A Crown of Swords

## Chapter 40

#### Spears

Mountains rose all around Galina Casban, little more than large hills behind but snowcapped peaks ahead and higher peaks beyond those, yet she really saw none of them. The stones of the slope bruised her bare feet. She panted, lungs laboring already. The sun baked overhead as it had for seemingly endless days, burning the sweat out of her in rivers. Anything other than putting one foot in front of the other seemed beyond her. Strange that with all the sweat coming out of her, she could not find any moisture in her mouth.

She had been Aes Sedai fewer than ninety years, her long black hair untouched as yet by gray, but for nearly twenty of those she had been head of the Red Ajah—called the Highest by other Red sisters, in private; considered by other Reds equal to the Amyrlin Seat—and for all but five of the years she had worn the shawl, she had been of the Black Ajah, in truth. Not to the exclusion of her duties as a Red, but superior to them. Her place on the Supreme Council of the Black Ajah was next to that of Alviarin herself, and she was one of only three who knew the name of the woman who led their hooded meetings. She could speak any name in those meetings—a king’s—and know that name belonged to the dead. It had happened, with a king and with a queen. She had helped to break two Amyrlins, twice helped turn the most powerful woman in the world into a squealing wretch eager to tell all she knew, had helped make it seem that one of those had died in her sleep and had seen the other deposed and stilled. Such things were a duty, like the need to exterminate men with the ability to channel, not actions she took pleasure in beyond that of tasks well done, but she had enjoyed leading the circle that stilled Siuan Sanche. Surely all those things meant that Galina Casban was herself among the mightiest of the world, among the most powerful. Surely they did. They must.

Her legs wavered like springs that had lost their tempering, and she fell heavily, unable to catch herself with arms and elbows tightly bound behind her. The once-white silk shift, the only garment left to her, tore again as she slid on the loose rocks, scraping her welts. A tree stopped her. Face pressed against the ground, she began to sob. “How?” she moaned in a thick voice. “How can this happen to me?”

After a time she realized that she had not been pulled to her feet; no matter how often she fell, she had never before been allowed a moment’s respite. Blinking away tears, she raised her head.

Aiel women covered the mountainside, several hundred of them scattered among the barren trees with their spears, the veils they could raise in an instant hanging down their chests. Galina wanted to laugh. Maidens; they called these monstrous women Maidens. She wished she could laugh. At least there were no men present, a small mercy. Men made her skin crawl, and if one could see her now, less than half-clothed . . .

Anxiously, her eyes sought for Therava, but most of the seventy or so Wise Ones stood together looking at something farther up the slope, blocking her view. There seemed to be a murmur of voices from the front of them. Maybe the Wise Ones were conferring about something. Wise Ones. They had been brutally efficient in teaching her the correct names; never just Aiel woman, and never wilder. They could smell contempt however she hid it. Of course, you did not have to try hiding what had been seared out of you.

Most of the Wise Ones were looking away, but not all. The glow of saidar surrounded a young, pretty, red-haired woman with a delicate mouth who watched Galina with large, intent blue eyes. Perhaps as a sign of their own disdain, they had chosen the weakest of their number to shield her this morning. Micara was not truly weak in the Power—none of them were that—but even smarting from shoulders to knees as she was, Galina could have broken Micara’s shield with little effort. A muscle in her cheek spasmed uncontrollably; it always did when she thought of another escape attempt. The first had been bad enough. The second . . . Shuddering, she fought not to sob again. She would not make the attempt again until she was sure of complete success. Very sure. Absolutely sure.

