Crossroads of Twilight

## Chapter 30

#### What the Oath Rod Can Do

The sun sat on the horizon, perfectly silhouetting the White Tower in the distance, but the cold of the previous night seemed to be deepening, and dark gray clouds marching across the sky threatened a snowfall. Winter was diminishing, yet it had clung past when spring should have begun, loosening its hold fitfully. The noises of morning penetrated Egwene’s tent, isolated as it was from everything around it. The camp seemed to vibrate. Laborers would be bringing in water from the wells, and extra measures of firewood and charcoal in carts. Serving women would be fetching sisters’ breakfasts, and novices in the second sitting scurrying to theirs, those in the first and third to classes. It was a momentous day, though none of them knew it. Likely, today would see an end to the spurious negotiations that were going on in Darein, at a table under a pavilion at the foot of the bridge to Tar Valon. Spurious on both sides. Elaida’s raiders continued to strike with impunity on the other side of the river. In any case, today would be the last meeting for some time.

Peering at her own breakfast, Egwene sighed and picked a tiny black fleck out of the steaming porridge, wiping it from her fingers on a linen napkin without looking closely enough to be sure that it was a weevil. If you could not be sure, then you worried less about what remained in the bowl. She put a spoonful into her mouth and tried to concentrate on the sweet slivers of dried apricot that Chesa had blended in. Did something crack under her teeth?

“It all feeds the belly, my mother used to say, so pay it no mind,” Chesa murmured as if talking to herself. That was how she gave Egwene advice, without straying across the line between mistress and maid. At least, she gave advice when Halima was not present, and the other woman had left early this morning. Chesa was sitting on one of the clothing chests, in case Egwene wanted something or needed an errand run, but now and then her eyes strayed to the pile of garments that were to go the washwomen today. She never minded darning or mending in front of Egwene, but in her book, sorting laundry would have been stepping over that line.

Smoothing the grimace from her face, Egwene was about to tell the woman to go get her own breakfast—Chesa considered eating before Egwene finished another transgression—but before she could open her mouth, Nisao pushed into the tent, surrounded by the glow of saidar. As the entry flaps fell, Egwene caught a glimpse of Sarin, Nisao’s bald, black-bearded stump of a Warder, waiting outside. The small sister’s cowl was down, carefully arranged on her shoulders so the yellow velvet lining showed, yet she was clutching her cloak as though she felt the cold intensely. She said nothing, just gave Chesa a sharp look. Chesa waited for Egwene’s nod, gathered her own cloak and scurried out. She might not be able to see the light of the Power, but she knew when Egwene wanted privacy.

“Kairen Stang is dead,” Nisao said without preamble. Her face was smooth, her voice steady, and chill. Short enough to make Egwene feel tall, she stood as though straining for an extra inch. Nisao did not usually do that. “Seven sisters had already tested for resonance before I got there. There is no doubt she was killed using saidin. Her neck was broken. Shattered. As if her head had been wrenched around full circle. At least it was quick.” Nisao drew a deep, unsteady breath, then realized what she had done and pulled herself up even straighter. “Her Warder is primed for murder. Someone gave him an herbal concoction to put him to sleep, but he will be trouble to handle once he wakes.” She did not put the usual dismissive Yellow twist on the mention of herbs, a measure of her upset no matter how calm her face was.

Egwene set her spoon down on the tiny table and leaned back. Suddenly, her chair did not feel comfortable anymore. Now the next best after Leane was Bode Cauthon. A novice. She tried not to think of what else Bode was. With the extra days of practice, Bode could do the work almost as well as Kairen could have. Almost. She did not mention that, though. Nisao knew some secrets, but not all. “Anaiya, and now Kairen. Both Blue Ajah. Do you know of any other link between them?”

Nisao shook her head. “Anaiya had been Aes Sedai fifty or sixty years when Kairen came to the Tower, as I recall. Perhaps they had mutual acquaintances. I just don’t know, Mother.” Now she sounded tired, and her shoulders slumped a little. Her quiet investigation into Anaiya’s death had gotten nowhere, and she had to be aware Egwene was going to add Kairen.

“Find out,” Egwene ordered. “Discreetly.” This second murder would cause enough ruction without her adding to it. For a moment, she studied the other woman. Nisao might make excuses after the fact, or claim she had been doubtful from the start, but until then, she was always a model of Yellow Ajah self-assurance and absolute certainty. Not now, however. “Are many sisters walking about holding saidar?”

