appeared.
For a moment he stood smiling at her, and tugging his ear-lobe for some reason  --  
he seemed to be humming!  --  then abruptly he swung round to frown at the doors. 
"The Maidens out there didn't tell me you were in here. They hardly said a word 
at all. Light, they looked ready to veil at the sight of me."
"Maybe they are upset," she said calmly. "Maybe they wondered where you were. 
The way I did. Maybe they wondered whether you were hurt, or sick, or cold." The 
way I did, she thought bitterly. The man looked confused!
"I wrote to you," he said slowly, and she sniffed.
"Twice! With Asha'man to deliver your letters, you wrote twice, Rand al'Thor. If 
you call it writing!"
He staggered as if she had slapped him  --  no; as if she had kicked him in the 
belly!  --  and blinked. She took a firm hold on herself and settled against the 
chairback. Give a man sympathy at the wrong moment, and you never regained the 
ground lost. A part of her wanted to throw her arms around him, comfort him, 
draw out all his pains, soothe all his hurts. He had so many, and refused to 
admit a one. She was not going to spring up and rush to him, gushing to know 
what was wrong or . . . Light, he had to be all right.
Something took her gently beneath the elbows and lifted her out of the chair. 
Blue boots dangling, she floated toward him through the air. The Dragon Scepter 
floated away from him. So, he thought he could smile, did he? He thought a 
pretty smile could turn her around? She opened her mouth to give him a piece of 
her mind. A very sharp piece! Folding his arms around her, he kissed her.
When she could breathe again, she peered up at him through her lashes. "The 
first time . . . " She swallowed to clear her voice. "First, Jahar Narishma 
stalked in trying to stare inside everybody's skull the way he does, and 
vanished after handing me a scrap of parchment. Let me see. It said, 'I have 
claimed the crown of Illian. Trust no one until I return. Rand.' A little short 
of a proper love letter, I'd say." He kissed her again.
This time, getting her breath back took longer. This was not going as she had 
expected at all. On the other hand, it was not going very badly. "The second 
time, Jonan Adley delivered a bit of paper that said, 'I will return when I 
finish here. Trust no one. Rand.' Adley walked in on me in my bath," she added, 
"and he wasn't shy about getting an eyeful." Rand always tried to pretend he was 
not jealous  --  as if there were a man in the world who was not  --  but she had 
noticed his scowls at men who looked at her. And his very considerable ardor was 
more heated afterward, too. She wondered what this kiss would be like. Maybe she 
should suggest retiring to the bedchamber? No, she would not be that forward no 
matter  --  
Rand set her down, his face suddenly bleak. "Adley's dead," he said. Suddenly 
the crown flew from his head, spinning the length of the room as though hurled. 
Just when she thought it would crash into the back of the Dragon Throne, perhaps 
smash through it, the wide ring of gold stopped short and settled slowly onto 
the throne's seat.
Min's breath caught as she looked up at him. Blood glistened in the dark red 
curls above his left ear. Pulling a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve, she 
reached for his temple, but he caught her wrist.
"I killed him," he said quietly.
She shivered at the sound of his voice. Quiet, the way the grave was quiet. 
Perhaps the bedchamber was a very good idea. No matter how forward it was. 
Making herself smile  --  and blushing when she realized how easy it was to smile, 
thinking of that huge bed  --  she gripped the front of his shirt, preparing to rip 
shirt and coat from his back right then and there.
Someone knocked at the doors.
Min's hands sprang away from Rand's shirt. She sprang away, too. Who could it 
be, she wondered irritably. The Maidens either announced visitors when Rand was 
there, or simply sent them in.
"Come," he said loudly, giving her a rueful smile. And she blushed again at 
that.
Dobraine put his head in at the door, then entered and shut the door behind him 
when he saw them standing together. The Cairhienin lord was a small man, little 
taller than she, with the front of his head shaved and the rest of his mostly 
gray hair falling to his shoulders. Stripes of blue and white decorated the 
front of his nearly black coat to below his waist. Even before gaining Rand's 
favor he had been a power in the land. Now, he ruled here, at least until Elayne 
could claim the Sun Throne. "My Lord Dragon," he murmured, bowing. "My Lady 
Ta'veren."
"A joke," Min muttered, when Rand quirked an eyebrow at her.
"Perhaps," Dobraine said, shrugging slightly, "yet half the noblewomen in the 
city now wear bright colors in imitation of the Lady Min. Breeches that display 
their legs, and many in coats that do not even cover their . . . " He coughed 
discreetly, realizing that Min's coat did not cover her hips completely.
She thought about telling him be had very pretty legs, even if they were 
decidedly knobby, then quickly thought better. Rand's jealousy might be a 
wonderful flame if they were alone, but she did not want him striking out at 
Dobraine. He was capable of that, she feared. Besides, she thought it really was 
a slip; Lord Dobraine Taborwin was not the sort to make even slightly rough 
jokes.
"So you're changing the world, too, Min." Grinning, Rand tapped the tip of her 
nose with a finger. He tapped her nose! Like a child he was amused with! Worse, 
she felt herself grinning back at him like a fool. "In better ways than I am, it 
appears," he went on, and that momentary boyish grin faded like mist.
"Is all well in Tear and Illian, my Lord Dragon?" Dobraine inquired.
"In Tear and Illian, all is well," Rand replied grimly. "What do you have for 
me, Dobraine? Sit, man. Sit." He motioned toward the rows of chairs, and took 
one for himself.
"I have acted on all of your letters," Dobraine said, seating himself across 
from Rand, "but there is little good to report, I fear."
"I'll get us something to drink," Min said in a tight voice. Letters? It was not 
easy to stalk in heeled boots  --  she had grown accustomed to them, but the things 
made you sway whatever you did  --  not easy, yet enough anger made anything 
possible. She stalked to the small gilded table beneath one of the huge mirrors 
where a silver pitcher and goblets sat. She busied herself with pouring spiced 
wine, splashing it out furiously. The servants always brought extra goblets, in 
case she had visitors, though she seldom did except for Sorilea or a fool lot of 
noblewomen. The wine was barely warm, but it was more than hot enough for the 
likes of that pair. She had received two letters, but she would bet Dobraine had 
had ten! Twenty! Banging pitcher and goblets about, she listened carefully. What 
had they been up to behind her back with their dozens of letters?
"Toram Riatin appears to have vanished," Dobraine said, "though rumor, at least, 
says he still lives, worse luck. Rumors also say that Daved Hanlon and Jeraal 
Mordeth  --  Padan Fain, as you call the man  --  have deserted him. By the way, I 
have settled Toram's sister, the Lady Ailil, in generous apartments, with 
servants who are . . . trustworthy." By his tone, he clearly meant trustworthy 
toward himself. The woman would not be able to change her dress without him 
knowing. "I can understand bringing her here, and Lord Bertome and the others, 
but why High Lord Weiramon, or High Lady Anaiyella? It goes without saying, of 
course, that their servants also are trustworthy."
"How do you know when a woman wants to kill you?" Rand mused.
"When she knows your name?" Dobraine did not sound as if he were joking. Rand 
tilted his head thoughtfully, then nodded. Nodded! She hoped he was not still 
hearing voices.
Rand gestured as if brushing away the women who wanted to kill him. A dangerous 
thing, with her about. She did not want to kill him, certainly, but she would 
not mind seeing Sorilea go at him with that switch! Breeches did not give much 
protection.
"Weiramon is a fool who makes too many mistakes," Rand told Dobraine, who nodded 
sober agreement. "My mistake for thinking I could use him. He seems happy enough 
to stay near the Dragon Reborn in any case. What else?" Min handed him a goblet, 
and he smiled at her despite the wine that slopped over his wrist. Maybe he 
thought it was an accident.
"Little else and too much," Dobraine began, then jerked back in his chair to 
avoid spilling wine as Min shoved the second silver goblet at him. She had not 
liked her brief stint as a tavernmaid. "My thanks, my Lady Min," he murmured 
graciously, but he eyed her askance as he took the goblet. She walked calmly 
back to fetch her own wine. Calmly.
"I fear that Lady Caraline and the High Lord Darlin are in Lady Arilyn's palace 
here in the City," the Cairhienin lord went on, "under the protection of 
Cadsuane Sedai. Perhaps protection is not the correct word. I have been refused 
entry to see them, but I hear that they have attempted to leave the City and 
been brought back like sacks. In a sack, one story claims. Having met Cadsuane, 
I can almost believe it."
"Cadsuane," Rand murmured, and Min felt a chill. He did not sound afraid, 
precisely, yet he did sound more than uneasy. "What do you think I should do 
about Caraline and Darlin, Min?"
Settling into a chair two away from him, Min jerked at suddenly being included. 
Ruefully, she stared down at the wine soaking through her best cream silk 
blouse, and her breeches, too. "Caraline will support Elayne for the Sun 
Throne," she said glumly. For warm wine, it seemed very cold, and she doubted 
the stain would ever come out of the blouse. "Not a viewing, but I believe her." 
She did not glance toward Dobraine, though he nodded sagely. Everyone knew about 
her viewings, now. The only result had been a stream of noblewomen who wanted to 
know their futures, and right sulky, too, when she said she could not tell them. 
Most would not have been pleased with the little she had seen; nothing dire, but 
not at all the bright wonders that fortune-tellers at the fair forecast. "As for 
Darlin, aside from the fact that he'll marry Caraline, after she's wrung him out 
and hung him up to dry, all I can say is that one day he'll be a king. I saw the 
crown on his head, a thing with a sword on the front of it, but I don't know 
what country it belongs to. And, oh, yes. He'll die in bed, and she will survive 
him."
Dobraine choked on his wine, spluttering and dabbing at his lips with a plain 
linen handkerchief. Most of those who knew did not believe. Quite satisfied with 
herself, Min drank the little that remained in her goblet. And then she was 
choking and gasping, jerking her handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe at her 
mouth. Light, she would have to give herself the dregs!
Rand simply nodded, peering into his goblet. "So they will live to trouble me," 
he murmured. A very soft sound, for words like stone. He was hard as a blade, 
her sheepherder. "And what do I do about  --  "
Abruptly he twisted in his chair, toward the doors. One was opening. He had very 
sharp ears. Min had heard nothing.
Neither of the two Aes Sedai who entered was Cadsuane, and Min felt her 
shoulders loosen as she tucked her handkerchief away. While Rafela shut the 
door, Merana curtsied deeply to Rand, though the Gray sister's hazel eyes took 
in Min and Dobraine and filed them away, and then the round-faced Rafela was 
spreading her deep blue skirts wide, too. Neither rose until Rand gestured. They 
glided to him wearing cool serenity as they did their dresses. Except that the 
plump Blue sister fingered her shawl briefly as though to remind herself it was 
there. Min had seen that gesture before, from other sisters who had sworn fealty 
to Rand. It could not be easy for them. Only the White Tower commanded Aes 
Sedai, but Rand crooked a finger and they came, pointed and they went. Aes Sedai 
spoke with kings and queens as equals, perhaps slightly as their betters, yet 
the Wise Ones called them apprentices and expected them to obey twice as fast as 
Rand did.
None of that showed on Merana's smooth face. "My Lord Dragon," she said 
respectfully. "We only just learned that you had returned, and we thought you 
might be eager to learn how matters went with the Atha'an Miere." She merely 
glanced at Dobraine, but he rose immediately. Cairhienin were used to people 
wanting to speak in private.
"Dobraine can stay," Rand said curtly. Had he hesitated? He did not stand. His 
eyes like blue ice, he was being the Dragon Reborn for all he was worth. Min had 
told him these women were his in truth, that all five who had accompanied him to 
the Sea Folk ship were his, utterly loyal to their oath and therefore obedient 
to his will, yet he seemed to find trusting any Aes Sedai difficult. She 
understood, but he was going to have to learn how.
"As you wish," Merana replied, inclining her head briefly. "Rafela and I have 
reached a bargain with the Sea Folk. The Bargain, they call it." The difference 
was clear to the ear. Hands lying still on gray-slashed green skirts, she drew a 
deep breath. She needed it. "Harine din Togara Two Winds, Wavemistress of Clan 
Shodein, speaking for Nesta din Reas Two Moons, Mistress of the Ships to the 
Atha'an Miere, and thus binding all the Atha'an Miere, has promised such ships 
as the Dragon Reborn needs, to sail when and where he needs them, for whatever 
purposes he requires." Merana did seem to grow a touch pontifical when there 
were no Wise Ones around; the Wise Ones did not allow it. "In return, Rafela and 
I, speaking for you, promised that the Dragon Reborn will not change any laws of 
the Atha'an Miere, as he has done among the . . . " For a moment, she faltered. 
"Forgive me. I am used to delivering agreements exactly as made. The word they 
used was 'shorebound,' but what they mean is what you have done in Tear and 
Cairhien." A question appeared in her eyes, and was gone. Perhaps she was 
wondering whether he had done the same in Illian. She had expressed relief that 
he had changed nothing in her native Andor.
"I suppose I can live with that," he muttered.
"Secondly," Rafela took up, folding plump hands at her waist, "you must give the 
Atha'an Miere land, a square one mile on a side, at every city on navigable 
water that you control now or come to control." She sounded less pompous than 
her companion, but only just. Nor did she sound entirely pleased with what she 
was saying. She was Tairen, after all, and few ports held a tighter control on 
their trade than Tear. "Within that area, the laws of the Atha'an Miere are to 
hold sway above any others. This agreement must also be made by the rulers of 
those ports so that . . . " It was her turn to falter, and her dark cheeks 
turned a trifle gray. "So the agreement will survive me?" Rand said dryly. He 
barked a laugh. "I can live with that, too."
"Every city on water?" Dobraine exclaimed. "Do they mean here, too?" He leaped 
to his feet and began pacing, spilling more of his wine than Min had. He did not 
seem to notice. "A mile square? Under the Light alone knows what peculiar laws? 
I've traveled on a Sea Folk ship, and it is peculiar! Bare legs are not in it! 
And what of the customs duties, and docking fees, and . . . " Suddenly he 
rounded on Rand. He scowled at the Aes Sedai, who paid him no mind, but it was 
to Rand he spoke, in a tone bordering on roughness. "They will ruin Cairhien in 
a year, my Lord Dragon. They will ruin any port where you allow them to do 
this."
Min agreed, silently, but Rand merely waved a hand and laughed again. "They may 
think so, but I know something of this, Dobraine. They didn't say who chooses 
the land, so it doesn't have to be on the water at all. They'll have to buy 
their food from you, and live with your laws when they leave, so they can't be 
too arrogant. At worst, you can collect your customs when the goods come out of 
their . . . sanctuary. For the rest . . . If I can accept it, you can, too." 
There was no laughter in his voice now, and Dobraine bowed his head.
Min wondered where he had learned all that. He sounded a king, and one who knew 
what he was doing. Maybe Elayne had taught him.
" 'Secondly' implies more," Rand said to the two Aes Sedai.
Merana and Rafela exchanged glances, unconsciously touched skirts and shawls, 
and then Merana spoke, her voice not at all pompous. In fact, it was much too 
light. "Thirdly, the Dragon Reborn agrees to keep an ambassador chosen by the 
Atha'an Miere with him at all times. Harine din Togara has named herself. She 
will be accompanied by her Windfinder, her Swordmaster and a retinue."
"What?" Rand roared, springing from the chair.
Rafela rushed in, rushed ahead, as though afraid he might cut her off. "And 
fourthly, the Dragon Reborn agrees to go promptly to a summons from the Mistress 
of the Ships, but not more than twice in any three consecutive years." She 
finished panting a little, trying to make the last sound like extenuation.
The Dragon Scepter flew from the floor behind Rand, and he snagged it out of the 
air without looking. His eyes were not ice any more. They were blue fire. "A Sea 
Folk ambassador clinging to my heels?" he shouted. "Obey summonses?" He shook 
the carved spearhead at them, the green-and-white tassel flailing. "There are a 
people out there who want to conquer all of us, and might be able to do it! The 
Forsaken are out there! The Dark One is waiting! Why didn't you agree I'd caulk 
their hulls while you were about it!"
Normally, Min tried to soothe his temper when it flared, but this time she sat 
forward and glared at the Aes Sedai. She agreed with him fully. They had given 
away the barn to sell a horse!
Rafela actually swayed before that blast, but Merana drew herself up, her own 
eyes managing a good imitation of brown fire flecked with gold. "You castigate 
us?" she snapped in tones as frosty as her eyes were hot. She was Aes Sedai as 
the child Min had seen them, regal above queens, powerful above powers. "You 
were present in the beginning, ta'veren, and you twisted them as you wanted 
them. You could have had them all kneeling to you! But you left! They were not 
pleased to know they had been dancing for a ta'veren. Somewhere, they learned to 
weave shields, and before you were well off their ship, Rafela and I were 
shielded. So we could not take advantage with the Power, they said. More than 
once, Harine threatened to hang us in the rigging by our toes until we came to 
our senses, and I for one believe she meant it! Feel lucky that you have the 
ships you want, Rand al'Thor. Harine would have given you a handful! Feel lucky 
she didn't want your new boots and that ghastly throne of yours as well! Oh, by 
the by, she formally acknowledged you as the Coramoor, may you get a bellyache 
from it!"
Min stared at her. Rand and Dobraine stared at her, and the Cairhienin's jaw 
hung open. Rafela stared, her mouth working soundlessly. For that matter, the 
fire faded from Merana's eyes, and they slowly grew wider and wider as if she 
were just hearing what she had said.
The Dragon Scepter trembled in Rand's fist. Min had seen his fury swell near to 
bursting for far less. She prayed for a way to avoid the explosion, and could 
not see one.
"It seems," he said finally, "that the words a ta'veren drags out aren't always 
the words he wants to hear." He sounded . . . calm; Min was not about to think, 
sane. "You've done well, Merana. I handed you a dog's dinner, but you and Rafela 
have done well." The two Aes Sedai swayed, and for a moment, Min thought they 
might collapse in puddles on the floor from sheer relief.
"At least we managed to keep the details from Cadsuane," Rafela said, smoothing 
her skirts unsteadily. "There was no way to stop everyone learning we had made 
some sort of agreement, but we kept that much from her."
"Yes," Merana said breathlessly. "She even waylaid us on the way here. It's 
difficult keeping anything from her, but we did. We didn't think you'd want her 
to . . . " She trailed off at the stony look on Rand's face.
"Cadsuane again," he said flatly. He frowned at the carved length of spearhead 
in his hand, then tossed it onto a chair as if he did not trust himself with it. 
"She's in the Sun Palace, is she? Min, tell the Maidens outside to carry a 
message to Cadsuane. She is to attend the Dragon Reborn in all haste."
"Rand, I don't think," Min began uneasily, but Rand cut in. Not harshly, but 
quite firmly.
"Do it, please, Min. This woman is like a wolf eyeing the sheepfold. I intend to 
find out what she wants."
Min took her time getting up, and dragged her feet to the doors. She was not the 
only one to think this a bad idea. Or at least to want to be elsewhere when the 
Dragon Reborn faced Cadsuane Melaidhrin. Dobraine passed her on the way to the 
door, making a hasty bow with barely a pause, and even Merana and Rafela were 
out of the room before her, though they made it appear they were not hurrying. 
Inside the room, they did, anyway. When Min put her head into the hallway, the 
two sisters had caught Dobraine and were scurrying along at little short of a 
trot.
Strangely, the half-dozen Maidens who had been outside when Min entered earlier 
had now grown in number until they lined the corridor as far as she could see in 
both directions, tall hard-faced women in the grays and browns and grays of the 
cadin'sor, shoufa wrapped around their heads with the long black veil hanging 
down. A good many carried their spears and bull-hide bucklers as if they 
expected a battle. Some were playing a finger-game called "knife, paper, stone," 
and the rest were watching intently.
Not so intently that they did not see her, though. When she passed Rand's 
message, handtalk flashed up and down the rows, then two lanky Maidens went 
trotting off. The others promptly returned to the game, playing or watching.
Scratching her head in puzzlement, Min went back in. The Maidens often made her 
nervous, yet they always had a word for her, sometimes respectful, as to a Wise 
One, sometimes joking, though their humor was odd, to say the least. Never had 
they ignored her like this.
Rand was in the bedchamber. That simple fact set her heart racing. He had his 
coat off, his snowy shirt unlaced at neck and cuffs and pulled out of his 
breeches. Sitting on the foot of the bed, she leaned back against one of the 
heavy blackwood bedposts and swung her feet up, crossing her ankles. She had not 
had a chance to watch Rand undress himself, and she intended to enjoy it.
Instead of continuing, though, he stood there looking at her. "What can Cadsuane 
possibly teach me?" he asked suddenly.
"You, and all the Asha'man," she replied. That had been her viewing. "I don't 
know what, Rand. I only know you have to learn it. All of you do." It did not 
seem he intended to progress beyond letting his shirt hang down. Sighing, she 
went on. "You need her, Rand. You can't afford to make her angry. You can't 
afford to chase her away." Actually, she did not think fifty Myrddraal and a 
thousand Trollocs could chase Cadsuane anywhere, but the point was the same.
A far-off look came into Rand's eyes, and after a moment, he shook his head. 
"Why should I listen to a madman?" he muttered almost under his breath. Light, 
did he really believe Lews Therin Telamon spoke in his head? "Let someone know 
you need them, Min, and they have a hold on you. A leash, to pull you where they 
want. I won't put a halter on my own neck for any Aes Sedai. Not for anyone!" 
Slowly his fists unclenched. "You, I need, Min," he said simply. "Not for your 
viewings. I just need you."
Burn her, but the man could sweep her feet out from under her with a few words!
With a smile as eager as hers, he grasped the bottom of his shirt with both 
hands and bent to begin hauling it over his head. Lacing her fingers over her 
stomach, she settled back to watch.
The three Maidens who marched into the room no longer wore the shoufa that had 
concealed their short hair in the corridor. They were empty-handed, and no 
longer wore those heavy-blade belt knives, either. That was all Min had time to 
notice.
Rand's head and arms were still inside the shirt, and Somara, flaxen-haired and 
tall even for an Aiel woman, seized the white linen and tangled it, trapping 
him. Almost in the same movement, she kicked him between the legs. With a 
strangled groan, he bent further, staggering. 
Nesair, fiery-haired and beautiful despite white scars on both sun-dark cheeks, 
planted a fist in his right side hard enough to make him stumble sideways.
With a cry, Min launched herself from the bed. She did not know what madness was 
happening here, could not even begin to guess. One of her knives came smoothly 
from each sleeve, and she threw herself at the Maidens, shouting, "Help! Oh, 
Rand! Somebody, help!" At least, that was what she tried to shout.
The third Maiden, Nandera, turned like a snake, and Min found a foot planted in 
her stomach. Breath rushed out of her in a wheeze. Her knives flew from numb 
hands, and she turned a somersault over the graying Maiden's foot, landing on 
her back with a crash that drove out what little air remained in her. Trying to 
move, trying to breathe  --  trying to understand!  --  all she could do was lie there 
and watch.
The three women were quite thorough. Nesair and Nandera pounded Rand with their 
fists while Somara held him bent over and caught in his own shirt. Again and 
again and again they drove studied blows into Rand's hard belly, into his right 
side. Min would have laughed hysterically, had she had any breath.
They were trying to beat him to death, and they very carefully avoid hitting 
anywhere near the tender round scar in his left side with the half-healed slash 
running through it.
She knew very well how hard Rand's body was, how strong, but no one could stand 
up to that. Slowly, his knees folded, and when they thumped to the floor tiles, 
Nandera and Nesair stood back. Each nodded, and Somara released her hold on 
Rand's shirt. He fell forward on his face. She could hear him gasping, fighting 
groans that bubbled up despite his efforts. Kneeling, Somara pulled his shirt 
down almost tenderly. He lay there with his cheek on the floor, eyes bulging, 
struggling for breath.
Nesair bent to catch a fistful of his hair and jerk his head up. "We won the 
right for this," she growled, "but every Maiden wanted to lay her hands on you. 
I left my clan for you, Rand al'Thor. I will not have you spit on me!"
Somara moved a hand as if to smooth hair out of his face, then snatched it back. 
"This is how we treat a first-brother who dishonors us, Rand al'Thor," she said 
firmly. "The first time. The next, we will use straps."
Nandera stood over Rand with fist planted on her hips and a face of stone. "You 
carry the honor of Far Dareis Mai, son of a Maiden," she said grimly. "You 
promised to call us to dance the spears for you, and then you ran to battle and 
left us behind. You will not do this again."
She stepped over him to stride out, and the other two followed. Only Somara 
glanced back, and if sympathy touched her blue eyes, there was none in her voice 
when she said, "Do not make this necessary again, son of a Maiden."
Rand had pushed himself up to hands and knees by the time Min managed to crawl 
to him. "They must be mad," she croaked. Light, but her middle hurt! "Rhuarc 
will  -- !" She did not know what Rhuarc would do. Not enough, whatever it was. 
"Sorilea." Sorilea would stake them out in the sun! To start! "When we tell her 
 --  "
"We tell no one," he said. He almost sounded as if he had his breath back, 
although he was still slightly pop-eyed. How could he do that? "They have the 
right. They've earned the right."
Min recognized that tone much to well. When a man decided to be stubborn, he 
would sit bare in a nettle patch and deny to your face that they made his bottom 
sting! She was almost pleased to hear him groan as she helped him to his feet. 
Well, as they helped each other. If he was going to be a pure wool-headed idiot, 
he deserved a few bruises!
He eased himself onto the bed, lying back on the heaped pillows, and she 
snuggled in beside him. Not what she had been hoping for, but as much as was 
going to happen, she was sure.
"Not what I was hoping to use this bed for," he muttered. She was not sure she 
had been supposed to hear.
She laughed. "I enjoy you holding me just as much as . . . as the other." 
Strangely, he smiled at her as if he knew she was lying. Her Aunt Miren claimed 
that was one of the three lies any man would believe from a woman.
"If I am interrupting," a woman's cool voice said from the doorway, "I suppose I 
could return when it is more convenient." Min jerked away from Rand as though 
burned, but when he pulled her back, she settled against him again. She 
recognized the Aes Sedai standing in the doorway, a plump little Cairhienin with 
four thin stripes of color across her full bosom and white slashes in her dark 
skirts. Daigian Moseneillin was one of the sisters who had come with Cadsuane. 
And she was almost as overbearing as Cadsuane herself, in Min's opinion.
"Who might you be when you're at home?" Rand said lazily. "Whoever you are, 
didn't anyone ever teach you to knock?" Min realized that every muscle in the 
arm holding her was hard as a rock, though.
The moonstone dangling onto Daigian's forehead on a thin silver chain swung as 
she slowly shook her head. Plainly, she was not pleased. "Cadsuane Sedai 
received your request," she said, even more coolly than before, "and asked me to 
convey her regrets. She very much wishes to finish the piece of needlepoint she 
is working on. Perhaps she might be able to see you another day. If she can find 
time."
"Is that what she said?" Rand asked dangerously. Daigian sniffed disdainfully. 
"I will leave you to resume . . . whatever you were doing." Min wondered whether 
she could get away with slapping an Aes Sedai. Daigian eyed her frostily, as if 
hearing the thought, and turned to glide from the room.
Rand sat up with a muffled oath. "You tell Cadsuane she can go to the Pit of 
Doom!" he shouted after the retreating sister. "Tell her she can rot!"
"It won't do, Rand," Min sighed. This was going to be harder than she had 
thought. "You need Cadsuane. She doesn't need you."
"Doesn't she?" he said softly, and she shivered. She had only thought his voice 
was dangerous before.
Rand prepared carefully, dressing in the green coat again, sending Min with 
messages for the Maidens to carry. At least they would still do that. His ribs 
ached almost as much on his right side as the wounds did on his left, and his 
belly felt as he had been beaten with a board. He had promised them. He seized 
hold of saidin alone in his bedchamber, unwilling to let even Min see him falter 
again. He could keep her safe, at least, somehow, but how could she feel safe if 
she saw him about to fall over? He had to be strong, for her sake. He had to be 
strong, for the world. That bundle of emotions in the back of his head that was 
Alanna reminded him of the cost of carelessness. Right then, Alanna was sulking. 
She must have pushed a Wise One too far, because if she was sitting, she was 
sitting gingerly.
"I still think this is lunacy, Rand al'Thor," Min said as he placed the Crown of 
Swords carefully on his head. He did not want those tiny blades to draw blood 
again now. "Are you listening to me? Well, if you intend to go through with it, 
I'm going with you. You admitted you need me, and you'll need me more than ever 
for this!" She was in full fig, fists on her hips, foot tapping, eyes all but 
glowing.
"You're staying here," he told her firmly. He was still not sure what he 
intended to do, not fully, and he did not want her to see him stumble. He was 
very afraid he might stumble. He expected an argument, though.
She frowned at him, and her foot stopped tapping. The angry light in her eyes 
faded into worry that vanished in a twinkling. "Well, I suppose you're old 
enough to cross the stableyard without your hand held, sheepherder. Besides, I 
am falling behind in my reading."
Dropping into one of the tall gilded chairs, she folded her legs beneath her and 
picked up the book she had been reading when he came in. In moments, she seemed 
totally engrossed in the page before her.
Rand nodded. That was what he wanted; her here, and safe. Still, she did not 
have to forget him so completely.
There were six Maidens squatting in the hallway outside his door. They stared at 
him flat-eyed, not speaking, Nandera's gaze the flattest of all. Though Somara 
and Nesair came close. He thought Nesair was Shaido; he would have to keep a 
hard eye on her.
The Asha'man were waiting, too  --  Lews Therin muttered darkly of killing in 
Rand's head  --  all but Narishma with the Dragon on their collars as well as the 
Sword. Curtly, he ordered Narishma to stand guard on his apartments, and the man 
saluted sharply, those dark too-big eyes seeing too much, faintly accusing. Rand 
did not think the Maidens would take out their displeasure on Min, but he was 
not taking any chances. Light, he had told Narishma everything about the traps 
he had woven in the Stone when he sent the man to fetch Callandor. The man was 
imagining things. Burn him, but that had been a mad risk to take.
 