The mass of Wise Ones parted, turning to follow Therava with their eyes as the hawk-faced woman strode toward Galina. Suddenly panting once more, with apprehension, Galina tried to struggle to her feet. Hands bound and muscles watery, she had only reached her knees when Therava bent over her, necklaces of ivory and gold clattering softly. Seizing a handful of Galina’s hair, Therava forced her head back sharply. Taller than most men, the woman did that even when they were standing, craning Galina’s neck painfully to make her look up into the Wise One’s face. Therava was somewhat stronger in the Power than she, which relatively few women were, but that was not what made Galina tremble. Cold deep blue eyes stabbed into her own, held her more tightly than Therava’s rough hand; they seemed to strip her soul naked as easily as the Wise One handled her. She had not begged yet, not when they made her walk all day with hardly a drop of water, not when they forced her to keep up as they ran for hours, not even when their switches made her howl. Therava’s cruel hard face, staring down at her impassively, made her want to beg. Sometimes she woke at night, stretched out tight between the four stakes where they bound her, woke whimpering from dreams that her whole life would be lived under Therava’s hands.

“She is collapsing already,” the Wise One said in a voice like stone. “Water her, and bring her.” Turning away, she adjusted her shawl, Galina Casban forgotten until there was need to recall her; to Therava, Galina Casban was less important than a stray dog.

Galina did not try to rise; she had been “watered” often enough by now. It was the only way they let her drink. Aching for moisture, she did not resist when a blocky Maiden took her by the hair as Therava had and pulled her head back. She just opened her mouth as far as she could. Another Maiden, with a puckered scar slanting across nose and cheek, tilted a waterskin and slowly poured a trickle into Galina’s waiting mouth. The water was flat and warm; it was delicious. She swallowed convulsively, awkwardly, holding her jaws wide. Almost as much as water to drink, she wanted to move her face under that thin stream, to let it run over her cheeks and forehead. Instead she kept her head very steady, so that every drop went down her throat. Spilling water was cause for another beating; they had thrashed her in sight of a creek six paces wide for spilling a mouthful over her chin.

When the waterskin was finally taken away, the blocky Maiden hauled her to her feet by her bound elbows. Galina groaned. The Wise Ones were gathering their skirts over their arms, exposing their legs well above soft knee-high boots. They could not be going to run. Not again. Not in these mountains.

The Wise Ones loped forward as easily as if on level ground. An unseen Maiden cut Galina across the back of her thighs with a switch, and she stumbled to a semblance of a run, half-dragged by the blocky Maiden. The switch slashed her legs whenever they faltered. If this run continued the rest of the day, they would take turns, one Maiden wielding the stick and another dragging. Laboring up slopes and nearly sliding down, Galina ran. A tawny mountain cat, striped in shades of brown and heavier than a man, snarled at them from a rocky ledge above; a female, lacking the tufts on her ears and the wide cheeks. Galina wanted to shout at her to flee, to run before Therava caught her. The Aiel ran on by the snarling animal, unconcerned, and Galina wept with jealousy for the cat’s freedom.

She would be rescued eventually, of course; she knew that. The Tower would not allow a sister to remain in captivity. Elaida would not allow a Red to be held. Surely Alviarin would send rescue. Someone would, anyone, to save her from these monsters, especially from Therava. She would promise anything for that deliverance. She would even keep those promises. She had been broken free of the Three Oaths on joining the Black Ajah, replacing them with a new trinity, but at that moment she truly believed she would keep her word, if it brought rescue. Any promise, to anyone who would free her. Even a man.

By the time low tents appeared, their dark colors fading into the forested mountainsides as well as the cat had, Galina had two Maidens supporting her, pulling her along. Shouts rose from every side, glad cries of greeting, but Galina was dragged on behind the Wise Ones, deeper into the camp, still running, stumbling.

Without warning the hands left her arms. She pitched forward on her face and lay there with her nose in the dirt and dead leaves, sucking air through her gaping mouth. She coughed on a piece of leaf, but she was too weak to turn her head. The blood pounded her ears, but voices came to her and slowly began to make sense.

“ . . . Took your time, Therava,” a familiar-sounding woman’s voice said. “Nine days. We have been back long since.”