“I’ve noticed several, Mother,” Nisao said stiffly. Her chin rose within a fraction of defiance. After a moment, though, the glow around her winked out. She pulled her cloak tighter, as if she had suddenly lost warmth. “I doubt it would have done Kairen any good. Her death was too sudden. But it makes a person feel . . . safer.”

After the small woman left, Egwene sat stirring her porridge with her spoon. She did not see any more dark flecks, but her appetite was gone. Finally, she rose and settled the seven-striped stole around her neck, then swung her cloak onto her shoulders. Today of all days, she would not sit mired in gloom. Today of all days, she must follow her routine exactly.

Outside, high-wheeled carts trundled along the frozen ruts of the camp streets, filled with big water barrels or piles of split firewood and sacks of charcoal, the drivers and the fellows riding behind alike enveloped in their cloaks against the cold. As usual, families of novices hurried along the wooden walkways, usually managing to make their courtesies to passing Aes Sedai without slowing. Failure in the proper respects to a sister could earn a switching, but so could tardiness, and teachers were generally less tolerant than Aes Sedai encountered in passing, who at least might make allowances for why a novice went rushing by.

The white-clad women still leapt out of the way at sight of the striped stole hanging from Egwene’s cowl, of course, but she refused to let her mood be soured, any more than it already was, by novices curtsying in the street, slipping and sliding on the ice-hard ground and sometimes almost falling on their faces before their cousins could grab them. “Cousin” was what members of the same family had taken to calling one another, and somehow that seemed to tie them closer together, as if they really were related, and close cousins at that. What did sour her mood were the few Aes Sedai she saw out and about, gliding along the walkways through ripples of curtsies. There were no more than a dozen or so between her tent and the Amyrlin’s study, but three out of every four were wrapped in the light of the Power as well as cloaks. They walked in pairs more often than not, followed by any Warders they had. They seemed watchful, too, enveloped in saidar or not, cowls swiveling constantly as they scanned everyone in sight.

It minded her of the time spotted fever had struck Emond’s Field, and everyone walked around clutching brandy-soaked handkerchiefs to their noses—Doral Barran, the Wisdom then, had said that would help stave it off—clutching their handkerchiefs and watching one another to see who would be the next to break out in spots and fall over. Eleven people died before the fever ran its course, but it was a month after the last person fell sick before everyone was willing to put those handkerchiefs away. For a long time, she had associated the smell of brandy with fear. She could almost smell it now. Two sisters had been murdered in their midst, by a man who could channel, not to mention apparently being able to come and go as he chose. Fear was running through the Aes Sedai faster than spotted fever ever could.

The tent she used as a study was already warm when she arrived, the brazier giving off a scent of roses. The mirrored stand-lamps and table-lamp were lit. Her routine was well known. Hanging her cloak on the cloak rack in the corner, she took her seat behind the writing table, automatically catching the unsteady chair leg that always tried to fold. All she had to do was follow routine. Tomorrow, she could announce what had been done.

Her first visitor was a shock, perhaps the last woman she expected to walk into the tent. Theodrin was a willowy, apple-cheeked Brown, a copper-skinned Domani with a stubborn set to her mouth. Once, she had always looked ready to smile. She glided across the worn carpets, close enough for the fringe of her shawl to brush the writing table. As she made a very formal curtsy, Egwene extended her left hand so the woman could kiss her Great Serpent ring. Formality must be met with formality.

“Romanda wishes to know if she can meet with you today, Mother,” the slender Brown said. Softly, but there was a stubbornness buried in her tone, too.

“Tell her, at any time she chooses, Daughter,” Egwene replied carefully. Theodrin offered another curtsy without changing expression.

As the Brown moved to leave, one of the Accepted brushed by her into the tent, pushing back her banded white hood. Emara was a thin woman, and as small as Nisao. It seemed a strong wind might blow her away, yet she had a very firm hand with the novices given into her care, firmer than many sisters. But then, she was hard on herself, and a novice’s life was supposed to be hard. Emara’s gray eyes rolled to the fringe on Theodrin’s shawl, and her mouth twisted into a scornful grin before she smoothed it away to spread her snowy, banded skirts for Egwene. Bright spots of color flamed on Theodrin’s cheeks.