Only madmen never trust. Lews Therin sounded amused. And quite mad. The wounds 
in Rand's side throbbed; they seemed to resonate with each other in distant 
pain.
"Show me where to find Cadsuane," he commanded. Nandera rose smoothly to her 
feet and started off without a backward glance. He followed, and the others fell 
in behind him, Dashiva and Flinn, Morr and Hopwil. He gave them hasty 
instructions as they walked. Flinn, of all people, tried to protest, but Rand 
bore him down; this was no time for quailing. The grizzled onetime Guardsman was 
the last Rand had expected it of. Morr or Hopwil, perhaps. If no longer exactly 
dewy-eyed, they were still young enough to leave their razors dry as many days 
as wet. But not Flinn. Nandera's soft boots made no sound; their footsteps 
reverberated from the high square-vaulted ceiling, chasing away everyone with 
the shadow of a reason for fear. His wounds pulsed.
Every last person in the Sun Palace knew the Dragon Reborn on sight by now, and 
they knew who the black-coated men were, too. Black-liveried servants made deep 
bows or curtsies, and hurried to get out of his sight. Most nobles were almost 
as quick to put distance between themselves and five men who could channel, 
going somewhere with purpose on their faces. Ailil watched them pass with an 
unreadable expression. Anaiyella simpered, of course, but when Rand glanced 
back, she was staring after him with a face to match Nandera's. Bertome smiled 
as he made his leg, a dark smile with neither mirth nor pleasure in it.
Nandera did not speak even when they reached their destination, merely pointed 
to a closed door with one of her spears, turned on her heel, and strode back the 
way they had come. The Car'a'carn without a single Maiden to guard him. Did they 
think four Asha'man enough to keep him safe? Or was her departure another sign 
of displeasure?
"Do what I told you," Rand said.
Dashiva gave a jerk as if coming back to himself, then seized the Source. The 
wide door, carved in vertical lines, swung open with a bang on a flow of Air. 
The other three took hold of saidin and followed Dashiva in, faces grim.
"The Dragon Reborn," Dashiva's voice sounded loud, magnified slightly by the 
Power, "the King of Illian, the Lord of the Morning, comes to see the woman, 
Cadsuane Melaidhrin."
Rand stepped in, standing tall. He did not recognize the other weave Dashiva had 
created, but the air seemed to hum with menace, a sense of something inexorable 
approaching, drawing ever nearer.
"I sent for you, Cadsuane," Rand said. He did not use weaves. His voice was hard 
and flat enough without aid.
The Green sister he remembered sat beside a small table with an embroidery hoop 
in her hands, an opened basket on the polished tabletop spilling out skeins of 
bright thread from some of its many compartments. She was exactly as he 
remembered. That strong face topped by an iron-gray bun decorated with small 
dangling golden fish and birds, stars and moons. Those dark eyes, seeming almost 
black in her fair face. Cool, considering eyes. Lews Therin gave a wail and fled 
at the sight of her.
"Well," she said, setting the embroidery hoop on the table, "I must say I've 
seen better without paying. With all I've been hearing about you, boy, the least 
I expected was peals of thunder, trumpets in the heavens, flashing lights in the 
sky." Calmly, she regarded the five stone-faced men who could channel, which 
should have been enough to make any Aes Sedai flinch. Calmly, she regarded the 
Dragon Reborn. "I hope one of you is at least going to juggle," she said. "Or 
eat fire? I've always enjoyed watching gleemen eat fire."
Flinn barked a laugh before catching himself, and even then raked a hand through 
his fringe of hair and seemed to be struggling with amusement. Morr and Hopwil 
exchanged looks both puzzled and more than a little outraged. Dashiva smiled 
unpleasantly, and the weave he was holding grew stronger, until Rand felt as if 
he wanted to look over his shoulder to see what was rushing toward him.
"It is enough that you know I am who I am," Rand told her. "Dashiva, all of you, 
wait outside."
Dashiva opened his mouth as if to protest. That had not been part of Rand's 
instructions, but they were not going to overawe the woman, not this way. The 
man went, though, muttering to himself. Hopwil and Morr actually stepped out 
eagerly, with sidelong glances at Cadsuane. Flinn was the only one to make a 
dignified withdrawal, in spite of his limp. And he still seemed amused! Rand 
channeled, and a heavy, leopard-carved chair floated into the air from its place 
by the wall, spinning end over end in somersaults before settling like a feather 
in front of Cadsuane. At the same time, a heavy silver pitcher drifted up from a 
long, draped table across the room, making a loud ping as it was suddenly 
heated; steam gushed from the top, and it tipped over, whirling round and round 
like a slow top, as a silver cup darted up to neatly catch the dark pouring.
"Too hot, I think," Rand said, and the glassed casements leaped from the tall, 
narrow windows. Snowflakes billowed in on an icy blast, and the cup soared out 
through one of the windows, soared back again, straight to his hand as he sat 
himself. Let her see how calm she could stay with a madman staring at her. The 
dark liquid was tea, too strong after his boiling, and bitter enough to set his 
teeth on edge. But the warmth was just right. His skin pebbled in the gusts 
howling into the room and flapping tapestries against the walls, but in the 
Void, that was far away, someone else's skin.
"The Laurel Crown is prettier than some," Cadsuane said with a faint smile. Her 
hair ornaments swayed whenever the wind rose, and small wisps flailed about her 
bun, but the only notice she took was to catch her embroidery hoop just before 
it was blown from the table. "I prefer that name. But you can't expect me to be 
impressed by crowns. I've paddled the bottoms of two reigning kings and three 
queens. Not sitting rulers, you understand, once I was done with them, not for a 
day or so, but it did get their attention. You can see why crowns don't impress 
me, though."
Rand eased his jaw. Grinding his teeth would not help. He widened his eyes, 
hoping he looked insane instead of simply furious. "Most Aes Sedai avoid the Sun 
Palace," he told her. "Except for those who have sworn fealty to me. And those I 
hold prisoner." Light, what was he to do with those? As long as the Wise Ones 
kept them out of his hair, all was well enough.
"The Aiel seem to think I should come and go as I please," she said absently, 
eyeing the hoop in her hand as if thinking of taking up her needle again. "A 
matter of some trifling help I gave some boy or other. Though why anyone but his 
mother should think him worth it, I can hardly say."
Rand made another effort not to grind his teeth. The woman had saved his life. 
Her and Darner Flinn between them, and plenty of others in the bargain, Min 
among them. But he still owed Cadsuane something for that. Burn her. "I want you 
to be my advisor. I'm King of Illian now, and kings have Aes Sedai advisors."
She gave his crown a dismissive glance. "Certainly not. An advisor has to stand 
and watch her charge make a muddle much too often to suit me. She also has to 
take orders, something I am particularly bad at. Won't someone else do? Alanna, 
perhaps?"
Despite himself, Rand sat up straight. Did she know about the bond? Merana had 
said it was hard to keep anything from her. No; he could worry later about how 
much his "faithful" Aes Sedai were telling Cadsuane. Light, he wished Min could 
be wrong for once. But he would believe himself breathing water, first. "I . . . 
" He could not make himself tell her that he needed her. No halter! "What if you 
didn't have to swear any oaths?"
"I suppose that might work," she said doubtfully, peering at her cursed 
stitchery. Her eyes rose to his. Considering. "You sound . . . uneasy. I don't 
like to tell a man he's afraid even when he has reason to be. Uneasy over a 
sister you haven't turned into a tame lapdog snaring you in some fashion? Let me 
see. I can make you a few promises; perhaps they will set your mind at rest. I 
expect you to listen, of course  --  make me waste my breath, and you'll yelp for 
it  --  but I won't make you do what I want. I won't tolerate anyone lying to me, 
certainly  --  that's another thing you'll find decidedly uncomfortable  --  but I 
don't expect you to tell me the deepest yearnings of your heart, either. Oh, 
yes. Whatever I do, it will be for your own good; not mine, not the good of the 
White Tower, yours. Now, does that ease your fears? Pardon me. Your unease."
Wondering whether he was supposed to laugh, Rand stared at her. "Do they teach 
you how to do that?" he demanded. "Make a promise sound a threat, I mean."
"Oh, I see. You want rules. Most boys do, whatever they say. Very well. Let me 
see. I cannot abide incivility. So you will be properly civil to me, to my 
friends, and my guests. That includes not channeling at them, in case you 
haven't guessed, and holding your temper, which I understand is memorable. It 
also takes in your . . . companions in those black coats. A pity if I had to 
spank you for something one of them did. Does that suffice? I can make more, if 
you need them."
Rand set his cup down beside the chair. The tea had gone cold as well as bitter. 
Snow was beginning to pile up in drifts beneath the windows. "I'm the one who's 
supposed to go mad, Aes Sedai, but you already are." Rising, he strode for the 
door.
"I do hope you haven't tried to use Callandor" she said complacently behind him. 
"I have heard it's vanished from the Stone. You managed to escape once, but you 
might not twice."
He stopped short, looking over his shoulder. The woman was pushing that bloody 
needle through the cloth stretched on her hoop! The wind gusted, swirling snow 
around her, and she did not even lift her head. "What do you mean, escape?"
"What?" She did not look up. "Oh. Very few even in the Tower knew what Callandor 
is before you drew it, but there are surprising things hidden in musty corners 
of the Tower Library. I went rummaging some years ago, when I first had the 
suspicion you might be suckling at your mother's breast. Just before I decided 
to go back into retirement. Babes are messy things, and I could not see how to 
find you before you stopped dripping at one end or the other."
"What do you mean?" he demanded roughly.
Cadsuane looked up then, and with her hair flung about and snow settling on her 
dress, she looked a queen. "I told you I cannot abide incivility. If you ask for 
my help again, I expect you to ask politely. And I will expect an apology for 
your behavior today!"
"What do you mean about Callandor!"
"It is flawed," she replied curtly, "lacking the buffer that makes other 
sa'angreal safe to use. And it apparently magnifies the taint, inducing wildness 
of the mind. So long as a man is using it, anyway. The only safe way for you to 
use The Sword That Is Not a Sword, the only way to use it without the risk of 
killing yourself, or trying to do the Light alone knows what insanity, is linked 
with two women, and one of them guiding the flows."
Trying not to hunch his shoulders, he strode away from her. So it had been not 
just the wildness of saidin around Ebou Dar that had killed Adley. He had 
murdered the man the moment he sent Narishma for the thing.
Cadsuane's voice pursued him. "Remember, boy. You must ask very nicely, and 
apologize. I might even agree, if your apology sounds truly sincere."
Rand barely heard her. He had hoped to use Callandor again, hoped it would be 
strong enough. Now only one chance remained, and it terrified him. He seemed to 
hear another woman's voice, a dead woman's voice. You could challenge the 
Creator.
Chapter 28
Crimsonthorn
It hardly seemed the setting for the explosion Elayne feared. Harlon Bridge was 
a village of moderate size, with three inns and enough houses that no one had to 
sleep in a hayloft. When Elayne and Birgitte went downstairs to the common room 
that morning, Mistress Dill, the round innkeeper, smiled warmly and offered as 
much of a curtsy as her size allowed. It was not just that Elayne was Aes Sedai. 
Mistress Dill was so pleased that her inn was full, what with the roads 
snowpacked, that she bobbed at nearly everyone. At their entrance, Aviendha 
hastily gulped the last of her breakfast bread and cheese, brushed a few crumbs 
from her green dress, and snatched up her dark cloak to join them.
Outside, the sun was just peeking over the horizon, a low dome of pale yellow. 
Only a few clouds marred a beautiful blue sky, and they were white and fluffy, 
not the sort to carry snow. It seemed a wonderful day for traveling.
Except that Adeleas was trampling a path up the snowy street, and the 
white-haired sister was dragging one of the Kin, Garenia Rosoinde, by her arm. 
Garenia was a slim-hipped Saldaean who had spent the last twenty years as a 
merchant although she looked only a few years older than Nynaeve did. Normally, 
her strongly hooked nose gave her a forceful appearance, a woman who would make 
hard trading and not back away. Now her dark tilted eyes were large in her face 
and her wide mouth hung open, emitting a wordless wail. A growing knot of 
Kinswomen followed behind, skirts held high out of the snow, whispering among 
themselves, with more running from every direction to join. Reanne and the rest 
of the Knitting Circle were in the front, all grim-faced except for Kirstian, 
who seemed even paler than usual. Alise was there, too, wearing an utterly blank 
expression.
Adeleas stopped in front of Elayne and shoved Garenia so hard the woman fell to 
hands and knees in the snow. Where she stayed, still wailing. The Kinswomen 
gathered behind her, more of their number flocking in.
"I'm bringing this to you because Nynaeve is busy," the Brown sister told 
Elayne. She meant that Nynaeve was enjoying a little time alone with Lan 
somewhere, but for once, not so much as a hint of a smile crossed her lips. "Be 
quiet, child!" she snapped at Garenia. Who promptly went silent. Adeleas gave a 
satisfied nod. "This is not Garenia Rosoinde," she said. "I finally recognized 
her. Zarya Alkaese, a novice who ran away just before Vandene and I decided to 
retire and write our history of the world. She admitted it, when I confronted 
her. I'm surprised Careane didn't recognize her before this; they were novices 
together for two years. The law is clear, Elayne. A runaway must be put back in 
white as soon as possible and kept under strict discipline until she can be 
returned to the Tower for proper punishment. She won't think of running again 
after that!"
Elayne nodded slowly, trying to think of what to say. Whether or not Garenia  --  
Zarya  --  thought of running again, she would not be allowed the opportunity. She 
was very strong in the Power; the Tower would not let her go if it took the rest 
of her life to earn the shawl. But Elayne was recalling something she had heard 
this woman say the first time she met her. The meaning had not registered then, 
but now it did. How would Zarya face novice white again after living as her own 
woman for seventy years? Worse, those whispers among the Kinswomen had begun to 
sound like rumbles.
She did not have long to think. Suddenly Kirstian fell to her knees, clutching 
at Adeleas' skirts with one hand. "I submit myself," she said calmly, her tone a 
wonder coming from that bloodless face. "I was enrolled in the novice book 
almost three hundred years ago, and ran away less than a year later. I submit 
myself, and . . . and beg mercy."
It was white-haired Adeleas' turn to go wide-eyed. Kirstian was claiming to have 
run away from the White Tower when she herself was an infant, if not before she 
was born! Most of the sisters still did not really believe the ages claimed by 
the Kin. Indeed, Kirstian appeared just into her middle years.
Even so, Adeleas recovered herself quickly. However old the other woman was, 
Adeleas had been Aes Sedai about as long as anyone living. She carried an aura 
of age, and authority. "If that is so, child," her voice did falter just a bit 
at that, "I fear we must put you in white, too. You will still be punished, but 
surrendering as you have will gain you some mitigation."
"That is why I did it." Kirstian's steady tone was spoiled somewhat by a hard 
swallow. She was almost as strong as Zarya  --  none of the Knitting Circle were 
weak  --  and she would be held very closely. "I knew you would find me out sooner 
or later."
Adeleas nodded as though that were clearly obvious, though how the woman would 
have been found out, Elayne could not guess. She very much doubted that Kirstian 
Chalwin was the name the woman had been born with. Most of the Kin believed in 
Aes Sedai omniscience, though. They had, at least.
"Rubbish!" Sarainya Vostovan's husky voice cut through the murmured babble of 
the Kin. Neither strong enough to become Aes Sedai nor nearly old enough to 
stand very high among the Kin, she still stepped from the pack defiantly. "Why 
should we give them up to the White Tower? We have helped women run away, and 
rightly so! It is not part of the rules to give them back!" "Control yourself!" 
Reanne said sharply. "Alise, take Sarainya in hand, please. It seems she forgets 
too many of the rules she claims to know."
Alise looked at Reanne, her face still unreadable. Alise, who enforced the Kin's 
rules with a firm hand. "It is not part of our rules to hand runaways back, 
Reanne," she said.
Reanne jerked as though struck. "And how do you suggest keeping them?" she 