Nine days? Galina shook her head, scrubbing her face on the ground. Since the Aiel had shot her horse from under her, memory blended all the days into a melange of thirst and running and being beaten, but surely it had been longer ago than nine days. Weeks, certainly. A month or more.

“Bring her in,” the familiar voice said impatiently.

Hands pulled her up, shoved her forward, bending her to go under the edge of a large tent with the sides raised all around. She was thrown down on layered carpets, the edge of a red-and-blue Tairen maze overlapping gaudy flowers beneath her nose. With difficulty, she raised her head.

At first, she saw nothing but Sevanna, seated on a large yellow-tasseled cushion in front of her. Sevanna with her hair like fine-spun gold, her clear emerald eyes. Treacherous Sevanna, who had given her word to distract attention by raiding into Cairhien, then broken her pledge by trying to free al’Thor. Sevanna, who at the least might take her from Therava’s clutches.

She struggled up onto her knees, and for the first time realized there were others in the tent. Therava sat on a cushion to Sevanna’s right, at the head of a curving line of Wise Ones, fourteen women who could channel in all, though Micara, who still held the shield on her, stood at the foot of the line rather than sitting. Half of them had been among the Wise Ones who captured her with such scornful ease. She would never again be so careless about Wise Ones; never again. Short, pale-faced men and women in white robes moved behind the Wise Ones, wordlessly offering trays of gold or silver with small cups, and more did the same on the other side of the tent, where a gray-haired woman in an Aiel coat and breeches of brown and gray sat to Sevanna’s left, at the head of a line of twelve stone-faced Aielmen. Men. And she wore nothing but her shift, ripped and gaping in a number of places. Galina clamped her teeth shut to stifle a scream. She forced her back stiff to keep from trying to burrow into the rugs and hide from those cold male eyes.

“It seems that Aes Sedai can lie,” Sevanna said, and the blood drained from Galina’s face. The woman could not know; she could not. “You made pledges, Galina Casban, and broke them. Did you think you could murder a Wise One and then run beyond the reach of our spears?”

For a moment, relief froze Galina’s tongue. Sevanna did not know about the Black Ajah. Had she not abandoned the Light long ago, she would have thanked the Light. Relief stilled her tongue, and a tiny spark of indignation. They attacked Aes Sedai and were angry when some of them died? A tiny spark was all she could manage. After all, what was Sevanna’s twisting facts alongside days of beatings and Therava’s eyes? A pained, croaking laugh bubbled up at the absurdity of it. Her throat was so dry.

“Be thankful some of you still live,” she managed past her laughter. “Even now it is not too late to rectify your mistakes, Sevanna.” With an effort, she swallowed rueful mirth before it turned to tears. Just before. “When I return to the White Tower, I will remember those who assist me, even now.” She would have added, “and those who do otherwise,” but Therava’s unwavering stare set fear fluttering in her middle. For all she knew, Therava still might be allowed to do whatever she wished. There had to be some way to induce Sevanna to . . . take charge of her. That tasted bitter, yet anything was better than Therava. Sevanna was ambitious, and greedy. In the midst of frowning at Galina, she had caught sight of her own hand and directed a brief, admiring smile at rings set with large emeralds and firedrops. She wore rings on half her fingers, and necklaces of pearls and rubies and diamonds fit for any queen draped across the swell of her bosom. Sevanna could not be trusted, but perhaps she could be bought. Therava was a force of nature; as well try to buy a flood or an avalanche. “I trust that you will do what is right, Sevanna,” she finished. “The rewards of friendship with the White Tower are great.”

For a long moment, there was silence except for the whisper of the white robes as the servants moved with their trays. Then . . .

“You are da’tsang,” Sevanna said. Galina blinked. She was a despised one? Certainly they had displayed their contempt plainly, but why—?

“You are da’tsang,” a round-faced Wise One she did not know intoned, and a woman a hand taller than Therava repeated, “You are da’tsang.”