demanded finally. "We have always held runaways apart until we were sure they 
were no longer hunted, and if they were found before, we let the sisters take 
them. That is the rule, Alise. What other rule do you propose violating? Do you 
suggest that we actually set ourselves against Aes Sedai?" Ridicule of such a 
notion larded her voice, yet Alise stood looking at her, silent.
"Yes!" a voice shouted from the crowd of Kinswomen. "We are many, and they are 
few!" Adeleas stared at the crowd in disbelief. Elayne embraced saidar, though 
she knew the voice was right  --  the Kin were too many. She felt Aviendha 
embracing the Power, and Birgitte setting herself.
Giving herself a shake as if coming to, Alise did something far more practical, 
certainly far more effective. "Sarainya," she said loudly, "you will report to 
me when we stop tonight, with a switch you cut yourself before we leave this 
morning. You, too, Asra; I recognize your voice!" And then, just as loudly, she 
said to Reanne, "I will report myself for your judgment when we stop tonight. I 
don't see anyone getting ready!"
The Kinswomen broke up quickly then, heading off to gather their things, yet 
Elayne saw some of them talking quietly as they went. When they rode over the 
bridge across the frozen stream that wound down beside the village, with Nynaeve 
incredulous over what she had missed and glaring about for someone to call down, 
Sarainya and Asra carried switches  --  as did Alise  --  and Zarya and Kirstian wore 
hastily found white dresses beneath their dark cloaks. The Windfinders pointed 
at them and laughed uproariously. But many of the Kinswomen still talked in 
clusters, falling silent whenever a sister or one of the Knitting Circle looked 
at them. And there was a darkness to their eyes when they looked at Aes Sedai.
Eight more days of floundering through the snow when it was not falling, and 
grinding her teeth in an inn when it was. Eight more days of brooding by the 
Kin, of staring bleakly at the sisters, days of strutting by the Windfinders 
around Kin and Aes Sedai alike. On the morning of the ninth day, Elayne began to 
wish everyone had simply gone for everyone else's throat.
She was just wondering whether they could cover the last ten miles to Caemlyn 
without a murder, when Kirstian rapped at her door and darted in without waiting 
for an answer. The woman's plain woolen dress was not the shade of white proper 
for a novice, and she had regained much of her dignity somehow, as if knowing 
her future had smoothed her present, but now she made a hasty curtsy, almost 
tripping over her cloak, and her nearly black eyes were anxious. "Nynaeve Sedai, 
Elayne Sedai, Lord Lan says you are to come at once," she said breathlessly. "He 
told me to speak to no one, and you aren't to, either."
Elayne and Nynaeve exchanged looks with Aviendha and Birgitte. Nynaeve growled 
something under her breath about the man not knowing private from public, but it 
was clear before she blushed that she did not believe it. Elayne felt Birgitte 
focus, the drawn arrow hunting a target.
Kirstian did not know what Lan wanted, only where she was to lead them. The 
small hut outside of Cullen's Crossing where Adeleas had taken Ispan the night 
before. Lan stood outside, his eyes as cold as the air, and would not let 
Kirstian enter. When Elayne went inside, she saw why.
Adeleas lay on her side beside an overturned stool, a cup on the rough wooden 
floor not far from one outstretched hand. Her eyes stared, and a pool of 
congealed blood spread out from the deep slash across her throat. Ispan lay on a 
small cot, staring at the ceiling. Lips drawn back in a rictus bared her teeth, 
and her bulging eyes seemed full of horror. As well they might have, since a 
wrist-thick wooden stake stood out from between her breasts. The hammer that had 
plainly been used to drive it in lay beside the cot, on the edge of a dark stain 
that ran back under the cot. Elayne forced herself to stop thinking about 
emptying her stomach on the spot. "Light," she breathed. "Light! Who could do 
this? How could anyone do this?" Aviendha shook her head wonderingly, and Lan 
did not even bother with that. He just watched nine directions at once, as 
though he expected whoever, or whatever, had committed this murder to come 
through one of the two tiny windows if not through the walls. Birgitte drew her 
belt knife, and by her face, she dearly wished she had her bow. That drawn arrow 
was stronger than ever in Elayne's head.
At first, Nynaeve simply stood in one spot, studying the hut's interior. There 
was little to see, aside from the obvious. A second three-legged stool, a rough 
table holding a flickering lamp, a green teapot and a second cup, a rude stone 
fireplace with cold ash on the hearthstone. That was all. The hut was so small 
it only took Nynaeve a step to reach the table. Dipping her finger into the 
teapot, she touched it to the tip of her tongue, then spat vigorously and 
emptied the whole teapot into the table in a wash of tea and tea leaves. Elayne 
blinked wonderingly.
"What happened?" Vandene asked coolly from the door. Lan moved to bar her way, 
but she stopped him with a small gesture. Elayne started to put an arm around 
her, and received another raised hand to keep her back. Vandene's eyes remained 
on her sister, calm in a face of Aes Sedai serenity. The dead woman on the cot 
might as well not have existed. "When I saw all of you heading this way, I 
thought . . . We knew we didn't have many years remaining, but . . . " Her voice 
sounded serenity itself, but small wonder if that was a mask. "What have you 
found, Nynaeve?"
Sympathy looked odd on Nynaeve's face. Clearing her throat, she pointed to the 
tea leaves without touching them. To white shavings among the matted black 
leaves. "This is crimsonthorn root," she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact 
and failing. "It's sweet, so you might miss it in tea unless you know what it 
is, especially if you take a lot of honey."
Vandene nodded, never taking her eyes from her sister. "Adeleas developed a 
taste for sweet tea in Ebou Dar."
"A little kills pain," Nynaeve said. "This much . . . This much kills, but 
slowly. Even a few sips would be enough." Taking a deep breath, she added, "They 
might have remained conscious for hours. Not able to move, but aware. Either 
whoever did this didn't want to risk someone coming too soon with an antidote  --  
not that I know one, for a brew this strong  --  or else they wanted one or the 
other to know who was killing them." Elayne gasped at the brutality, but Vandene 
simply nodded.
"Ispan, I think, since they appear to have taken the most time with her." The 
white-haired Green almost seemed to be thinking aloud, working out a puzzle. 
Cutting a throat took less time than driving a stake through someone's heart. 
The calm of her made Elayne's skin crawl. "Adeleas would never have accepted 
anything to drink from someone she didn't know, not out here with Ispan. Those 
two facts name her killer, in a way. A Darkfriend, and one of our party. One of 
us." Elayne felt two chills, her own, and Birgitte's.
"One of us," Nynaeve agreed sadly. Aviendha began testing the edge of her belt 
knife on her thumb, and for once, Elayne felt no objection.
Vandene asked to be left alone with her sister for a few moments, and sat on the 
floor to cradle Adeleas in her arms before they were out of the door. Jaem, 
Vandene's gnarled old Warder, was waiting outside with a shivering Kirstian.
Suddenly a wail burst out inside the hut, the full-throated cry of a woman 
mourning the loss of everything. Nynaeve, of all people, turned to go back, but 
Lan laid a hand on her arm, and Jaem planted himself before the door with eyes 
not much warmer than Lan's. There was nothing to do but leave them, Vandene to 
shriek her pain, and Jaem to guard her in it. And share it, Elayne realized, 
feeling that knot of emotions in her head that was Birgitte. She shivered, and 
Birgitte put an arm around her shoulders. Aviendha did the same from the other 
side, and motioned for Nynaeve to join them, which she did, after a moment. The 
murder Elayne had thought of so lightly had come, one of their companions was a 
Darkfriend, and the day suddenly felt cold enough to shatter bones, but there 
was a warmth in the closeness of her friends.
The last ten funereal miles to Caemlyn took two days in the snow, with even the 
Windfinders decently subdued. Not that they pushed Merilille any less hard. Not 
that Kin stopped talking, and falling silent whenever a sister or one of the 
Knitting Circle came near. Vandene, with her sister's silver-mounted saddle on 
her horse, appeared as serene as she had at Adeleas' graveside, but Jaem's eyes 
carried a silent promise of death that surely rode in Vandene's heart, too. 
Elayne could not have been happier to see the walls and towers of Caemlyn if the 
very sight had given her the Rose Crown and brought back Adeleas.
Even Caemlyn, one of the great cities of the world, had never seen the likes of 
their party before, and once inside the fifty-foot walls of gray stone they 
attracted notice as they crossed the New City along wide, slush-filled streets 
bustling with people and carts and wagons. Shopkeepers stood in their doorways 
and gaped. Wagon drivers reined in their teams to stare. Towering Aielmen and 
tall Maidens eyed them from every corner, it seemed. The people seemed to take 
no notice of the Aiel, but Elayne did. She loved Aviendha as she did herself, 
more, but she could not love an army of armed Aiel walking Caemlyn's streets.
The Inner City, ringed by towered walls of silver-streaked white, was a 
remembered delight, and Elayne finally began to feel that she was coming home. 
The streets followed the curves of the hills, and every rise presented a new 
vista of snow-covered parks and monuments laid out to be seen from above as well 
as up close, of brightly tiled towers shining with a hundred colors in the 
afternoon sun. And then the Royal Palace itself was before them, a confection of 
pale spires and golden domes and intricate stonework traceries. The banner of 
Andor waved from nearly every prominence, the White Lion on red. And from the 
others, the Dragon Banner or the Banner of Light.
At the tall gilded gates of the Palace, Elayne rode forward alone in her 
travel-stained gray riding dress. Tradition and legend said women who first 
approached the Palace in splendor always failed. She had made clear that she had 
to do it alone, yet she almost wished Aviendha and Birgitte had succeeded in 
overruling her. Half the two dozen guards in front of the gates were Aiel 
Maidens, the others men in blue helmets and blue coats with a red-and-gold 
Dragon marching across the chest.
"I am Elayne Trakand," she announced loudly, surprised at how calm she sounded. 
Her voice carried, and across the great plaza people turned from staring at her 
companions to stare at her. The ancient formula rolled from her tongue. "In the 
name of House Trakand, by right of descent from Ishara, I have come to claim the 
Lion Throne of Andor, if the Light wills it so."
The gates opened wide.
It would not be that easy, of course. Even possession of the Palace was not 
enough to hold the throne of Andor by itself. Passing her companions into the 
care of an astonished Reene Harfor  --  and very pleased to see that the graying 
First Maid, round and as regal as any queen, still had the Palace in her capable 
hands  --  and a coterie of servants in red-and-white livery, Elayne hurried to the 
Grand Hall, the throne room of Andor. Alone, again. This was not part of the 
ritual, not yet. She should have been going to change into the red silk with the 
pearl-worked bodice and white lions climbing the sleeves, but she felt 
compelled. This time, not even Nynaeve tried to object.
White columns twenty paces high marched down the sides of the Grand Hall. The 
throne room was empty, still. That would not last long. Clear afternoon light 
through the glassed casements in tall windows along the walls mingled with the 
colored light through the great windows set in the ceiling, where the White Lion 
of Andor alternated with scenes of Andoran victories and the faces of the land's 
earliest queens, beginning with Ishara herself, as dark as any of the Atha'an 
Miere, as full of authority as any Aes Sedai. No ruler of Andor could forget 
herself with the predecessors who had forged this nation staring down at her.
One thing she feared to see  --  the huge monstrosity of a throne, all gilded 
Dragons, that she had seen standing on the dais at the far end of the Hall in 
Tel'aran'rhiod. It was not there, thank the Light. The Lion Throne no longer 
rested on a tall plinth like some trophy, either, but kept its proper place upon 
the dais, a massive chair, carved and gilded, but sized for a woman. The White 
Lion, picked out in moonstones on a field of rubies, would stand above the head 
of any woman who sat there. No man could feel at his ease sitting on that 
throne, because, so legend said, he would know he had sealed his doom. Elayne 
thought it more likely the builders had simply made sure a man would not fit on 
it easily.
Climbing the white marble steps of the dais, she laid a hand on one arm of the 
throne. She had no right to sit on it herself, not yet. Not until she was 
acknowledged Queen. But taking oaths on the Lion Throne was a custom as old as 
Andor. She had to resist the desire to simply fall on her knees and weep into 
the throne's seat. Reconciled to her mother's death she might be, but this 
brought back all the pain. She could not break down now.
"Under the Light, I will honor your memory, Mother," she said softly. "I will 
honor the name of Morgase Trakand, and try to bring only honor to House 
Trakand."
"I ordered the guards to keep the curious and the favor-seekers away. I 
suspected you might want to be alone here for a time."
Elayne turned slowly to face Dyelin Taravin, as the golden-haired woman walked 
the length of the Grand Hall. Dyelin had been one of her mother's earliest 
supporters in her own quest for the throne. There was more gray in her hair than 
Elayne remembered, more lines at the corners of her eyes. She was still quite 
beautiful. A strong woman. And powerful as friend or foe.
She stopped at the foot of the dais, looking up. "I've been hearing for two days 
that you were alive, but I didn't really believe it until now. You've come to 
accept the throne from the Dragon Reborn, then?"
"I claim the throne by my own right, Dyelin, with my own hand. The Lion Throne 
is no bauble to be accepted from a man." Dyelin nodded, as at self-evident 
truth. Which it was, to any Andoran. "How do you stand, Dyelin? With Trakand, or 
against? I have heard your name often on my way here."
"Since you claim the throne by your own right, with." Few people could sound as 
dry as she. Elayne sat down on the top step, and motioned the older woman to 
join her. "There are a few obstacles, of course," Dyelin went on as she gathered 
her blue skirts to sit. "There have been several claimants already, as you may 
know. Naean and Elenia, I have securely locked up. On a charge of treason that 
most people seem willing to accept. For the time being. Elenia's husband is 
still active for her, though quietly, and Arymilla has announced a claim, the 
silly goose. She's getting support of a kind, but nothing that need worry you. 
Your real worries  --  aside from Aiel all over the city waiting for the Dragon 
Reborn to come back  --  are Aemlyn, Arathelle, and Pelivar. For the moment, Luan 
and Ellorien will be behind you, but they might go over to those three."
A very succinct list, delivered in a tone suitable for discussing a possible 
horse trade. Naean and Elenia she knew about, if not that Jarid still thought 
his wife had a chance at the throne.
Arymilla was a goose to believe she would be accepted, whatever her support. The 
last five names were worrying, though. Each had been as strong a supporter of 
her mother, as had Dyelin, and each led a strong House.
"So Arathelle and Aemlyn want the throne," Elayne murmured. "I can't believe it 
of Ellorien, not for herself." Pelivar might be acting for one of his daughters, 
but Luan had only granddaughters, none near old enough. "You spoke as if they 
might unite, all five Houses. Behind whom?" That would be a dire threat.
Smiling, Dyelin propped her chin in her hand. "They seem to think I should have 
the throne. Now, what do you intend about the Dragon Reborn? He hasn't been back 
here in some time, but he can pop out of the air, it seems."
Elayne squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, but when she opened them, she was 
still sitting on the steps of the dais in the Grand Hall, and Dyelin was still 
smiling at her. Her brother fought for Elaida, and her half-brother was a 
Whitecloak. She had filled the Palace with women who might turn on one another 
at any moment, not to mention the fact that one was a Darkfriend, maybe even 
Black Ajah. And the strongest threat she faced in claiming the throne, a very 
strong one, stood behind a woman who said she supported Elayne. The world was 
quite mad. She might as well add her bit.
"I mean to bond him my Warder," she said, and went on before the other woman 
could more than blink in astonishment. "I also hope to marry him. Those things 
have nothing to do with the Lion Throne, however. The very first thing I intend 
. . . "
As she went on, Dyelin began to laugh. Elayne wished she knew whether it was 
from delight over her plans or because Dyelin saw her own path to the Lion 
Throne being made smooth. At least she knew what she faced, now.
 
Riding into Caemlyn, Daved Hanlon could not help thinking what a city for the 
looting it was. In his years soldiering, he had seen many villages and towns 
looted, and once, twenty years ago, a great city, Cairhien, after the Aiel left. 
Strange that all these Aiel had left Caemlyn so apparently untouched, but then, 
if the tallest towers in Cairhien had not been burning, it might have been hard 
to know they had been there; plenty of gold, among other things, lying about for 
the picking up, and plenty of men to do the picking. He could see these broad 
streets full of horsemen and fleeing people, fat merchants who would give up 
their gold before the knife touched them in the hope their lives would be 
spared, slim girls and plump women so terrified when they were dragged into a 
corner that they could hardly manage to squeal, much less struggle. He had seen 
those things and done them, and he hoped to again. Not in Caemlyn, though, he 
admitted with a sigh. If the orders that sent him here had been the sort he 
could disobey, he would have gone where the pickings might not be so rich, but 
definitely easier to pluck.
His instructions had been clear. Stabling his horse at The Red Bull, in the New 
City, he walked a mile to a tall stone house on a side street, the house of a 
wealthy merchant discreet about her gold, marked with a tiny painted sigil on 
the doors, a red heart on a golden hand. The hulking fellow who let him in was 
no merchant's servant, with his sunken knuckles and sullen eyes. Without a word, 
the huge man led him deeper into the house, then down, toward the basements. 
Hanlon eased his sword in its scabbard. Among the things he had seen were men 
and women, failures, led to their own very elaborate executions. He did not 
think he had failed, but then again, he had hardly succeeded. He had followed 
orders, though. Which was not always enough.
In the rough stone basement, lit by gilded lamps set all around, his eyes went 
first to a pretty woman in a lace-trimmed dress of scarlet silk, with her hair 
caught in frothy lace net. He did not know who this Lady Shiaine was, but his 
orders had been to obey her. He made his best leg, smiling. She simply looked at 
him, as if waiting for him to notice what else the basement held.
He could hardly have missed it, since except for a few casks the room held only 
a large heavy table, decorated in a very strange fashion. Two ovals had been cut 
in the tabletop, and from one stuck the head and shoulders of a man, his head 
wrenched back against the wooden surface and held there by means of leather 
straps nailed to the tabletop and fastened to a block of wood jammed between his 
teeth. A woman, prepared the same, provided the other decoration. Beneath the 
table, they knelt with wrists tied to ankles. Quite securely held for any sort 
of pleasure. The man had a touch of gray in his hair and the face of a lord, but 
unsurprisingly, his deep-set eyes rolled wildly. The woman's hair, spread out on 
the table, was dark and glossy, but her face was a little long for Hanlon's 
taste.
Suddenly he really saw her face, and his hand leaped to his sword before he 
could stop it. Releasing the hilt took some effort, which he made pains to hide. 
An Aes Sedai's face, but an Aes Sedai who let herself be fastened like that was 
no threat.
"So you have some brains," Shiaine said. By her accents, she was a noble, and 
she certainly had the commanding air, sweeping around the table to peer down 
into the bound man's face. "I asked the Great Master Moridin to send me a man 
with brains. Poor Jaichim here has very few."
Hanlon frowned, and smoothed it away immediately. His orders had come from 
Moghedien herself. Who in the Pit of Doom was Moridin? It did not matter. His 
orders had come from Moghedien; that was enough.
The hulking fellow handed Shiaine a funnel, which she fitted into a hole bored 
through the block of wood between this Jaichim's teeth. The man's eyes seemed 
ready to leap from his head. "Poor Jaichim here failed very badly," Shiaine 
said, smiling like a fox looking at a chicken. "Moridin wishes him punished. 
Poor Jaichim does like his brandy."
She stepped back, not so far that she could not see clearly, and Hanlon gave a 
start as the hulking man came to the table with one of the casks. Hanlon did 
think he could have lifted the thing unaided, but the big man tipped it easily. 
The bound man shrieked once, and then a stream of dark liquid was pouring from 
the cask into the funnel, turning his cry to gurgling. The rough smell of crude 
brandy filled the air. Secured as he was, the man fought, thrashing about, even 
managing to heave the table sideways, but the brandy kept pouring. Bubbles rose 
in the funnel as he tried to shout or scream, but the steady stream never 
faltered. And then his thrashing slowed and stopped. Wide, glazing eyes stared 
up the ceiling, and brandy trickled from his nostrils. The big fellow still did 
not stop until the last drops fell from an empty cask.
"I think poor Jaichim has finally had enough brandy," Shiaine said, and laughed 
in delight.
Hanlon nodded. He supposed the man had, at that. He wondered who he had been.
Shiaine was not quite finished. At a gesture from her, the hulking man ripped 
one of the straps holding the Aes Sedai's gag off of its nail. Hanlon thought 
the wooden block might have loosened a few of her teeth coming out of her mouth, 
but if so, she did not waste time on them. She began babbling before the fellow 
let go of the strap.
"I will obey you!" she howled. "I will obey, as the Great Master commanded! He 
set the shield on me to dissolve so I could obey! He told me so! Let me prove 
myself! I will crawl! I am a worm, and you are the sun! Oh, please! Please! 
Please!"
Shiaine stifled words if not whimpers by putting a hand over the Aes Sedai's 
mouth. "How do I know you won't fail again, Falion? You have failed before, and 
Moridin left your punishment to me. He gave me another; do I need two of you? I 
may give you a second chance to plead your case, Falion  --  perhaps  --  but if I do, 
you will have to convince me. I will expect true enthusiasm."
Falion began screaming pleas again, making extravagant promises, the moment 
Shiaine's hand moved, but soon enough she was reduced to wordless shrieks and 
tears as the gag was replaced, the nail driven through the strap again, and 
Jaichim's funnel placed above her gaping throat. The hulking man stood another 
cask on the table beside her head. The Aes Sedai seemed to go mad, bulging eyes 
rolling, flinging herself about below the table till it trembled.
Hanlon was impressed. An Aes Sedai must be harder to break than a plump merchant 
or his round-cheeked daughter. Still, she had had the help of one of the Chosen, 
it seemed. Realizing that Shiaine was looking at him, he stopped smiling down at 
Falion. His first rule in life was never to offend those the Chosen set above 
him.
"Tell me, Hanlon," Shiaine said, "how would you like to put your hands on a 
queen?"
He licked his lips in spite of himself. A queen? That he had never done.
 