Therava’s hawklike face might have been carved from wood, yet her eyes, fixed on Galina, glittered accusingly. Galina felt nailed to the spot where she knelt, unable to move a muscle. A hypnotized bird watching a serpent slither nearer. No one had ever made her feel that way. No one.

“Three Wise Ones have spoken.” Sevanna’s satisfied smile was almost welcoming. Therava’s face was stark. The woman did not like whatever had just happened. Something had happened, even if Galina did not know what. Except that it appeared to have delivered her from Therava. That was more than enough for the moment. More than enough.

When Maidens cut her bounds and stuffed her into a black wool robe, she was so grateful she almost did not care that they tore off the remnants of her shift first, in front of those ice-eyed men. The thick wool was hot and itchy and scratchy on her welts, and she welcomed it as though it were silk. Despite Micara still shielding her, she could have laughed as the Maidens led her out of the tent. It did not take long for that desire to vanish entirely. It did not take her long to begin wondering whether begging on her knees before Sevanna would do any good. She would have done it, could she have gotten to the woman, except that Micara made it plain she was not going anywhere she was not told to go, or speak a word unless spoken to.

Arms folded, Sevanna watched the Aes Sedai, the da’tsang, stagger down the mountainside and stop, beside a Maiden squatting on her heels with a switch, to drop the head-shaped stone she had been carrying in her hands. The black hood turned in Sevanna’s direction for a moment, but the da’tsang quickly bent to pick up another large stone and turned to labor back up the fifty paces to where Micara waited with another Maiden. There she dropped that stone, picked up another, and started back down. Da’tsang were always shamed with useless labor; unless there was great need, the woman would not be allowed to carry even a cup of water, yet toil without purpose would fill her hours till she burst of shame. The sun had a long way to climb yet, and many more days lay ahead.

“I did not think she would condemn herself out of her own mouth,” Rhiale said at Sevanna’s shoulder. “Efalin and the others are all but sure she openly admitted killing Desaine.”

“She is mine, Sevanna.” Therava’s jaw tightened. She might have taken the woman, but da’tsang belonged to no one. “I intended to dress her in gai’shain robes of silk,” she muttered. “What is the purpose of this, Sevanna? I expected to have to argue against cutting her throat, not this.”

Rhiale tossed her head, casting a sidelong glance at Sevanna. “Sevanna intends to break her. We have had long talks of what to do should we capture any Aes Sedai. Sevanna wants a tame Aes Sedai to wear white and serve her. An Aes Sedai in black will do well enough, though.”

Sevanna shifted her shawl, irritated by the woman’s tone. Not quite mocking, but all too aware that she wanted somehow to use the Aes Sedai’s channeling as though it were Sevanna’s own. It would be possible. Two gai’shain passed the three Wise Ones, carrying a large brass-strapped chest between them. Short and pale-faced, husband and wife, they had been Lord and Lady in the treekillers’ lands. The pair bowed their heads more meekly than any Aiel in white ever could have managed; their dark eyes were tight with fear of a harsh word, much less a switch. Wetlanders could be tamed like horses.

“The woman is tamed already,” Therava grumbled. “I have looked into her eyes. She is a bird fluttering in the hand and afraid to fly.”

“In nine days?” Rhiale said incredulously, and Sevanna shook her head vigorously.

“She is Aes Sedai, Therava. You saw her face go pale with fury when I accused her. You heard her laugh as she spoke of killing Wise Ones.” She made a vexed, angry sound. “And you heard her threaten us.” The woman had been as slippery as the treekillers, speaking of rewards and letting the threat if no rewards came shout silently. But what else could be expected of Aes Sedai? “It will take long to break her, but this Aes Sedai will beg to obey if it takes a year.” Once she did that . . . Aes Sedai could not lie, of course; she had expected Galina to deny her accusation. Once she swore to obey . . .

“If you want to make an Aes Sedai obey you,” a man’s voice said behind her, “this might help.”

Incredulous, Sevanna spun about to find Caddar standing there, and beside him the woman—the Aes Sedai—Maisia, both dressed in dark silk and fine lace as they had been six days ago, each with a bulging sack hanging incongruously from one shoulder by a strap. Caddar held out a smooth white rod about a foot long in one dark hand.

“How did you come here?” she demanded, then compressed her lips in anger. Plainly he had come as he had before; she was just surprised at him appearing here, in the middle of the camp. She snatched the white rod he offered, and as always he stepped back beyond arm’s reach. “Why have you come?” she amended. “What is this?” A little slimmer than her wrist, the rod was smooth except for a few odd, flowing symbols incised on one flat end. It felt not quite like ivory, not quite like glass. Very cool to the touch.

“You might call it an Oath Rod,” Caddar said, showing teeth in what was doubtless meant for a smile. “It only came into my hands yesterday, and I immediately thought of you.”

Sevanna clamped her hands tight around the rod to keep from hurling it away. Everyone knew what the Aes Sedai’s Oath Rod did. Trying not even to think, much less speak, she thrust it behind her belt and took her hands away.

Rhiale frowned at the rod at Sevanna’s waist, and her eyes rose slowly, coldly, to Sevanna’s face. Therava adjusted her shawl in a clatter of bracelets, and gave a hard, thin smile. There would never be any chance of one of them touching the rod and maybe no chance of any other Wise One doing so either. But there was still Galina Casban. One day she would break.

Raven-eyed Maisia, a little behind Caddar, smiled almost as faintly as Therava. She had seen, and understood. She was observant, for a wetlander.

“Come,” Sevanna told Caddar. “We will drink tea in my tent.” She certainly would not share water with him. Lifting her skirts, she started up the slope.

To her surprise, Caddar was also observant. “All you need do is have your Aes Sedai”—walking easily beside her on his long legs, he grinned suddenly, toothily, at Rhiale and Therava—“or any woman who can channel hold the rod and speak whatever promises you wish while someone channels a little Spirit into the number. The marks on the end of the rod?” he added, raising his eyebrows insultingly. “You can use it to release her, too but that is more painful. Or so I understand.”

Sevanna’s fingers touched the rod lightly. More glass than ivory, and very cool. “It only works on women?” She ducked into the tent ahead of him. The Wise Ones and the leaders of the warrior societies were gone, but the dozen treekiller gai’shain remained, kneeling patiently to one side. No one person had ever kept a dozen gai’shain before, and she possessed more. There would have to be a new name for them, though, since they would never put off the white.

“Women who can channel, Sevanna,” Caddar said, following her in. The man’s tone was incredibly insolent. His dark eyes shone with open amusement. “You will have to wait until you have al’Thor before I give you what will control him.”

Removing the sack from his shoulder, he sat. Not on a cushion near hers, of course. Maisia was not afraid of a blade in her ribs; she lounged on an elbow almost at Sevanna’s side. Sevanna eyed her sideways, then casually undid another lace of her own blouse. She did not recall the woman’s bosom being as round as that. For that matter, her face seemed even more beautiful, as well. Sevanna tried not to grind her teeth.

“Of course,” Caddar went on, “if you mean some other man—There is a thing called a binding chair. Binding people who cannot channel is more difficult than binding those who can. Perhaps a binding chair survived the Breaking, but you will have to wait while I find it.”

Sevanna touched the rod again, then impatiently ordered one of the gai’shain to bring tea. She could wait. Caddar was a fool. Sooner or later he would give her everything she wanted of him. And now the rod could break Maisia free of him. Surely then the woman would not protect him. For his insults, he would wear black. Sevanna took a small green porcelain cup from the tray the gai’shain held and gave it to the Aes Sedai with her own hands. “It is flavored with mint, Maisia. You will find it refreshing.”