Don't be an utter wool-head, Rand," Min said. Making herself remain seated, she 
crossed her legs and kicked her foot idly, but she could not keep exasperation 
out of her voice. "Go to her! Speak to her!"
"Why?" he snapped. "I know which letter to believe, now. It's better this way. 
She's safe, now. From anyone who wants to strike at me. Safe from me! It's 
better!" But he stalked up and down in his shirtsleeves between the two rows of 
chairs in front of the Dragon Throne, his fists white-knuckle hard, glaring to 
beat the black clouds beyond the casements that were laying a new blanket of 
snow on Cairhien.
Min exchanged looks with Fedwin Morr, who stood by the sun-carved doors. The 
Maidens now let anyone who was not an obvious threat walk in unannounced, but 
those Rand did not want to see this morning would be turned away by the husky 
boy. He wore the Dragon and Sword on his black collar, and Min knew he had 
already seen more battles  --  more horror  --  than most men three times his age, yet 
he was a boy. Today, casting uneasy glances at Rand, he seemed younger than 
ever. The sword on his hip still looked out of place, to her.
"The Dragon Reborn is a man, Fedwin," she said. "And like any man, he's sulking 
because he thinks a woman doesn't want to see him again."
Goggling, the boy jerked as if she had goosed him. Rand stopped to scowl at her 
sullenly. All that kept her from laughing was knowing that he was hiding pain as 
real as any stab wound. That, and the sure knowledge that he would be as hurt if 
she had done what had been done. Not that she would ever have the chance to rip 
down his banners, but the point applied. Rand had been stunned at first by the 
news Taim brought from Caemlyn at dawn, but as soon as the man left, he had 
stopped looking like a poleaxed bull and started . . . This!
Standing, she adjusted her pale green coat, folded her arms beneath her breasts, 
and confronted him directly. "What else can it be?" she asked calmly. Well, she 
tried for calm, and almost made it. She loved the man, but after a morning of 
this, she wanted to box his ears soundly. "You haven't mentioned Mat twice, and 
you don't know whether he's even alive."
"Mat's alive," Rand snarled. "I'd know if he was dead. What do you mean I'm  -- !" 
His jaw clenched as if he could not make himself say the word.
"Sulking," she provided. "Soon, you'll be pouting. Some women think men are 
prettier when they pout. I'm not one of them." Well, enough of that. His face 
had darkened, and he was not blushing. "Haven't you twisted yourself into knots 
to make sure she got the throne of Andor? Which is hers by right, might I add. 
Didn't you say you wanted her to have Andor whole, not ripped apart like 
Cairhien or Tear?"
"I did!" he roared. "And now it's hers, and she wants me out of it! Good enough, 
I say! And don't tell me again to stop shouting! I'm not  -- !" He realized that he 
was, and clamped his teeth shut. A low growl came from his throat. Morr set to 
studying one of his buttons, twisting it back and forth. He had been doing a lot 
of that this morning.
Min kept her face smooth. She was not going to slap him, and he was too big for 
her to spank. "Andor is hers, just as you wanted," she said. Calmly. Almost. 
"None of the Forsaken are going after her now she's torn your banners down." A 
dangerous light appeared in those blue-gray eyes, but she pressed on. "Just as 
you wanted. And you can't believe she's siding with your enemies. Andor will 
follow the Dragon Reborn, and you know it. So the only reason for you to be in a 
snit is because you think she doesn't want to see you. Go to her, you fool!" The 
next part was the hardest to say. "Before you can say two words, she'll be 
kissing you." Light, she loved Elayne almost as much as she did Rand  --  maybe as 
much, in a very different way  --  but how was a woman to compete with a beautiful 
golden-haired queen who had a powerful nation at her beck and call?
"I am not . . . angry," Rand said in a tight voice. And started pacing again. 
Min considered kicking him square in the bottom. Hard.
One of the doors opened to admit leathery white-haired Sorilea, who brushed Morr 
aside even as he was looking to see whether Rand wanted her allowed entry. Rand 
opened his mouth  --  angrily, whatever he chose to claim  --  and five women in thick 
black robes damp with melted snow followed the Wise One into the room, hands 
folded, eyes down, and deep hoods not quite hiding their faces. Their feet were 
wrapped in rags.
Min's scalp prickled. To her eyes, images and auras danced and vanished and were 
replaced around all six women, just as around Rand. She had been hoping he had 
forgotten those five were alive. What in the name of the Light was that wicked 
old woman doing?
Sorilea gestured once in a clatter of gold and ivory bracelets, and the five 
hastily arranged themselves in a line atop the golden Rising Sun set in the 
stone floor. Rand strode along that row, stripping back hoods, baring faces that 
he stared into cold-eyed.
Every one of the black-robed women was unwashed, her hair lank and dirty with 
sweat. Elza Penfell, a Green sister, met his gaze eagerly, a strangely fervent 
look on her face. Nesune Bihara, a slender Brown, studied him as intently as he 
did her. Sarene Nemdahl, so beautiful even in her dirt that you thought her 
agelessness must be natural, appeared to be holding to her White Ajah coolness 
by a fingernail. Beldeine Nyram, too new to the shawl to have the ageless 
features, essayed an uncertain smile that melted under his stare. Brian 
Boroleos, pale and almost as lovely as Sarene, flinched, then visibly forced 
herself to look into that frigid gaze. Those last two also were Green, and all 
five had been among the sisters who kidnapped him on Elaida's orders. Some had 
been among those who tortured him while trying to carry him to Tar Valon. 
Sometimes Rand still woke, sweating and panting, mumbling about being confined, 
being beaten. Min hoped she did not see murder in his stare.
"These were named da'tsang, Rand al'Thor," Sorilea said. "I think they feel 
their shame in the bone, now. Brian Boroleos was the first to ask to be beaten 
as you were, sunrise and sunset, but now each has done so. That plea has been 
granted. Each has asked to serve you however she may. The toh for their betrayal 
cannot be met," her voice darkened for a moment; to the Aiel, the betrayal of 
the kidnapping was far worse than what they had done after, "yet they know their 
shame, and they wish to try. We have decided to leave the choice to you."
Min frowned. Leave the choice to him? Wise Ones rarely left any choice they 
could make to anyone else. Sorilea never did. The sinewy Wise One casually 
shifted her dark shawl on her shoulders and watched Rand as if this was of no 
importance at all. But she shot one blue ice glance at Min, and suddenly Min was 
sure that if she said the wrong thing here, that bony old woman would have her 
hide. It was not a viewing. She just knew Sorilea better than she wanted to, by 
now.
Determinedly she set to studying what was appearing and vanishing around the 
women. No easy task when they stood so close together she could not be certain 
whether a particular image belonged to one woman or the woman next to her. At 
least the auras were always certain. Light, let her be able to understand at 
least some of what she saw!
Rand took Sorilea's announcement coolly, on the surface. He rubbed his hands 
together slowly, then thoughtfully examined the herons branded on his palms. He 
examined each of those Aes Sedai faces in turn. Finally, he focused on Brian.
"Why?" he asked her in a mild voice. "I killed two of your Warders. Why?" Min 
winced. Rand was many things, but seldom mild. And Brian was one of the few who 
had beaten him more than once.
The pale Illianer sister straightened. Images danced, and auras flashed and were 
gone. Nothing Min could read. Dirty-faced and her long black hair matted, Brian 
gathered Aes Sedai authority around her and met his gaze levelly. But her answer 
came simply and directly. "We did be wrong in taking you. I have considered long 
on it. You must fight the Last Battle, and we must help you. If you will no 
accept me, I do understand, but I will help as you do require if you will 
allow."
Rand stared at her without expression.
He put that same one-word question to each, and their answers were as different 
as the women.
"The Green is the Battle Ajah," Beldeine told him proudly, and despite smudges 
on her cheeks and dark circles beneath her eyes, she did look a Queen of 
Battles. But then, Saldaean women seemed to find that second nature. "When you 
go to Tarmon Gai'don, the Green must be there. I will follow, if you will accept 
me." Light, she was going to bond an Asha'man as a Warder! How . . .? No; it was 
not important now.
"What we did was logical at the time." Sarene's tightly held cool serenity 
slipped into clear worry, and she shook her head. "I say that to explain, not to 
exculpate. Circumstances have changed. For you, the logical course might seem to 
. . . " She drew a decidedly unsteady breath. Images and auras; a tempestuous 
love affair, of all things! The woman was ice, however beautiful. And there was 
nothing useful in knowing some man would melt her! "To send us back to 
captivity," she went on, "or even execute us. For me, logic says I must serve 
you."
Nesune tilted her head, and her nearly black eyes seemed to be trying to store 
away every scrap of him. One red-and-green aura spoke of honors, and fame. A 
huge building appeared above her head and vanished. A library she would found. 
"I want to study you," she said simply. "I can hardly do that carrying stones or 
digging holes. They do leave plenty of time for thought, but serving you seems a 
fair exchange for what I might learn." Rand blinked at the directness of that, 
but otherwise, his expression did not alter.
The most surprising answer came from Elza, in her manner of delivery more than 
the words. Sinking to her knees, she gazed up at Rand with feverish eyes. Her 
whole face seemed to shine with fervor. Auras flared and images cascaded around 
her, telling nothing. "You are the Dragon Reborn," she said breathlessly. "You 
must be there for the Last Battle. I must help you be there! Whatever is 
necessary, I will do!" And she flung herself facedown, pressing her lips to the 
polished stone floor in front of his boots. Even Sorilea looked taken aback, and 
Sarene's mouth dropped open. Morr gaped at her and hastily returned to twisting 
his button. Min thought he giggled nervously, almost under his breath. Turning 
on his heel, Rand stalked halfway to the Dragon Throne, where his scepter and 
the crown of Illian rested atop his gold-embroidered red coat. His face was so 
bleak that Min wanted to rush to him no matter who was watching, but she 
continued to study the Aes Sedai. And Sorilea. She had never seen anything 
really useful around that white-haired harridan.
Abruptly, Rand turned back, striding toward the line of women so quickly that 
Beldeine and Sarene stepped back. A sharp gesture from Sorilea jerked them into 
place again.
"Would you accept being confined in a box?" His voice grated, stone grinding on 
frozen stone. "Locked in a chest all day, and beaten before you go in and when 
you come out?" That was what they had done to him.
"Yes!" Elza moaned against the floor. "Whatever I must do, I will!"
"If you do require it," Brian managed shakily, and, faces aghast, the others 
nodded slowly.
Min stared in amazement, knotting her fists in her coat pockets. That he might 
think of getting his own back in the same manner seemed almost natural, but she 
had to stop it, somehow. She knew him better than he did himself; she knew where 
he was hard as a knife blade, and where he was vulnerable no matter how he 
denied it. He would never forgive himself this. But how? Fury contorted his 
face, and he shook his head as he did when arguing with that voice he heard. He 
muttered one word aloud that she understood. Ta'veren. Sorilea stood there 
calmly examining him as closely as Nesune did. Not even the threat of the chest 
shook the Brown. Except for Elza, still moaning and kissing the floor, the 
others were hollow-eyed, as if seeing themselves doubled up and bound as he had 
been.
Among all of those images spilling around Rand and the women, suddenly an aura 
flashed, blue and yellow tinged with green, encompassing them all. And Min knew 
its meaning. She gasped, half in surprise, half in relief.
"They will serve you, each in her fashion, Rand," she said hurriedly. "I saw 
it." Sorilea would serve him? Suddenly Min wondered exactly what "in her 
fashion" meant. The words came with the knowing, but she did not always know 
what the words themselves meant. But they would serve; that much was plain.
The fury drained from Rand's face as he silently studied the Aes Sedai. Some of 
them glanced at Min with raised eyebrows, obviously marveling that a few words 
from her carried so much weight, but for the most part, they watched Rand and 
hardly seemed to breathe. Even Elza lifted her head to gaze up at him. Sorilea 
gave Min one quick look, and the faintest nod. Approving, Min thought. So the 
old woman pretended not to care one way or the other, did she?
At last, Rand spoke. "You can swear to me as Kiruna and the others did. That, or 
go back to wherever the Wise Ones have been keeping you. I'll accept nothing 
less." Despite a hint of demand in his voice, he looked as if he, too, did not 
care, arms folded, eyes impatient. The oath he demanded of them came out in a 
rush.
Min did not expect quibbles, not after her viewing, yet it was still a surprise 
when Elza scrambled up to her knees, and the others lowered themselves to 
theirs. In ragged unison, five more Aes Sedai swore under the Light and by their 
hope of salvation to serve the Dragon Reborn faithfully until the Last Battle 
had come and gone. Nesune delivered the words as though examining each one, 
Sarene as if stating a principle of logic, Elza wearing a wide, victorious 
smile, but they all swore. How many Aes Sedai would he gather around him?
With the oath, Rand seemed to lose interest. "Find them clothes and put them 
with your other 'apprentices,'" he told Sorilea absently. He was frowning, but 
not at her or the Aes Sedai. "How many do you think you'll end up with?" Min 
almost jumped at the echo of her own thought.
"However many are necessary," Sorilea said dryly. "I think more will come." She 
clapped her hands once and gestured, and the five sisters sprang to their feet. 
Only Nesune looked surprised at the alacrity with which they had obeyed. Sorilea 
smiled, a very satisfied smile for an Aiel, and Min did not think it was caused 
by the other women's obedience.
Nodding, Rand turned away. He was already beginning to pace again, already 
beginning to scowl over Elayne. Min settled into her chair once more, wishing 
she had one of Master Pel's books to read. Or to throw at Rand. Well, one of 
Master Pel's to read, and someone else's to throw.
Sorilea herded the black-clad sisters out of the room, but at the last, she 
paused with one hand holding a door and looked back at Rand striding away from 
her toward the gilded throne. Her lips pursed thoughtfully. "That woman, 
Cadsuane Melaidhrin, is beneath this roof again today," she said at last, to his 
back. "I think she believes you are afraid of her, Rand al'Thor, the way you 
avoid her whereabouts." With that, she left.
For a long moment, Rand stood staring at the throne. Or maybe at something 
beyond it. Abruptly, he gave himself a shake and strode the remaining distance 
to pick up the Crown of Swords. On the point of setting it on his head, though, 
he hesitated, then put it back. Donning the coat, he left crown and scepter 
where they lay.
"I mean to find out what Cadsuane wants," he announced. "She doesn't come to the 
palace every day because she likes a trip through the snow. Will you come with 
me, Min? Maybe you'll have a viewing."
She was on her feet faster than any of those Aes Sedai. A visit with Cadsuane 
would likely be as pleasurable as a visit with Sorilea, yet anything was better 
than sitting there alone. Besides, maybe she would have a viewing. Fedwin fell 
in behind her and Rand with an alert look in his eyes.
The six Maidens outside in the tall vaulted hallway rose, but they did not 
follow. Somara was the only one Min knew; she gave Min a brief smile, and Rand a 
flat, disapproving stare. The others glowered. The Maidens had accepted his 
explanation about why he had gone without them in the first place, so any 
watchers would believe for as long as possible that he was still in Cairhien, 
but they still demanded to know why he had not sent for them afterward, and Rand 
had had no answers. He muttered something under his breath, and quickened his 
pace so Min had to stretch her legs to keep up.
"Watch Cadsuane carefully, Min," he said. "And you, too, Morr. She's up to some 
Aes Sedai scheme, but burn me if I can see what. I don't know. There's  --  "
A stone wall seemed to strike Min from behind; she thought she heard roaring, 
crashing. And then Rand was turning her over  --  she was lying on the floor?  --  
looking down at her with the first fear she remembered seeing in those 
morning-blue eyes. It only faded when she sat up, coughing. The air was full of 
dust! And then she saw the corridor.
The Maidens were gone from in front of Rand's doors. The doors themselves were 
gone, along with most of the wall, and a jagged hole nearly as big gaped in the 
wall opposite. She could see into his apartments clearly despite the dust, into 
devastation. Massive piles of rubble lay everywhere, and above, the ceiling 
yawned open to the sky. Snow swirled down onto flames dancing among the rubble. 
One of the massive blackwood posts of his bed stuck burning out of shattered 
stone, and she realized she could see all the way outside to the stepped towers 
veiled by the snowfall. It was as if a huge hammer had smashed into the Sun 
Palace. And had they been in there, instead of going to see Cadsuane . . . Min 
shivered.
"What . . .?" she began unsteadily, then abandoned the useless question. Any 
fool would see what had happened. "Who?" she asked instead.
Covered in dust, hair every which way, and with tears in their coats, the two 
men looked as if they had been rolled along the corridor, and perhaps they had. 
She thought they were all a good ten paces farther from the doors than she 
remembered. From where the doors had been. In the distance, anxious shouts rose, 
echoing along the halls. Neither man answered her.
"Can I trust you, Morr?" Rand asked.
Fedwin met his gaze openly. "With your life, my Lord Dragon," he said simply.
"That's what I am trusting you with," Rand said. His fingers brushed her cheek, 
and then he stood abruptly. "Guard her with your life, Morr." Hard as steel, his 
voice. Grim as death. "If they're still in the Palace, they'll feel you try to 
make a gateway, and strike before you can finish. Don't channel at all unless 
you must, but be ready. Take her down to the servants' quarters, and kill anyone 
or anything that tries to get to her. Anyone!"
With a last look down at her  --  oh, Light, any other time, she would have thought 
she could die happily, seeing that look in his eyes!  --  he went running, away 
from the ruination. Away from her. Whoever had tried to kill him would be 
hunting for him.
Morr patted her on the arm with a dusty hand and gave her a boyish grin. "Don't 
worry, Min. I'll take care of you."
But who was going to take care of Rand? Can I trust you, he had asked this boy 
who had been one of the first to come asking to learn. Light, who would make him 
safe?
Rounding a corner, Rand stopped with a hand against one wall to seize the 
Source. A fool thing, not wanting Min to see him stagger when someone tried to 
kill him, but there it was. Not just any someone. A man, Demandred, or perhaps 
Asmodean come back at last. Maybe both; there had been an oddity, as if the 
weaving came from different directions. He had felt the channeling too late to 
do anything. He would have died, in his rooms. He was ready to die. But not Min, 
no, not Min. Elayne was better off, turning against him. Oh, Light, she was!
He seized the Source, and saidin flooded him with molten cold and freezing heat, 
with life and sweetness, filth and death. His stomach twisted, and the hallway 
in front of him doubled itself. For an instant, he thought he saw a face. Not 
with his eyes; in his head. A man, shimmering and unrecognizable, gone. He 
floated in the Void, empty, and full of the Power.
You won't win, he told Lews Therin. If I die, I'll die me!
I should have sent Ilyena away, Lews Therin whispered back. She would have 
lived.
Pushing the voice away as he pushed himself from the wall, Rand slipped along 
the Palace corridors with all the stealth he could muster, stepping lightly, 
gliding close to tapestry-hung walls, around gold-worked chests and gilded 
cabinets bearing fragile golden porcelains and ivory statuettes. His eyes 
searched for his attackers. They would not be satisfied short of finding his 
body, but they would be very careful in approaching his rooms in case he had 
survived by some ta'veren swirl of fate. They would wait, to see whether he 
stirred. In the Void, he was as near one with the Power as any man could live 
through. In the Void, as with a sword, he was one with his surroundings.
Frantic shouts and clamor rose in every direction, some screaming to know what 
had happened, others crying that the Dragon Reborn had gone mad. The bundle of 
frustration in his head that was Alanna provided one small comfort. She was out 
of the Palace, as she had been all morning, maybe even outside the city walls. 
He wished Min was, too. Sometimes he saw men and women down one hallway or 
another, black-liveried servants mainly, running, falling down and scrambling up 
to run again. They did not see him. With the Power in him, he could hear every 
whisper. Including the whisper of soft boots running, light-footed.
Backing against the wall beside a long table topped with porcelain, he quickly 
wove Fire and Air around himself and held very still wrapped in Folded Light.
Maidens appeared, a stream of them, veiled, and ran by without seeing him. 
Toward his apartments. He could not let them accompany him; he had promised, but 
to let them fight, not to lead them to slaughter. When he found Demandred and 
Asmodean, all the Maidens could do was die, and he already had five names to 
learn and add to his list. Somara of the Bent Peak Daryne was already there. A 
promise he had had to make, a promise he had to keep. For that promise alone, he 
deserved to die!
Eagles and women can only be kept safe in cages, Lews Therin said as though 
quoting, then abruptly began weeping as the last of the Maidens vanished.
Rand moved on, sweeping back and forth through the palace in arcs that slowly 
moved away from his apartments. Folded Light used very little of the Power  --  so 
little no man could have felt the use of saidin unless right on top of it  --  and 
he used it whenever anyone seemed about to see him. His attackers had not struck 
at his rooms on the chance he would be there. They had eyes-and-ears in the 
Palace. Maybe it had been ta'veren work that pulled him out of the apartments, 
if a ta'veren could work on himself, and maybe just happenstance, but perhaps 
his tugging at the Pattern could bring his attackers within his grasp while they 
thought him dead or injured. Lews Therin chuckled at the thought. Rand could 
almost feel the man rubbing his hands in anticipation.
Three more times he had to hide behind the Power as veiled Maidens rushed by, 
and once when he saw Cadsuane sweeping along the corridor ahead with no fewer 
than six Aes Sedai at her heels, and not one other that he recognized besides 
her. They seemed to be hunting. He was not afraid of the gray-haired sister, 
precisely. No, of course not afraid! But he waited until she and her friends 
were well out of sight before letting his concealing weave go. Lews Therin did 
not chuckle over Cadsuane. He was deathly silent until she was gone.
Rand stepped away from the wall, a door opened right beside him, and Ailil 
peeked out. He had not known he was near her rooms. Behind her shoulder stood a 
dark woman with fat golden rings in her ears and a medallion-filled golden chain 
running across her left cheek to her nose ring. Shalon, Windfinder to Harine din 
Togara, the Atha'an Miere ambassador who had moved into the Palace with her 
retinue almost as Merana informed him of the agreement. And meeting with a woman 
who might want him dead. Their eyes popped at the sight of him.
He was as gentle as he could be, but he had to be quick. A few moments after the 
door opened, he was tucking a somewhat rumpled Ailil beneath her bed alongside 
Shalon. Perhaps they were not part of what was happening. Perhaps. Safe was 
better than sorry. Glaring at him above mouths wadded full of Ailil's scarves, 
the two women writhed against the torn strips of bed-sheet he had used to bind 
their wrists and ankles. The shield he had tied off on Shalon would hold her for 
a day or two before the knot unraveled, but someone would find them and cut 
their other bonds before too much longer.
Worrying about that shield, he opened the door enough to check the hallway, and 
hurried out, along the empty corridor. He could not have left the Windfinder 
free to channel, but shielding a woman was not a matter of dribbles of the 
Power. If one of his attackers had been close enough . . . But he saw no one 
down any of the crossing corridors, either.
Fifty paces beyond Ailil's rooms, the corridor opened into a square-railed 
balcony of blue marble with broad stairs at either end, fronting a square 
chamber with a high, vaulted ceiling and the same sort of balcony at the other 
side. Tapestries ten paces long hung along the walls, birds soaring to the skies 
in rigid patterns. Below, Dashiva stood looking about, licking his lips 
uncertainly. Gedwyn and Rochaid were with him! Lews Therin chittered of killing.
" . . . telling you I felt nothing," Gedwyn was saying. "He's dead!"
And Dashiva saw Rand, at the head of the stairs.
The only warning he had was the sudden snarl that contorted Dashiva's face. 
Dashiva channeled, and with no time to think, Rand wove  --  as so often, he did 
not know what; something dredged from Lews Therin's memories; he was not even 
sure he created the weave entirely himself, or whether Lews Therin snatched at 
saidin  --  Air and Fire and Earth woven around himself just so. The fire that 
leaped from Dashiva erupted, shattering marble, flinging Rand back down the 
hallway, bounding and rolling in his cocoon.
That barrier would keep out anything short of balefire. Including air to 
breathe. Rand released it panting, scraping along the floor, with the crash of 
the explosions still ringing in the air, dust still hanging and bits of broken 
marble tumbling. As much as for breath, though, he let it go because what could 
keep the Power out, kept it in. Before he stopped sliding, he channeled Fire and 
Air, but woven much differently than for Folded Light. Thin red wires leaped 
from his left hand, fanning out as they sliced through the intervening stone 
toward where Dashiva and the others had been standing. From his left sped balls 
of flame, Fire woven with Air, faster than he could count, and they burned 
through the stone before exploding in that chamber. One continuous deafening 
roar made the Palace tremble. Dust that had fallen rose up again, and pieces of 
stone bounced.
Almost immediately, though, he was up and running, back past Ailil's apartments. 
The man who struck and stayed in one spot was asking to die. He was ready to 
die, but not yet. Snarling soundlessly, he sped down another hall, descended 
narrow servants' stairs, and came out on the floor below.
He took care making his way back to where he had seen Dashiva, deadly weaves 
ready to fling at so much as a glimpse. I should have killed them all in the 
beginning, Lews Therin panted. I should haw killed them all!
Rand let him rage.
The large chamber seemed to have been washed in fire. Only charred fragments 
licked by flames remained of the tapestries, and great gouges a pace across had 
been burned into floor and walls. The stairs Rand had been about to descend 
ended in a ten-foot gap halfway down. Of the three men, there was no sign. They 
would not have been consumed completely. Something would have remained.
A servant in a black coat cautiously poked his head from a tiny door beside the 
stairs on the other side of the chamber. His eyes fell on Rand, rolled up in his 
head, and he fell forward in a heap. Another servant peeped out of a corridor, 
then gathered her skirts and raced back the way she had come, shrieking at the 
top of her lungs that the Dragon Reborn was killing everyone in the Palace.
Rand slipped out of the chamber grimacing. He was very good at frightening 
people who could not harm him. Very good at destroying.
To destroy, or be destroyed, Lews Therin laughed. When that's your choice, is 
there a difference?
Somewhere in the Palace, a man channeled enough of the Power to make a gateway. 
Dashiva and the others fleeing? Or wanting him to think that?
He walked the corridors of the Palace, no longer bothering to hide. Everyone 
else seemed to be. The few servants he saw, fled screaming. Corridor after 
corridor, he hunted, filled near to bursting with saidin, full of fire and ice 
trying to annihilate him as surely as Dashiva had, full of the taint worming its 
way into his soul. He had no need of Lews Therin's ragged laughter and ravings 
to be filled with a desire to kill.
A glimpse of a black coat ahead, and his hand shot up, fire streaking, 
exploding, tearing away the corner where the two hallways met. Rand let the 
weave subside, but did not let it go. Had he killed him?
"My Lord Dragon," a voice shouted from beyond the torn stonework, "it's me, 
Narishma! And Flinn!"
"I didn't recognize you," Rand lied. "Come here."
"I think maybe your blood's hot," Flinn's voice called, "I think may we should 
wait for everybody to cool down."
"Yes," Rand said slowly. Had he really tried to kill Narishma? He did not think 
he could claim the excuse of Lews Therin. "Yes, that might be best. For a little 
while longer." There was no answer. Did he hear boots retreating? He forced his 
hands down and turned another way.
He searched through the Palace for hours without finding a sign of Dashiva or 
the others. The corridors and great halls, even the kitchens, were empty of 
people. He found nothing, and learned nothing. No. He realized that he had 
learned one thing. Trust was a knife, and the hilt was as sharp as the blade.
Then he found pain.
 
The small stone-walled room was deep below the Sun Palace and warm despite the 
lack of a fireplace, but Min felt cold. Three gilded lamps on the tiny wooden 
table gave more than enough light. Rand had said that from there, he could get 
her away even if someone tried to root the Palace out of the ground. He had not 
sounded as if he were joking.
Holding the crown of Illian on her lap, she watched Rand. Watched Rand watching 
Fedwin. Her hands tightened on the crown, and loosened immediately at the stabs 
of those small swords hidden among the laurel leaves. Strange, that the crown 
and scepter should have survived when the Dragon Throne itself was a pile of 
gilded splinters buried in rubble. A large leather scrip beside her chair, with 
Rand's sword belt and scabbarded sword resting against it, held what else he had 
been able to salvage. Strange choices for the most part, in her estimation.
You brainless loobie, she thought. Not thinking about what's right in front of 
you won't make it go away.
Rand sat cross-legged on the bare stone floor, still covered in dust and 
scratches, his coat torn. His face might have been carved. He seemed to watch 
Fedwin without blinking. The boy was sitting on the floor, too, his legs 
sprawled out. Tongue caught between his teeth, Fedwin was concentrating on 
making a tower out of blocks of wood. Min swallowed hard.
She could still remember the horror when she realized the boy "guarding" her now 
had the mind of a small child. The sadness remained, too  --  Light, he was only a 
boy! it was not right!  --  but she hoped Rand still had him shielded. It had not 
been easy, talking Fedwin into playing with those wooden blocks instead of 
pulling stones out of the walls with the Power to make a "big tower to keep you 
safe in." And then she had sat guarding him until Rand came. Oh, Light, she 
wanted to cry. For Rand even more than Fedwin.
"You hide yourself in the depths, it appears." The deep voice was not finished 
speaking from the doorway before Rand was on his feet, facing Mazrim Taim. As 
usual, the hook-nosed man wore a black coat with blue-and-gold Dragons spiraling 
up the arms. Unlike the other Asha'man, he had neither Sword nor Dragon on his 
high collar. His dark face wore nearly as little expression as Rand's. Now, 
staring at Taim, Rand seemed to be gritting his teeth. Min surreptitiously eased 
a knife in her coatsleeve. As many images and auras danced around one as the 
other, but it was not a viewing that made her suddenly wary. She had seen a man 
trying to decide whether to kill another before, and she was seeing it again.
"You come here holding saidin, Taim?" Rand said, much too softly. Taim spread 
his hands, and Rand said, "That's better." But he did not relax.
"It was just that I thought I might be stabbed by accident," Taim said, "making 
my way here through corridors packed with those Aiel women. They seem agitated." 
His eyes never left Rand, but Min was sure he had noticed her touching her 
knife. "Understandably, of course," he went on smoothly. "I cannot express my 
joy at finding you alive after seeing what I did above. I came to report 
deserters. Normally, I wouldn't have bothered, but these are Gedwyn, Rochaid, 
Torval, and Kisman. It seems they were malcontented over events in Altara, but I 
never thought they would go this far. I haven't seen any of the men I left with 
you." For an instant, his gaze flickered to Fedwin. For no more than an instant. 
"There were . . . other . . . casualties? I will take this one with me, if you 
wish."
"I told them to stay out of sight," Rand said in a harsh voice. "And I'll take 
care of Fedwin. Fedwin Morr, Taim; not 'this one.'" 
He actually backed to the small table to pick up the silver cup sitting among 
the lamps. Min's breath caught.
"The Wisdom in my village could cure anything," Rand said as he knelt beside 
Fedwin. Somehow, he managed to smile at the boy without taking his eyes from 
Taim. Fedwin smiled back happily and tried to take the cup, but Rand held it for 
him to drink. "She knows more about herbs than anybody I've ever met. I learned 
a little from her, which are safe, which not." Fedwin sighed as Rand took the 
cup away and held the boy to his chest. "Sleep, Fedwin," Rand murmured.
It did seem that the boy was going to sleep. His eyes closed. His chest rose and 
fell more slowly. Slower. Until it stopped. The smile never left his lips.
"A little something in the wine," Rand said softly as he laid Fedwin down. Min's 
eyes burned, but she would not cry. She would not!
"You are harder than I thought," Taim muttered.
Rand smiled at him, a hard feral smile. "Add Corlan Dashiva to your list of 
deserters, Taim. Next time I visit the Black Tower, I expect to see his head on 
your Traitor's Tree."
"Dashiva?" Taim snarled, his eyes widening in surprise. "It will be as you say. 
When next you visit the Black Tower." That quickly, he recovered himself, all 
polished stone and poise once more. How she wished she could read her viewings 
of him.
"Return to the Black Tower, and don't come here again." Standing, Rand faced the 
other man over Fedwin's body. "I may be moving about for a while."
Taim's bow was minuscule. "As you command."
As the door closed behind him, Min let out a long breath.
"No point wasting time, and no time to waste," Rand muttered. Kneeling in front 
of her, he took the crown and slipped it into the scrip with the other things. 
"Min, I thought I was the whole pack of hounds, chasing down one wolf after 
another, but it seems I'm the wolf."
"Burn you," she breathed. Tangling both hands in his hair, she stared in his 
eyes. Now blue, now gray, a morning sky just at sunrise. And dry. "You can cry, 
Rand al'Thor. You won't melt if you cry!"
"I don't have time for tears, either, Min," he said gently.
Chapter 30 
Beginnings
Holding his fur-lined cloak close with one hand, Perrin let Stayer walk at the 
bay's own pace. The midmorning sun gave no warmth, and the rutted snow on the 
road leading into Abila made poor footing. He and his dozen companions shared 
the way with only two lumbering ox-carts and a handful of farmfolk in plain dark 
woolens. They all trudged along with heads down, clutching at hat or cap 
whenever a gust rose but otherwise concentrating on the ground beneath their 
shoes.
Behind him, he heard Neald make a ribald joke in a low voice; Grady grunted in 
reply, and Balwer sniffed prissily. None of the three seemed at all affected by 
what they had seen and heard this past month since crossing the border into 
Amadicia, or by what lay ahead. Edarra was sharply berating Masuri for letting 
her hood slip. Edarra and Carelle both wore their shawls wrapped around their 
heads and shoulders in addition to cloaks, but even after admitting the 
necessity to ride, they had refused to change out of their bulky skirts, so 
their dark-stockinged legs were bared above the knee. The cold did not seem to 
bother them in the least; just the strangeness of snow. Carelle began quietly 
advising Seonid as to what would happen if she did not keep her face hidden.
Of course, if she let her face be seen too soon, a dose of the strap would be 
the least she had to fear, as she and the Wise One knew well. Perrin did not 
have to look back to know the sisters' three Warders, bringing up the rear in 
ordinary cloaks, were men expecting the need at any moment to out sword and 
carve a way clear. They had been that way since leaving the camp at dawn. He ran 
a gloved thumb along the axe hanging at his belt, then regathered his own cloak 
just before a sudden gust could make it billow. If this went badly, the Warders 
might be right.
Off to the left, short of where the road crossed a wooden bridge over a frozen 
stream that twisted along the town's edge, charred timbers thrust out of the 
snow atop a large square stone platform with drifts piled around the bottom. 
Slow to proclaim allegiance to the Dragon Reborn, the local lord had been lucky 
merely to be flogged and fined all that he possessed. A knot of men standing at 
the bridge watched the mounted party approaching. Perrin saw no sign of helmets 
or armor, but every man clutched spear or crossbow almost as hard as he did his 
cloak. They did not talk to one another. They just watched, the mist of their 
breath curling before their faces. There were other guards bunched all around 
the town, at every road leading out, at every space between two buildings. This 
was the Prophet's country, but the Whitecloaks and King Ailron's army still held 
large parts of it.
"I was right not to bring her," he muttered, "but I'll pay for it anyway."
"Of course you'll pay," Elyas snorted. For a man who had spent most of the last 
fifteen years afoot, he handled his mouse-colored gelding well. He had acquired 
a cloak lined with black fox, dicing with Gallenne. Aram, riding on Perrin's 
other side, eyed Elyas darkly, but the bearded man ignored him. They did not get 
on well. "A man always pays sooner or later, with any woman, whether he owes or 
not. But I was right, wasn't I?"
Perrin nodded. Grudgingly. It still did not seem right taking advice about his 
wife from another man, even circumspectly, obliquely, yet it did seem to be 
working. Of course, raising his voice to Faile was as hard as not raising it to 
Berelain, but he had managed the last quite often and the first several times. 
He had followed Elyas' advice to the letter. Well, most of it. As well as he 
could. That spiky scent of jealousy still flared at the sight of Berelain, yet 
on the other hand, the hurt smell had vanished as they made their slow way 
south. Still, he was uneasy. When he firmly told her she was not coming with him 
this morning, she had not raised a single word of protest! She even smelled . . 
. pleased! Among other things, including startled. And how could she be pleased 
and angry at the same time? Not a scrap of it had showed on her face, but his 
nose never lied. Somehow, it seemed that the more he learned about women, the 
less he knew!
The bridge guards frowned and fingered their weapons as Stayer's hooves thudded 
hollowly onto the wooden planking. They were the usual odd mix that followed the 
Prophet, dirty-faced fellows in silk coats too big for them, scar-faced street 
toughs and pink-cheeked apprentices, former merchants and craftsmen who looked 
as if they had slept in their once fine woolens for months. Their weapons 
appeared well cared for, though. Some of the men had a fever in their eyes; the 
rest wore guarded, wooden faces. Along with unwashed, they smelled eager, 
anxious, fervent, afraid, all jumbled together.
They made no move to bar passage, just watched, hardly blinking. By what Perrin 
had heard, all sorts from ladies in silks to beggars in rags came to the Prophet 
hoping that submitting to him in person might gain added blessings. Or maybe 
added protection. That was why he had come this way, with only a handful of 
companions. He would frighten Masema if he had to, if Masema could be 
frightened, but it had seemed better to try reaching the man without fighting a 
battle. He could feel the guard's eyes on his back until he and the others were 
all across the short bridge and onto the paved streets of Abila. When that 
pressure left, though, it brought no sense of relief.
Abila was a goodly sized town, with several tall watch towers and many buildings 
rising four stories, every last one roofed in slate. Here and there, mounded 
stone and timbers filled a gap between two structures where an inn or some 
merchant's house had been pulled down. The Prophet disapproved of wealth gained 
by trade as much as he did carousing or what his followers called lewd behavior. 
He disapproved of a great many things, and made his feelings known with sharp 
examples.
The streets were jammed with people, but Perrin and his companions were the only 
ones on horseback. The snow had long since been trampled to half-frozen 
ankle-deep mush. Plenty of oxcarts made their slow way through the throng, but 
very few wagons, and not a single carriage. Except for those wearing worn 
castoffs or possibly stolen clothes, everyone wore drab woolens. Most people 
hurried, but like the folk on the road, with heads down. Those who did not hurry 
were straggling groups of men carrying weapons. In the streets, the smell was 
mainly dirt and fear. It made Perrin's hackles rise. At least, if it came to 
that, getting out of a town with no wall would not prove harder than getting in.
"My Lord," Balwer murmured as they came abreast of one of those heaps of rubble. 
He barely waited for Perrin's nod before turning his hammer-nosed mount aside 
and making his way in another direction, hunched in his saddle with his brown 
cloak held tight around him. Perrin had no worries about the dried-up little man 
going off alone, even here. For a secretary, he managed to learn a surprising 
amount on these forays of his. He seemed to know what he was about.
Dismissing Balwer from his thoughts, Perrin set to what he was there about.
It took only one question, put to a lanky young man with an ecstatic light on 
his face, to learn where the Prophet was staying, and three more to other folk 
in the streets to find the merchant's house, four stories of gray stone with 
white marble moldings and window frames. Masema disapproved of grubbing for 
money, but he was willing to accept accommodations from those who did. On the 
other hand, Balwer said he had slept in a leaky farmhouse as often and been as 
satisfied. Masema drank only water, and wherever he went, he hired a poor widow 
and ate the food she prepared, fair or foul, without complaint. The man had made 
too many widows for that charity to count far with Perrin.
The throng that packed the streets elsewhere was absent in front of the tall 
house, yet the number of armed guards like those at the bridge almost made up 
for it. They stared at Perrin sullenly, those who did not sneer insolently. The 
two Aes Sedai kept their faces hidden in their deep hoods and their heads down, 
white breath rising from the cowls like steam. From the corner of his eye, 
Perrin saw Elyas thumbing the hilt of his long knife. It was hard not to stroke 
his axe.
"I've come with a message for the Prophet from the Dragon Reborn," he announced. 
When none of the men moved, he added, "My name is Perrin Aybara. The Prophet 
knows me." Balwer had cautioned him about the dangers of using Masema's name, or 
calling Rand anything but the Lord Dragon Reborn. He was not there to start a 
riot.
The claim of knowing Masema seemed to put a spark into the guards. Several 
exchanged wide-eyed looks, and one went running inside. The rest stared at him 
as if he were a gleeman. In a few moments, a woman came to the door. Handsome, 
with white at her temples, in a high-necked dress of blue wool that was fine if 
unadorned, she might have been the merchant herself. Masema did not throw those 
who offered him hospitality into the streets, but their servants or farmhands 
usually ended up with one of the bands "spreading the glories of the Lord 
Dragon."
"If you will come with me, Master Aybara," the woman said calmly, "you and your 
friends, I will take you to the Prophet of the Lord Dragon, may the Light 
illumine his name." Calm she might sound, but terror filled her scent.
Telling Neald and the Warders to watch the horses until they returned, Perrin 
followed her inside with the others. The interior was dark, with few lamps lit, 
and not much warmer than outside. Even the Wise Ones seemed subdued. They did 
not smell afraid, but almost as close to it as the Aes Sedai, and Grady and 
Elyas smelled of wariness, of raised hackles and ears laid back. Strangely, 
Aram's scent was eager. Perrin hoped the man did not try to draw that sword on 
his back.
The large, carpeted room the woman led them to, with fires blazing on hearths at 
either end, might have been a general's study, every table and half the chairs 
covered with maps and papers, and warm enough that Perrin tossed his cloak back 
and regretted wearing two shirts under his coat. But it was Masema standing in 
the middle of the room who drew his eyes immediately, like iron filings to a 
lodestone, a dark, scowling man with a shaven head and a pale triangular scar on 
one cheek, in a wrinkled gray coat and scuffed boots. His deep-set eyes burned 
with a black fire, and his scent . . . The only name Perrin could give that 
smell, steel-hard and blade-sharp and quivering with wild intensity, was 
madness. And Rand thought he could put a leash on this?
"So, it is you," Masema growled. "I did not think you would dare show your face. 
I know what you've been up to! Hari told me more than a week ago, and I have 
kept myself informed." A man shifted in a corner of the room, a narrow-eyed 
fellow with a thrusting nose, and Perrin upbraided himself for not noticing him 
before. Hari's green silk coat was much finer than what he had worn when he 
denied collecting ears. The fellow rubbed his hands together and grinned at 
Perrin viciously, but he kept silent as Masema went on. The Prophet's voice grew 
hotter by the word, not with anger, but as though he meant to burn every 
syllable deep into Perrin's flesh. "I know about you murdering men who have come 
to the Lord Dragon. I know about you trying to carve out your own kingdom! Yes, 
I know about Manetheren! About your ambition! Your greed for glory! You have 
turned your back on  -- !"
Suddenly Masema's eyes bulged, and for the first time, anger flamed in his 
scent. Hari made a strangled sound and tried to back through the wall. Seonid 
and Masuri had lowered their hoods and stood with bare faces, calm and cool, and 
plainly Aes Sedai to anyone who knew the look. Perrin wondered whether they held 
the Power. He would have wagered that the Wise Ones did. Edarra and Carelle were 
quietly watching every direction at once, and smooth faces or no, if he had ever 
seen anyone ready to fight, it was them. For that matter, Grady wore readiness 
like his black coat; maybe he held the Power, too. Elyas was leaning against the 
wall beside the open doors, outwardly as composed as the sisters, but he smelled 
ready to bite. And Aram stood gazing at Masema with his mouth hanging open! 
Light!
"So that is true, too!" Masema snapped, spittle flying from his lips. "With 
filthy rumors spreading against the holy name of the Lord Dragon, you dare to 
ride with these . . . these . . .!"
"They've sworn fealty to the Lord Dragon, Masema," Perrin cut in. "They serve 
him! Do you? He sent me to stop the killing. And to bring you to him." No one 
was offering him a chair, so he pushed a stack of papers from one and sat. He 
wished the rest would sit, too; shouting seemed harder when you were sitting 
down.
Hari goggled at him, and Masema was practically shaking. Because he had taken a 
chair without being asked? Oh. Yes.
"I have given up the names of men," Masema said coldly. "I am simply the Prophet 
of the Lord Dragon, may the Light illumine him and the world come to kneel 
before him." By his tone, the world and the Light would regret failure equally. 
"There is much to do here, yet. Great works. All must obey when the Lord Dragon 
calls, but in winter, travel is always slow. A delay of a few weeks will make 
little difference."
"I can have you in Cairhien today," Perrin said. "Once the Lord Dragon has 
spoken to you, you can return the same way and be back here in a few days." If 
Rand let him return.
Masema actually recoiled. Baring his teeth, he glared at the Aes Sedai. "Some 
contrivance of the Power? I will not be touched with the Power! It is blasphemy 
for mortals to touch it!"
Perrin came close to gaping. "The Dragon Reborn channels, man!"
"The blessed Lord Dragon is not as other men, Aybara!" Masema snarled. "He is 
the Light made flesh! I will obey his summons, but I will not be touched by the 
filth these women do!"
Slumping back in the chair, Perrin sighed. If the man was this bad over Aes 
Sedai, how would he be when he learned that Grady and Neald could channel? For a 
moment, he considered simply knocking Masema over the head, and . . . Men were 
passing by in the corridor, pausing to glance in before hurrying on. All it took 
was one of them raising a shout, and Abila could become a slaughterhouse. "Then 
we ride, Prophet," he said sourly. Light, Rand had said to keep this secret 
until Masema stood in front of him! How to manage that riding all the way to 
Cairhien? "But no delays. The Lord Dragon is very anxious to talk with you."
"I am anxious to speak with the Lord Dragon, may his name be blessed by the 
Light." His eyes flickered toward the two Aes Sedai. He tried to hide it, 
actually smiling at Perrin. But he smelled . . . grim. "I am very anxious 
indeed."
* * *
"Would my Lady like me to ask one of the handlers to bring her a hawk?" Maighdin 
asked. One of Alliandre's four hawk handlers, all men as lean as their birds, 
urged a sleek duckhawk wearing a feathered hood onto his heavy gauntlet from the 
wooden stand in front of his saddle and lifted the gray bird toward her. The 
falcon, with its blue-tipped wings, was on Alliandre's green-gloved wrist. That 
bird was reserved to her, unfortunately. Alliandre knew her place as a vassal, 
but Faile understood not wanting to relinquish a favorite bird.
She merely shook her head, and Maighdin bowed in her saddle and moved her roan 
mare away from Swallow, far enough not to intrude but close enough to be at hand 
without Faile raising her voice. The dignified golden-haired woman had proved to 
be every bit as good a lady's maid as Faile had hoped, knowledgeable, capable. 
At least, she had once she learned that whatever their relative positions with 
their former mistress, Lini was first among Faile's serving women, and willing 
to use her authority. Surprisingly, that had actually taken an episode with a 
switch, but Faile pretended not to know. Only an utter fool embarrassed her 
servants. There was still the matter of Maighdin and Tallanvor, of course. She 
was certain Maighdin had begun sharing his bed, and if she found proof, they 
would marry if she had to turn Lini loose on both of them. Still, that was a 
small matter, and could not spoil her morning.
Hawking had been Alliandre's idea, but Faile had not objected to a ride through 
this sparse forest, where snow made a rolling blanket over everything and lay 
thick and white on bare branches. The green of the trees that still held their 
leaves seemed sharper. The air was crisp, and it smelled new and fresh.
Bain and Chiad had insisted on accompanying her, but they squatted nearby, 
shoufa wrapped around their heads, watching her with disgruntled expressions. 
Sulin had wanted to come with all of the Maidens, but with a hundred stories of 
Aiel depredations floating everywhere, the sight of an Aiel was enough to send 
most people in Amadicia running or reaching for a sword. There must be some 
truth in those tales, or so many would not know an Aiel, though the Light alone 
knew who they were or where they had come from, yet even Sulin agreed that 
whoever they were, they had moved on east, perhaps into Altara.
In any case, this close to Abila, twenty of Alliandre's soldiers and as many 
Mayener Winged Guards provided sufficient escort. The streamers on their lances, 
red or green, lifted like ribbons when the breeze stirred. Berelain's presence 
was the only blight. Though watching the woman shiver in her fur-trimmed red 
cloak, thick enough for two blankets, was certainly amusing. Mayene did not have 
a real winter. This was like the last days of autumn. In Saldaea, the heart of 
winter could freeze exposed flesh hard as wood. Faile took a deep breath. She 
felt like laughing.
By some miracle, her husband, her beloved wolf, had begun behaving as he should. 
Instead of shouting at Berelain or running from her, Perrin now tolerated the 
jade's blandishments, plainly tolerated them the way he would a child playing 
around his knees. And best of all, there was no longer any need to tamp down her 
anger when she wanted to let it loose. When she shouted, he shouted back. She 
knew he was not Saldaean, but it had been so hard, thinking in her heart of 
hearts that he believed her too weak to stand up to him. A few nights ago at 
supper, she had almost pointed out to him that Berelain was going to fall out of 
her dress if she leaned over the table any further. Well, she was not going to 
that far, not with Berelain; the trull still thought she could win him. And that 
very morning, he had been commanding, quietly brooking no argument, the sort of 
man a woman knew she had to be strong to deserve, to equal. Of course, she would 
have to nip him over that. A commanding man was wonderful, so long as he did not 
come to believe he could always command. Laugh? She could have sung!
"Maighdin, I think after all I will . . . " Maighdin was there immediately with 
an inquiring smile, but Faile trailed off at the sight of three riders ahead of 
her, plowing through the snow as fast as they could push their horses.
"At least there are plenty of hares, my Lady," Alliandre said, walking her tall 
white gelding up beside Swallow, "but I had hoped . . . Who are they?" Her 
falcon shifted on her thick glove, the bells on its jesses jingling. "Why, it 
looks like some of your people, my Lady."
Faile nodded grimly. She recognized them, too. Parelean, Arrela and Lacile. But 
what were they doing here?
The three drew rein before her, their horses panting steam.
Parelean looked as wide-eyed as his dapple. Lacile, her pale face nearly hidden 
in the deep cowl of her cloak, was swallowing anxiously, and Arrela's dark face 
seemed gray. "My Lady," Parelean said urgently, "dire news! The Prophet Masema 
has been meeting with the Seanchan!"
"The Seanchan!" Alliandre exclaimed. "Surely he cannot believe they will come to 
the Lord Dragon!"
"It might be simpler," Berelain said, heeling her too-showy white mare up on 
Alliandre's other side. Without Perrin about for her to try to impress, her dark 
blue riding dress was cut quite modestly, with a neck up under her chin. She 
still shivered. "Masema dislikes Aes Sedai, and the Seanchan keep women who can 
channel as prisoners."
Faile clicked her tongue in vexation. Dire news indeed, if true. And she could 
only hope Parelean and the others retained enough of their wits to at least 
pretend they had simply overheard talk by chance. Even so, she had to be sure, 
and quickly. Perrin might already have reached Masema. "What proof do you have, 
Parelean?"
"We talked to three farmers who saw a large flying creature land four nights 
ago, my Lady. It brought a woman who was taken to Masema and remained with him 
for three hours."
"We were able to trace her all the way to where Masema stays in Abila," Lacile 
added.
"The three men all thought the creature was Shadowspawn," Arrela put in, "but 
they seemed fairly reliable." For her to say any man not of Cha Faile was fairly 
reliable was the same as anyone else saying they thought he was honest as a 
bell.
"I think I must ride into Abila," Faile said, gathering Swallow's reins. 
"Alliandre, take Maighdin and Berelain with you." Any other time, the tightening 
of Berelain's lips over that would have been amusing. "Parelean, Arrela and 
Lacile will accompany me  --  " A man screamed, and everyone jerked.
Fifty paces away, one of Alliandre's green-coated soldiers was toppling from his 
saddle, and a moment later, a Winged Guard fell with an arrow standing out from 
his throat. Aiel appeared among the trees, veiled and wielding bows as they ran. 
More soldiers fell. Bain and Chiad were on their feet, dark veils hiding their 
faces to the eyes; their spears were thrust through the straps of the bow cases 
on their back, and they worked their bows smoothly, but they cast glances toward 
Faile, too. There were Aiel all around, hundreds it seemed, a great noose 
closing in. Mounted soldiers lowered lances, pulling back in their own circle 
around Faile and the others, but gaps appeared immediately as Aiel arrows struck 
home.
"Someone must get this news of Masema to Lord Perrin," Faile told Parelean and 
the two women. "One of you must reach him! Ride like fire!" Her sweeping gaze 
took in Alliandre and Maighdin. And Berelain, too. "All of you, ride like fire, 
or die here!" Barely waiting for their nods, she suited actions to words, and 
dug her heels into Swallow's flanks, bursting through the useless ring of 
soldiers. "Ride!" she shouted. Someone had to get the news to Perrin. "Ride!"
Leaning low on Swallow's neck, she urged the black mare for speed. Fleet hooves 
splashed snow as Swallow ran, light as her namesake. For a hundred strides, 
Faile thought she might break free. And then Swallow screamed and stumbled, 
pitching forward with the sharp snap of a breaking leg. Faile flew through air 
and struck hard, most of the breath driven out of her as she plunged facedown 
into the snow. Fighting for air, she struggled to her feet and snatched a knife 
from her belt. Swallow had screamed before she stumbled, before that awful 
crack.
A veiled Aielman loomed up before her as if out of the air, chopping at her 
wrist with a stiffened hand. Her knife dropped from suddenly numb fingers, and 
before she could try to draw another with her left hand, the man was on her.
She fought, kicking, punching, even biting, but the fellow was as wide as Perrin 
and a head taller. He seemed as hard as Perrin, too, for all the impression she 
made on him. She could have wept with frustration at the humiliating ease with 
which he handled her, first rooting out all of her knives and tucking them 
behind his belt, then using one of her own blades to cut her clothes away. 
Almost before she knew it, she was naked in the snow, her elbows bound together 
behind her back with one of her stockings, the other tied about her neck for a 
leash.
She had no choice except to follow him, shivering and stumbling through the 
snow. Her skin pebbled with the cold. Light, how she had ever thought this day 
anything less than icy? Light, if only someone had managed to escape with the 
news of Masema! To carry word of her capture to Perrin, of course, but she could 
escape somehow. The other was more important.
The first body she saw was Parelean, sprawled on his back with his sword in one 
outflung hand and blood all over his fine coat with the satin-striped sleeves. 
There were plenty of corpses after, Winged Guards in their red breastplates, 
Alliandre's soldiers in their dark green helmets, one of the hawkers, the hooded 
duckhawk flapping vainly against the jesses still gripped in the dead man's 
fist. She held on to hope, though.
The first other prisoners she saw, kneeling among some Aiel, men and Maidens 
with their veils hanging down their chests, were Bain and Chiad, each naked, 
unbound hands on her knees. Blood ran down across Bain's face and matted her 
flame-red hair. Chiad's left cheek was purple and swollen, and her gray eyes 
looked slightly glazed. They knelt there, straight-backed, impassive, and 
unashamed, but as the big Aielman pushed her roughly to her knees beside them, 
they roused themselves.
"This is not right, Shaido," Chiad mumbled angrily. "She does not follow 
ji'e'toh," Bain barked. "You cannot make her gai'shain."
"The gai'shain will be quiet," a graying Maiden said absently. Bain and Chiad 
gave Faile regretful looks, then settled back to their calm waiting. Huddling, 
trying to hide her nakedness against her knees, Faile did not know whether to 
weep or laugh. The two women she would have chosen to help her escape from 
anywhere, and neither would raise a hand to try because of ji'e'toh.
"I say again, Efalin," the man who had captured her muttered, "this is 
foolishness. We travel at a crawl in this . . . snow." He said the word 
awkwardly. "There are too many armed men, here. We should be moving east, not 
taking more gai'shain to slow us further."
"Sevanna wants more gai'shain, Rolan," the graying Maiden replied. She frowned, 
though, and her hard gray eyes seemed disapproving for a moment.
Shivering, Faile blinked as the names sank in. Light, but the cold was making 
her wits slow. Sevanna. Shaido. They were in Kinslayer's Dagger, as far from 
here as was possible to be without crossing the Spine of the World! Clearly they 
were not, though.
That was something Perrin should know, another reason for her to escape soon. 
There seemed little chance of that, crouching there in the snow and wondering 
which bits of her were going to freeze first. The Wheel was balancing her 
amusement over Berelain's shivers with a vengeance. She was actually looking 
forward to the thick woolen robes that gai'shain wore. Her captors made no move 
to depart, though. There were other captives to be brought in.
First was Maighdin, stripped bare and bound as Faile was, and struggling every 
step of the way. Until the Maiden who was pushing her along abruptly kicked her 
feet out from under her. Maighdin plunked down sitting in the snow, and her eyes 
popped so wide that Faile might have laughed if she had not felt sorry for the 
woman. Alliandre came next, bent nearly double in an effort to shield herself, 
and then Arrela, who seemed half paralyzed by her nudity and was almost being 
dragged by a pair of Maidens. Finally, another tall Aielman appeared with a 
furiously kicking Lacile tucked under one arm like a package.
"The rest are dead or escaped," the man said, dropping the small Cairhienin 
woman beside Faile. "Sevanna will have to be satisfied, Efalin. She puts too 
much store in taking people who wear silk."
Faile did not struggle at all when she was prodded to her feet and set to 
laboring through the snow at the head of the other prisoners. She was too 
stunned to fight. Parelean dead, Arrela and Lacile captive, and Alliandre, and 
Maighdin. Light, someone had to warn Perrin about Masema. Someone. It seemed a 
final blow. Here she was, shivering and gritting her teeth to keep them from 
chattering, trying her best to pretend that she was not stark naked and bound, 
on her way to an uncertain captivity. All of that, and she had to hope that that 
slinking cat  --  that pouting trull!  --  Berelain, had managed to escape so she 
could reach Perrin. Alongside everything else, that seemed the worst of all.
 