The woman smiled, but those black eyes . . . Well, what could be done to one Aes Sedai could be done to two. Or more.

“What of the traveling boxes?” Sevanna demanded curtly.

Caddar waved the gai’shain away and patted the sack beside him. “I brought as many nar’baha—that is what they were called—as many as I could find. Enough to transport all of you by nightfall, if you hurry. And I would, if I were you. Al’Thor means to finish you, it seems. Two clans are coming up from the south, and two more are moving to come down from the north. With their Wise Ones, all ready to channel. Their orders are to stay until every last one of you is dead or a prisoner.”

Therava sniffed. “A reason to move, certainly, wetlander, but not to run. Even four clans cannot sweep Kinslayer’s Dagger in a day.”

“Didn’t I say?” Caddar’s smile was not at all pleasant. “It seems al’Thor has bound some Aes Sedai to him, too, and they have taught the Wise Ones how to Travel without a nar’baha, over short distances, at least. Twenty or thirty miles. A recent rediscovery, it seems. They could be here—well, today. All four clans.”

Maybe he lied, yet the risk . . . Sevanna could imagine all too well being in Sorilea’s grip. Not allowing herself to shiver, she sent Rhiale to inform the other Wise Ones. Her voice betrayed nothing.

Reaching into his bag, Caddar drew out a gray stone cube, smaller than the callbox she had used to summon him, and much plainer, with no marking but a bright red disc set in one face. “This is a nar’baha,” he said. “It uses saidin, so none of you will see anything, and it has limits. If a woman touches it, it won’t work for days afterward, so I will have to hand them out myself, and it has other limits. Once opened, the gateway will remain for a fixed time, sufficient for a few thousand to go through if they don’t waste time, and the nar’baha needs three days to recover afterward. I have enough extra to carry us where we need to go today, but . . . ”

Therava leaned forward so intently she looked about to fall over, but Sevanna hardly listened. She did not doubt Caddar, exactly; he would not dare betray them, not while he hungered for the gold the Shaido would give him. There were small things, though. Maisia seemed to study him over her tea. Why? And if there was such need for speed, why was there no urgency in his voice? He would not betray, but she would take precautions anyway.

Maeric frowned at the stone cube the wetlander had given him, then at the . . . hole . . . that had appeared when he pressed the red spot. A hole, five paces wide and three high, in midair. Beyond lay rolling hills, not low, covered with brown grass. He did not like things to do with the One Power, especially with the male part of it. Sevanna stepped through another, smaller, hole with the wetlander and a dark woman, following the Wise Ones Sevanna and Rhiale had chosen out. Only a handful of Wise Ones remained with the Moshaine Shaido. Through that second hole, he could see Sevanna talking with Bendhuin. The Green Salts sept would find themselves with few Wise Ones, too; Maeric was sure of it.

Dyrele touched his arm. “Husband,” she murmured, “Sevanna said it would only remain open a short while.”

Maeric nodded. Dyrele always saw straight to the point. Veiling himself, he ran forward and leaped through the hole he had made. Whatever Sevanna and the wetlander said, he would send none of his Moshaine through before he knew it was safe.

He landed heavily on a slope covered with dead grass and nearly pitched head-over-heels down the hill before he caught himself. For a moment he stared back up at the hole. On this side, it hung more than a foot above the ground.

“Wife!” he shouted. “There is a drop!”

Black Eyes leaped through, veiled and spears ready, and Maidens, also. As well try to drink sand as try to keep Maidens from being among the first. The rest of the Moshaine followed at a run, algai’d’siswai and wives and children, jumping down on the fly, craftsfolk and traders and gai’shain, most pulling heavily loaded packhorses and mules, near to six thousand altogether. His sept, his people. They still would be once he went to Rhuidean; Sevanna could not keep him from becoming clan chief for much longer.