Egwene walked Daishar along the column of initiates, sisters on their horses 
among the wagons, Accepted and novices afoot despite the snow. The sun was 
bright in a sky with few clouds, but mist curled from her gelding's nostrils. 
Sheriam and Siuan rode at her back, talking quietly about information learned 
from Siuan's eyes-and-ears. Egwene had thought the fire-haired woman an 
efficient Keeper once she learned that she was not the Amyrlin, but day by day, 
Sheriam seemed to grow ever more assiduous about her duties. Chesa followed on 
her tubby mare in case the Amyrlin wanted anything, and unlike her, she was 
muttering again about Meri and Selame both running away, the ungrateful 
wretches, leaving her to do the work of three. They rode slowly, and Egwene very 
carefully did not look toward the column.
A month of recruiting, a month of the novice book being open to all, had brought 
in startling numbers, a flood anxious to become Aes Sedai, women of every age 
some from hundreds of miles away. There were now twice as many novices with the 
column as before. Almost a thousand! Most by far would never wear the shawl, yet 
the number of them had everyone staring. Some might cause minor problems, and 
one, a grandmother named Sharina with a potential above even that of Nynaeve, 
certainly had everyone startled, but it was not the sight of a mother and 
daughter squabbling because the daughter would be the stronger by far one day 
that she was trying to avoid, or noblewomen who were beginning to think they had 
made the wrong choice asking to be tested, or even Sharina's disturbingly direct 
looks. The gray-haired woman obeyed every rule and showed every proper respect, 
but she had run her large family by the sheer force of her presence, and even 
some of the sisters stepped warily around her. What Egwene did not want to see 
were the young women who had joined them two days before. The two sisters who 
brought them had been more than startled to find Egwene as Amyrlin, but their 
charges could not believe it, not Egwene al'Vere, the Mayor's daughter from 
Emond's Field. She did not want to order anyone else punished, but she would 
have to if she saw another stick her tongue out at her.
Gareth Bryne had his army in a wide column, too, cavalry and foot all arrayed 
and stretching out of sight through the trees. The pale sun glinted off 
breastplates and helmets and the points of pikes. Horses stamped their hooves in 
the snow impatiently.
Bryne walked his sturdy bay to meet her before she reached the Sitters waiting 
on their horses, in a large clearing ahead of both columns. He smiled at her 
through the face-bars of his helmet. A reassuring smile, she thought. "A fine 
morning for it, Mother," he said. "Here."
She only nodded, and he fell in behind her, beside Siuan. Who did not 
immediately begin spitting at him. Egwene was not certain exactly what 
accommodation Siuan had reached with the man, but she seldom grumbled about him 
anymore in Egwene's hearing, and never when he was present. Egwene was glad he 
was there, now. The Amyrlin Seat could not let her general know she wanted his 
reassurance, but she felt the need of it this morning.
The Sitters had their horses in a line at the edge of the trees, and thirteen 
more sisters sat their mounts a little way off, watching the Sitters carefully. 
Romanda and Lelaine spurred their animals forward almost together, and Egwene 
could hardly help sighing as they approached, cloaks flaring behind them, hooves 
spraying snow as if at the charge. The Hall obeyed her because it had no choice. 
In matters concerning the war against Elaida, they did, but Light, how they 
could quibble over what did or did not concern the war. When it did not, getting 
anything out of them was like pulling duck's teeth! Except for Sharina, they 
might have found a way to put a stop to accepting women of any age. Even Romanda 
was impressed by Sharina.
The pair reined in before her, but before they could open their mouths, she 
spoke. "It's time we got on with it, daughters, and no time for wasting in idle 
chatter. Proceed." Romanda sniffed, though softly, and Lelaine looked as though 
she wanted to.
They wheeled their horses as one, then glared at one another a moment. Events 
this past month had only heightened their dislike for each other. Lelaine tossed 
her head angrily in concession, and Romanda smiled, a faint curving of her lips. 
Egwene almost smiled, too. That mutual animosity was still her greatest strength 
in the Hall.
"The Amyrlin Seat commands you to proceed," Romanda announced, raising one hand 
grandly.
The light of saidar sprang up around the thirteen sisters near the Sitters, 
around all of them together, and a thick slash of silver appeared in the middle 
of the clearing, rotating into a gateway ten paces tall and a hundred wide. 
Falling snow drifted through from the other side. Shouted orders rose among the 
soldiers, and the first armored heavy calvary rode through. The swirling snow 
beyond the gateway was too thick to see far, yet Egwene imagined that she could 
make out the Shining Walls of Tar Valon and the White Tower itself.
"It has begun, Mother," Sheriam said, sounding almost surprised.
"It has begun," Egwene agreed. And the Light willing, soon Elaida would fall. 
She was supposed to wait until Bryne said sufficient of his soldiers were 
through, but she could not stop herself. Digging her heels into Daishar's 
flanks, she rode through into the falling snow, onto the plain where Dragonmount 
reared black and smoking against a white sky.
Chapter 31
After
Winter winds and winter snows slowed the passage of trade across lands where 
they did not end it until spring, and for every three pigeons sent by merchants, 
two fell to hawks or weather, but where ice did not cover the rivers, ships 
still sailed, and rumor flew faster than lightnings. A thousand rumors, each 
throwing off a thousand seeds that sprouted and grew in snow and ice as in 
fertile soil.
At Tar Valon, some stories said, great armies had clashed, and the streets ran 
with blood, and rebel Aes Sedai had stuck the head of Elaida a'Roihan on a pike. 
No; Elaida had closed her hand, and those who survived among the rebels groveled 
at Elaida's feet. There had been no rebels, no division of the White Tower. It 
was the Black Tower that had been broken, by Aes Sedai designs and Aes Sedai 
power, and Asha'man hunted Asha'man across the nations. The White Tower had 
shattered the Sun Palace in Cairhien, and the Dragon Reborn himself was bound 
now to the Amyrlin Seat, her puppet and her tool. Some tales said Aes Sedai had 
been bound to him, bound to the Asha'man, yet few believed that, and those few 
were ridiculed.
Artur Hawkwing's armies had returned to reclaim his long-dead empire, and the 
Seanchan were sweeping all before them, even to driving the Dragon Reborn from 
Altara in defeat. The Seanchan had come to serve him. No; he had cast the 
Seanchan into the sea, destroying their army utterly. They had carried the 
Dragon Reborn away, to kneel before their Empress. The Dragon Reborn was dead, 
and there was as much celebration as mourning, as many tears as cries of joy.
Across the nations the stories spread like spiderweb laid upon spiderweb, and 
men and women planned the future, believing they knew truth. They planned, and 
the Pattern absorbed their plans, weaving toward the future foretold.
 