Scouts began spreading out immediately, while the sept still rushed out of the hole. Lowering his veil, Maeric shouted orders that sent a screen of algai’d’siswai toward the crests of the surrounding hills while everyone else remained concealed below. There was no telling who or what lay beyond those hills. Rich lands, the wetlander claimed, but this part did not look rich to him.

The rush of his sept became a flood of algai’d’siswai he did not really trust, men who had fled their own clans because they did not believe Rand al’Thor was truly the Car’a’carn. Maeric was not sure what he himself believed, but a man did not abandon sept and clan. These men called themselves Mera’din, the Brotherless, a fitting name, and he had two hundr—

The hole suddenly snapped into a vertical slash of silver that sliced through ten of the Brotherless. Pieces of them fell onto the slope, arms, legs. The front half of a man slid almost to Maeric’s feet.

Staring at the place where the hole had been, he stabbed at the red spot with his thumb. Useless, he knew, but . . . Darin, his eldest son, was one of the Stone Dogs waiting as a rear guard. They would have been the last through. Suraile, his eldest daughter, had remained with the Stone Dog for whom she was thinking of giving up the spear.

His eyes met Dyrele’s, as green and beautiful as the day she had laid the wreath at his feet. And threatened to cut his throat if he did not pick it up. “We can wait.” he said softly. The wetlander had said three days, but maybe he was wrong. His thumb stabbed the red spot again. Dyrele nodded calmly; he hoped there would be no need to cry in one another’s arms once they could be alone.

A Maiden came skittering down the slope from above, hurriedly lowering her veil, and actually breathing hard. “Maeric,” Naeise said, not even waiting for him to see her, “there are spears to the east, only a few miles and running straight at us. I think they are Reyn. At least seven or eight thousand of them.”

He could see other algai’d’siswai running toward him. A young Brother to the Eagle, Cairdin, slid to a stop, speaking as soon as Maeric saw him. “I see you, Maeric. There are spears no more than five miles to the north, and wetlanders on horses. Perhaps ten thousand of each. I do not think any of us broke the crest, but some of the spears have turned toward us.”

Maeric knew before the grizzled Water Seeker named Laerad opened his mouth. “Spears coming over a hill three or four miles to the south. Eight thousand or more. Some of them saw one of the boys.” Laerad never wasted words, and he would never say which boy, who in truth could be anyone without gray hair, to Laerad.

There was no time for wasting words, Maeric knew. “Hamal!” he shouted. No time for proper courtesy to a blacksmith, either.

The big man knew something was wrong; he scrambled up the slope, likely moving faster than he had since first picking up a hammer.

Maeric handed him the stone cube. “You must press the red spot and keep pressing it, no matter what happens, no matter how long it takes for that hole to open. That is the only way out for any of you.” Hamal nodded, but Maeric did not even wait for him to say that he would. Hamal would understand. Maeric touched Dyrele’s cheek, careless of how many eyes were on them. “Shade of my heart, you must prepare to put on white.” Her hand strayed toward the hilt of her belt knife—she had been a Maiden when she made his wreath—but he shook his head firmly. “You must live, wife, roofmistress, to hold together what remains.” Nodding, she pressed fingers to his cheek. He was astonished; she had always been very reserved in public.

Raising his veil, Maeric shoved one spear high above his head. “Moshaine!” he roared. “We dance!”

Up the slope they followed him, men and Maidens, nearly a thousand strong counting the Brotherless. Perhaps they could be counted among the sept. Up the slope and west; that way lay the nearest and the fewest. Perhaps they might buy enough time, though he did not really believe that. He wondered whether Sevanna had known of this. Ah, the world had grown very strange since Rand al’Thor came. Some things could not change, though. Laughing, he began to sing.

“Wash the spears, while the sun climbs high.
Wash the spears, while the sun falls low.
Wash the spears; who fears to die?
Wash the spears; no one I know!”

Singing, the Moshaine Shaido ran to dance their deaths.