The End 
of the Eighth Book of 
The Wheel of Time
GLOSSARY
A Note on Dates in This Glossary. The Toman Calendar (devised by Toma dur Ahmid) 
was adopted approximately two centuries after the death of the last male Aes 
Sedai, recording years After the Breaking of the World (AB). So many records 
were destroyed in the Trolloc Wars that at their end there was argument about 
the exact year under the old system. A new calendar, proposed by Tiam of Gazar, 
celebrated freedom from the Trolloc threat and recorded each year as a Free Year 
(FY). The Gazaran Calendar gained wide acceptance within twenty years after the 
Wars' end. Artur Hawkwing attempted to establish a new calendar based on the 
founding of his empire (FF, From the Founding), but only historians now refer to 
it. After the death and destruction of the War of the Hundred Years, a third 
calendar was devised by Uren din Jubai Soaring Gull, a scholar of the Sea Folk, 
and promulgated by the Panarch Farede of Tarabon. The Farede Calendar, dating 
from the arbitrarily decided end of the War of the Hundred Years and recording 
years of the New Era (NE), is currently in use.
 
armsmen: Soldiers who owe allegiance or fealty to a particular lord or lady.
 
Asha'man: (1) In the Old Tongue, "Guardian" or "Guardians," but always a 
guardian of justice and truth. (2) The name given, both collectively and as a 
rank, to the men who have come to the Black Tower, near Caemlyn in Andor, in 
order to learn to channel. Their training concentrates on the ways in which the 
One Power can be used as a weapon, and in another departure from the usages of 
the White Tower, once they learn to seize saidin, the male half of the Power, 
they are required to perform all chores and labors with the Power. When newly 
enrolled, a man is termed a Soldier; he wears a plain black coat with a high 
collar, in the Andoran fashion. Being raised to Dedicated brings the right to 
wear a silver pin, called the Sword, on the collar of his coat. Promotion to 
Asha'man brings the right to wear a Dragon pin, in gold and red enamel, on the 
collar opposite the Sword. Although many women, including wives, flee when they 
learn that their men actually can channel, a fair number of men at the Black 
Tower are married, and they use a version of the Warder bond to create a link 
with their wives. This same bond, altered to compel obedience, has recently been 
used to bond captured Aes Sedai as well.
 
Balwer, Sebban: Formerly Pedron Niall's secretary, in public, and secretly 
Niall's spymaster. He aided Morgase's escape from the Seanchan in Amador for his 
own reasons, and now is employed as secretary to Perrin t'Bashere Aybara and 
Faile ni Bashere t'Aybara.
 
Blood, the: Term used by the Seanchan to designate the nobility. One can be 
raised to the Blood as well as born to it.
 
Cha Faile: (1) In the Old Tongue, "the Falcon's Talon." (2) Name taken by the 
young Cairhienin and Tairens, attempted followers of ji'e'toh, who have sworn 
fealty to Faile ni Bashere t'Aybara. In secret, they act as her personal scouts 
and spies.
 
Companions, the: The elite military formation of Illian, currently commanded by 
First Captain Demetre Marcolin. The Companions provide a bodyguard for the King 
of Illian and guard key points around the nation. Additionally, the Companions 
have traditionally been used in battle to assault the enemy's strongest 
positions, to exploit weaknesses, and, if necessary, to cover the retreat of the 
King. Unlike most other such elite formations, foreigners (excepting Tairens, 
Altarans and Murandians) are not only welcome, they can rise even to the highest 
rank, as can commoners, which also is unusual. The uniform of the Companions 
consists of a green coat, a breastplate worked with the Nine Bees of Illian, and 
a conical helmet with a faceguard of steel bars. The First Captain wears four 
rings of golden braid on the cuffs of his coat, and three thin golden plumes on 
his helmet. The Second Captain wears three rings of golden braid on each cuff, 
and three golden plumes tipped with green. Lieutenants wear two yellow rings on 
their cuffs, and two thin green plumes, under-lieutenants one yellow ring and a 
single green plume. Bannermen are designated by two broken rings of yellow on 
the cuffs and a single yellow plume, squadmen by a single broken ring of yellow.
 
Consolidation, the: When the armies sent by Artur Hawkwing under his son Luthair 
landed in Seanchan, they discovered a shifting quilt of nations often at war 
with one another, where Aes Sedai often reigned. Without any equivalent of the 
White Tower, Aes Sedai worked for their own individual power, using the Power. 
Forming small groups, they schemed against one another constantly. In large part 
it was this constant scheming for personal advantage and the resulting wars 
among the myriad nations that allowed the armies from east of the Aryth Ocean to 
begin the conquest of an entire continent, and for their descendants to complete 
it. This conquest, during which the descendants of the original armies became 
Seanchan as much as they conquered Seanchan, took more than nine hundred years 
and is called the Consolidation. Corenne: In the Old Tongue, "the Return." The 
name given by the Seanchan both to the fleet of thousands of ships and to the 
hundreds of thousands of soldiers, craftsmen and others carried by those ships, 
who will come behind the Forerunners to reclaim the lands stolen from Artur 
Hawkwing's descendants. See also Forerunners.
 
Daughters of Silence, the: During the history of the White Tower (over three 
thousand years), various women who have been put out have been unwilling to 
accept their fates and have tried to band together. Such groups  --  most of them 
by far, at least  --  have been dispersed by the White Tower as soon as found and 
punished severely and publicly to make sure that the lesson is carried to 
everyone. The last group to be dispersed called themselves the Daughters of 
Silence (794-798 NE). The Daughters consisted of two Accepted who had been put 
out of the Tower and twenty-three women they had gathered and trained. All were 
carried back to Tar Valon and punished, and the twenty-three were enrolled in 
the novice book. Only one of those managed to reach the shawl. See also Kin, 
the.
 
da'covale: (1) In the Old Tongue, "one who is owned," or "person who is 
property." (2) Among the Seanchan, the term often used, along with property, for 
slaves. Slavery has a long and unusual history among the Seanchan, with slaves 
having the ability to rise to positions of great power and open authority, 
including over those who are free. See also so'jhin.
 
Deathwatch Guards, the: The elite military formation of the Seanchan Empire, 
including both humans and Ogier. The human members of the Deathwatch Guard are 
all da'covak, born as property and chosen while young to serve the Empress, 
whose personal property they are. Fanatically loyal and fiercely proud, they 
often display the ravens tattooed on their shoulders, the mark of a da'covak of 
the Empress. The helmets and armor are lacquered in dark green and blood-red, 
their shields are lacquered black, and their spears and swords carry black 
tassels. See also da'covale.
 
Defenders of the Stone, the: The elite military formation of Tear. The current 
Captain of the Stone (commander of the Defenders) is Rodrivar Tihera. Only 
Tairens are accepted into the Defenders, and officers are usually of noble 
birth, though often from minor Houses or minor branches of strong Houses. The 
Defenders are tasked to hold the great fortress called the Stone of Tear, in the 
city of Tear, to defend the city, and to provide police services in place of any 
City Watch or the like.
Except in times of war, their duties seldom take them far from the city. Then, 
as with other elite formations, they are the core around which the army is 
formed. The uniform of the Defenders consists of a black coat with padded 
sleeves striped black-and-gold with black cuffs, a burnished breastplate, and a 
rimmed helmet with a faceguard of steel bars. The Captain of the Stone wears 
three short white plumes on his helmet, and on the cuffs of his coat three 
intertwined golden braids on a white band. Captains wear two white plumes and a 
single line of golden braid on white cuffs, lieutenants one white plume and a 
single line of black braid on white cuffs and under-lieutenants one short black 
plume and plain white cuffs. Bannermen have gold-colored cuffs on their coats, 
and squadmen have cuffs striped black-and-gold.
 
Delving: (1) The ability to use the One Power to diagnose physical condition and 
illness. (2) The ability to find deposits of metal ores with the One Power. That 
this has long been a lost ability among Aes Sedai may account for the name 
becoming attached to another ability.
 
der'morat: (1) In the Old Tongue, "master handler." (2) Among the Seanchan, the 
suffix applied to indicate a senior and highly skilled handler of one of the 
exotics, one who trains others, as in der'Morat'raken. Der'morat can have a 
fairly high social status, the highest of all held by der'sul'dam, the trainers 
of sul'dam, who rank with fairly high military officers. See also morat.
 
Fain, Padan: Former Darkfriend, now more and worse than a Darkfriend, and an 
enemy of the Forsaken as much as he is of Rand al'Thor, whom he hates with a 
passion. Last seen using the name Jeraal Mordeth, advising Lord Toram Riatin in 
his rebellion against the Dragon Reborn in Cairhien.
 
Fists of Heaven, the: Lightly armed and lightly armored Seanchan infantry 
carried into battle on the backs of the flying creatures called to'raken. All 
are small men, or women, largely because of limits as to how much weight a 
to'raken can carry for any distance. Considered to be among the toughest 
soldiers, they are used primarily for raids, surprise assaults on positions at 
an enemy's rear, and where speed in getting soldiers into place is of the 
essence.
 
Forerunners, the: See Hailene.
 
Forsaken, the: The name given to thirteen powerful Aes Sedai, men and women 
both, who went over to the Shadow during the Age of Legends and were trapped in 
the sealing of the Bore into the Dark One's prison. While it has long been 
believed that they alone abandoned the Light during the War of the Shadow, in 
fact others did as well; these thirteen were only the highest ranking among 
them. The Forsaken (who call themselves the Chosen) are somewhat reduced in 
number since their awakening in the present day. The known survivors are 
Demandred, Semirhage, Graendal, Mesaana, Moghedien, and two who were 
reincarnated in new bodies and given new names, Osan'gar and Aran'gar. Recently, 
a man calling himself Moridin has appeared, and may be yet another of the dead 
Forsaken brought back from the grave by the Dark One. The same possibility may 
exist regarding the woman calling herself Cyndane, but since Aran'gar was a man 
brought back as a woman, speculation as to the identities of Moridin and Cyndane 
may prove futile until more is learned.
 
Hailene: In the Old Tongue, "Forerunners," or "Those Who Come Before." The term 
applied by the Seanchan to the massive expeditionary force sent across the Aryth 
Ocean to scout out the lands where Artur Hawkwing once ruled. Now under the 
command of the High Lady Suroth, its numbers swollen by recruits from conquered 
lands, the Hailene has gone far beyond its original goals.
 
Hanlon, Daved: A Darkfriend, formerly commander of the White Lions in service to 
the Forsaken Rahvin while he held Caemlyn using the name Lord Gaebril. From 
there, Hanlon took the White Lions to Cairhien under orders to further the 
rebellion against the Dragon Reborn. The White Lions were destroyed by a "bubble 
of evil," and Hanlon has been ordered back to Caemlyn for purposes as yet 
unknown.
 
Ishara: The first Queen of Andor (circa FY 994-1020). At the death of Artur 
Hawkwing, Ishara convinced her husband, one of Hawkwing's foremost generals, to 
raise the siege of Tar Valon and accompany her to Caemlyn with as many soldiers 
as he could break away from the army. Where others tried to seize the whole of 
Hawkwing's empire and failed, Ishara took a firm hold on a small part and 
succeeded. Today, nearly every noble House in Andor contains some of Ishara's 
blood, and the right to claim the Lion Throne depends both on direct descent 
from her and on the number of lines of connection to her that can be 
established.
 
Kin, the: Even during the Trolloc Wars, more than two thousand years ago (circa 
1000  --  1350 AB), the White Tower continued to maintain its standards, putting 
out women who failed to measure up. One group of these women, fearing to return 
home in the midst of the wars, fled to Barashta (near the present-day site of 
Ebou Dar), as far from the fighting as was possible to go at that time. Calling 
themselves the Kin, and Kinswomen, they kept in hiding and offered a safe haven 
for others who had been put out. In time, their approaches to women told to 
leave the Tower led to contacts with runaways, and while the exact reasons may 
never be known, the Kin began to accept runaways, as well. They made great 
efforts to keep these girls from learning anything about the Kin until they were 
sure that Aes Sedai would not swoop down and retake them. After all, everyone 
knew that runaways were always caught sooner or later, and the Kin knew that 
unless they held themselves secret, they themselves would be punished severely. 
Unknown to the Kin, Aes Sedai in the Tower were aware of their existence almost 
from the very first, but prosecution of the wars left no time for dealing with 
them. By the end of the wars, the Tower realized that it might not be in their 
best interests to snuff out the Kin. Prior to that time, a majority of runaways 
actually had managed to escape, whatever the Tower's propaganda, but once the 
Kin began helping them, the Tower knew exactly where any runaway was heading, 
and they began retaking nine out often. Since Kinswomen moved in and out of 
Barashta (and later Ebou Dar) in an effort to hide their existence and their 
numbers, never staying more than ten years lest someone notice that they did not 
age at a normal speed, the Tower believed they were few, and they certainly were 
keeping themselves low. In order to use the Kin as a trap for runaways, the 
Tower decided to leave them alone, unlike any other similar group in history, 
and to keep the very existence of the Kin a secret known only to full Aes Sedai.
The Kin do not have laws, but rather rules based in part on the rules for 
novices and Accepted in the White Tower, and in part on the necessity of 
maintaining secrecy. As might be expected given the origins of the Kin, they 
maintain their rules very firmly on all of their members.
Recent open contacts between Aes Sedai and Kinswomen, while known only to a 
handful of sisters, have produced a number of shocks, including the facts that 
there are twice as many Kinswomen as Aes Sedai and that some are more than a 
hundred years older than any Aes Sedai has lived since before the Trolloc Wars. 
The effect of these revelations, both on Aes Sedai and on Kinswomen, is as yet a 
matter for speculation. See also Daughters of Silence, the; Knitting Circle, 
the. 
 
Knitting Circle, the: The leaders of the Kin. Since no member of the Kin has 
ever known how Aes Sedai arrange their own hierarchy  --  knowledge passed on only 
when an Accepted has passed her test for the shawl  --  they put no store in 
strength in the Power but give great weight to age, with the older woman always 
standing above the younger. The Knitting Circle (a title chosen, like the Kin, 
because it is innocuous) thus consists of the thirteen oldest Kinswomen resident 
in Ebou Dar, with the oldest given the title of Eldest. By the rules, all will 
have to step down when it is time for them to move on, but so long as they are 
resident in Ebou Dar, they have supreme authority over the Kin, to a degree that 
any Amyrlin Seat would envy. See also Kin, the.
 
Lance-Captain: In most lands, noblewomen do not personally lead their armsmen 
into battle under normal circumstances. Instead, they hire a professional 
soldier, almost always a commoner, who is responsible both for training and 
leading their armsmen. Depending on the land, this man can be called a 
Lance-Captain, Sword-Captain, Master of the Horse, or Master of the Lances. 
Rumors of closer relationships than Lady and servant often spring up, perhaps 
inevitably. Sometimes they are true.
 
Legion of the Dragon, the: A large military formation, all infantry, giving 
allegiance to the Dragon Reborn, trained by Davram Bashere along lines worked 
out by himself and Mat Cauthon, lines which depart sharply from the usual 
employment of foot. While many men simply walk in to volunteer, large numbers of 
the Legion are scooped up by recruiting parties from the Black Tower, who first 
gather all of the men in an area who were willing to follow the Dragon Reborn, 
and only after taking them through gateways to near Caemlyn winnow out those who 
can be taught to channel. The remainder, by far the greater number, are sent to 
Bashere's training camps.
 
marath'damane: In the Old Tongue, "those who must be leashed," and also "one who 
must be leashed." The term applied by the Seanchan to any woman capable of 
channeling who has not been collared as a damane.
 
Master of the Lances: See Lance-Captain.
 
Master of the Horse: See Lance-Captain.
 
Mera'din: In the Old Tongue, "the Brotherless." The name adopted, as a society, 
by those Aiel who abandoned clan and sept and went to the Shaido because they 
could not accept Rand al'Thor, a wetlander, as the Car'a'carn, or because they 
refused to accept his revelations concerning the history and origins of the 
Aiel. Deserting clan and sept for any reason is anathema among the Aiel, 
therefore their own warrior societies among the Shaido were unwilling to take 
them in, and they formed this society, the Brotherless.
 
morat: In the Old Tongue, "handler." Among the Seanchan, it is used for those 
who handle exotics, such as Morat'raken, a raken handler or rider, also 
informally called a flier. See a/so der'morat-.
 
Prophet, the: More formally, the Prophet of the Lord Dragon. Once known as 
Masema Dagar, a Shienaran soldier, he underwent a revelation and decided that he 
had been called to spread the word of the Dragon's Rebirth. He believes that 
nothing  --  nothing!  --  is more important than acknowledging the Dragon Reborn as 
the Light made flesh and being ready when the Dragon Reborn calls, and he and 
his followers will use any means to force others to sing the glories of the 
Dragon Reborn. Forsaking any name but "the Prophet," he has brought chaos to 
much of Ghealdan and Amadicia, large parts of which he controls.
 
Return, the: See Corenne.
 
Sea Folk hierarchy: The Atha'an Miere, the Sea Folk, are ruled by the Mistress 
of the Ships to the Atha'an Miere. She is assisted by the Windfinder to the 
Mistress of the Ships, and by the Master of the Blades. Below this come the clan 
Wavemistresses, each assisted by her Windfinder and her Swordmaster. Below her 
are the Sailmistresses (ship captains) of her clan, each assisted by her 
Windfinder and her Cargomaster. The Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships has 
authority over all Windfinders to clan Wavemistresses, who in turn have 
authority over all the Windfinders of her clan. Likewise, the Master of the 
Blades has authority over all Swordmasters, and they in turn over the 
Cargomasters of their clans. Rank is not hereditary among the Sea Folk. The 
Mistress of the Ships is chosen, for life, by the First Twelve of the Atha'an 
Miere, the twelve most senior clan Wavemistresses. A clan Wavemistress is 
elected by the twelve seniormost Sailmistresses of her clan, called simply the 
First Twelve, a term which is also used to designate the senior Sailmistresses 
present anywhere. She can also be removed by a vote of those same First Twelve. 
In fact, anyone other than the Mistress of the Ships can be demoted, even all 
the way down to deckhand, for malfeasance, cowardice or other crimes. Also, the 
Windfinder to a Wavemistress or Mistress of the Ship who dies will, of 
necessity, have to serve a lower ranking woman, and her own rank thus decreases. 
The Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships has authority over all Windfinders, 
and the Windfinder to a clan Wavemistress authority over all Windfinders of her 
clan. Likewise, the Master of the Blades has authority over all Sword-masters 
and Cargomasters, and a Swordmaster over the Cargomaster of his clan.
 
sei'mosiev: In the Old Tongue, "lowered eyes," or "downcast eyes." Among the 
Seanchan, to say that one has "become sei'mosiev" means that one has "lost 
face." See also sei'taer.
 
sei'taer: In the Old Tongue, "straight eyes," or "level eyes." Among the 
Seanchan, it refers to honor or face, to the ability to meet someone's eyes. It 
is possible to "be" or "have" sei'taer, meaning that one has honor and face, and 
also to "gain" or "lose" sei'taer. See also sei'mosiev.
 
Shen an Calhar: In the Old Tongue, "the Band of the Red Hand." (1) A legendary 
group of heroes who had many exploits, finally dying in the defense of 
Manetheren when that land was destroyed during the Trolloc Wars. (2) A military 
formation put together almost by accident by Mat Cauthon and organized along the 
lines of military forces during what is considered the height of the military 
arts, the days of Artur Hawkwing and the centuries immediately preceding.
 
so'jhin: The closest translation from the Old Tongue would be "a height among 
lowness," though some translate it as meaning "both sky and valley" among 
several other possibilities. So'jhin is the term applied by the Seanchan to 
hereditary upper servants. They are da'covale, property, yet occupy positions of 
considerable authority and often power. Even the Blood step carefully around 
so'jhin of the Imperial family, and speak to so'jhin of the Empress herself as 
to equals. See also Blood, the; da'covale.
 
Sword-Captain: See Lance-Captain.
 
Wise Woman: Honorific used in Ebou Dar for women famed for their incredible 
abilities at healing almost any injury. A Wise Woman is traditionally marked by 
a red belt. While some have noted that many, indeed most, Ebou Dari Wise Women 
were not even from Altara, much less Ebou Dar, what was not known until 
recently, and still is known only to a few, is that all Wise Women are in fact 
Kinswomen and use various versions of Healing, giving out herbs and poultices 
only as a cover. With the flight of the Kin from Ebou Dar after the Seanchan 
took the city, no Wise Women remain there. See also Kin, the.