Frowning, Graendal watched the gateway close behind the last of the Jumai Shaido. The Jumai and a great many Wise Ones. Unlike with the others, Sammael had not simply knotted this web so it would fall apart eventually. At least, she assumed he held it to the last; the closing, right on the heels of the last brown-and-gray-clad men, was too fortuitous otherwise. Laughing, Sammael tossed away the bag, still holding a few of those useless bits of stone. Her own empty sack was long since discarded. The sun sat low behind the mountains to the west, half of a glowing red ball.

“One of these days,” she said dryly, “you will be too smart for your own good. A fool box, Sammael? Suppose one of them had understood?”

“None did,” he said simply, but he kept rubbing his hands together and staring at where the gateway had been. Or maybe at something beyond. He still held the Mask of Mirrors, giving him the illusion of added height. She had dropped hers as soon as the gateway closed.

“Well, you certainly managed to put a panic into them.” Around them lay the evidence: a few low tents still standing, blankets, a cookpot, a rag doll, all sorts of rubbish lying where it had fallen. “Where did you send them? Somewhere ahead of al’Thor’s army, I suppose?”

“Some,” he said absently. “Enough.” His staring introspection vanished abruptly, and his disguise as well. The scar across his face seemed especially livid. “Enough to cause trouble, particularly with their Wise Ones channeling, but not so many that anyone will suspect me. The rest are scattered from Illian to Ghealdan. As to how or why? Maybe al’Thor did it, for his own reasons, but I certainly wouldn’t have wasted most of them if it was my work, now would I?” He laughed again; caught up in his own brilliance.

She adjusted the bodice of her dress to cover a start. Competing that way was remarkably silly—she had told herself that ten thousand times, and never listened once—remarkably silly, and now the dress felt as if it might fall off. Which had nothing to do with her start. He did not know Sevanna had taken every Shaido woman who could channel with her. Was it finally time to abandon him? If she threw herself on Demandred’s mercy . . .

As if reading her thoughts, he said, “You’re tied to me as tightly as my belt, Graendal.” A gateway opened, revealing his private rooms in Illian. “The truth doesn’t matter anymore, if it ever has. You rise with me, or fall with me. The Great Lord rewards success, and he’s never cared how it was achieved.”

“As you say,” she told him. Demandred had no mercy. And Semirhage . . . “I rise or fall with you.” Still, something would have to be worked out. The Great Lord rewarded success, but she would not be pulled down if Sammael failed. She opened a gateway to her palace in Arad Doman, to the long columned room where she could see her pets frolicking in the pool. “But what if al’Thor comes after you himself? What then?”

“Al’Thor isn’t going after anyone,” Sammael laughed. “All I have to do is wait.” Still laughing, he stepped into his gateway and let it close.

The Myrddraal moved from the deeper shadows, becoming visible. In its eyes, the gateways had left a residue—three patches of glowing mist. It could not tell one flow from another, but it could distinguish saidin from saidar by the smell. Saidin smelled like the sharp edge of a knife, the point of a thorn. Saidar smelled soft, but like something that would grow harder the harder it was pressed. No other Myrddraal could smell that difference. Shaidar Haran was like no other Myrddraal.

Picking up a discarded spear, Shaidar Haran used it to upend the bag Sammael had discarded, and then to stir the bits of stone that fell out. Much was happening outside the plan. Would these events churn chaos, or . . .

Angry black flames raced down the spear haft from Shaidar Haran’s hand, the hand of the Hand of the Shadow. In an instant the wooden haft was charred and twisted; the spearhead dropped off. The Myrddraal let the blackened stick fall and dusted soot from its palm. If Sammael served chaos, then all was well. If not . . .

A sudden ache climbed the back of its neck; a faint weakness washed along its limbs. Too long away from Shayol Ghul. That tie had to be severed somehow. With a snarl, it turned to find the edge of shadow that it needed. The day was coming. It would come.