Egwene slapped a hand down on the table hard enough to rattle the stone inkwell and the sand jar. “Have your forgotten how to be courteous to an Aes Sedai, child?” she said sharply.

Emara went pale—the Amyrlin did have a reputation, after all—and hastily made an even deeper curtsy for Theodrin, who acknowledged it with a wooden nod before gliding from the tent a good deal more swiftly than she had entered.

What Emara stammered out, in an Illianer accent made thicker by nerves, was a request from Lelaine to meet with the Amyrlin. Romanda and Lelaine had been much less formal, once, appearing unannounced and whenever they wished, but the declaration of war on Elaida had changed a great deal. Not everything, but enough to go on with. Egwene returned the same reply to Lelaine that she had to Romanda, though in a more clipped tone, and Emara almost fell over making her curtsy and practically ran out of the tent. One more nail fastening together the legend of Egwene al’Vere, the Amyrlin Seat who made Sereille Bagand look like a goose-down pillow.

As soon as the Accepted was gone, Egwene raised her hand and frowned at what it had covered. The folded square of paper that Theodrin had deposited on the table while kissing her ring. Her frown deepened when she opened it. The script that covered the small page managed to flow while being precise, but there was an inkblot on one edge. Theodrin was very neat. Perhaps she was trying to conform to the general view of Browns.

Romanda has sent two sisters to Travel to Cairhien and investigate some tale that has the Yellow Sitters buzzing. I don’t know what the rumor is, Mother, but I will find out. I heard one of them mention Nynaeve, not as if she were in Cairhien, but as if the rumor was somehow connected to her.

The fool woman had even signed her name!

“What is that, Mother?”

Egwene gave a start of surprise, and barely caught the folding chair leg before it dropped her onto the carpets. She refocused her scowl on Siuan, who stood just inside the entry flaps with her blue-fringed shawl on her arms and her leather folders pressed to her breasts. The blue-eyed woman’s eyebrows raised slightly at Egwene’s startlement.

“Here,” Egwene said irritably, thrusting the paper at her. This was no time to be jumping and twitching! “You know about Kairen?” Of course she must, but Egwene still said, “Have you made the necessary changes?” Necessary changes. Light, she sounded as pompous as Romanda. She was on edge. Only at the last did she think to embrace saidar and weave a ward against eavesdropping; only after the ward was in place did she think that today might not be the best time for anyone to think she had private matters to discuss with Siuan.

Siuan was not on edge. She had weathered storms. And managed to recover from drowning, some might say. Today was only a little windy, to her. “No need until we know for sure about the boats, Mother,” she replied calmly, setting her folders on the table and neatly squaring them between the inkwell and the sand jar. “The less time Bode has to think about it, the less chance she’ll panic.” Calm as a pond. Even two murdered sisters could not ruffle Siuan. Or sending a novice of only a few months to replace one of them.

A frown creased her forehead as she read the note, though. “First Faolain goes into hiding,” she growled at the paper, “and now Theodrin brings this to you instead of to me. That fool girl has less brains than a fisher-bird! You’d think she wants someone to find out she’s keeping an eye on Romanda for you.” Keeping an eye. A polite way of saying “spy.” They were both practiced in euphemisms. That went with being Aes Sedai. Today, euphemisms grated on Egwene.

“Perhaps she does want to be discovered. Perhaps she’s tired of Romanda telling her what to do, what to say, what to think. I had an Accepted in here who sneered at Theodrin’s shawl, Siuan.”

The other woman made a dismissive gesture. “Romanda tries to tell everyone what to do. And what to think. As for the rest, things will change once Theodrin and Faolain can swear on the Oath Rod. I don’t suppose anyone will actually insist they be tested for the shawl now. Until then, they must take what comes.”

“That isn’t good enough, Siuan.” Egwene managed to keep her tone level, but it took an effort. She had at least suspected what she was letting those two in for when she told them to attach themselves to Romanda and Lelaine. She had needed to know what the Sitters were scheming at, and still needed to know, yet she had a duty to them. They had been the first to swear fealty to her, and of their own free will. Besides which . . . “Much of what’s said about Theodrin and Faolain can be said of me, too. If Accepted can show them disrespect . . . ” Well, she had no fear of that. The sisters were another matter. Especially the Sitters. “Siuan, I have no hope at all of uniting the Tower if Aes Sedai doubt me.”

Siuan snorted forcefully. “Mother, by now even Lelaine and Romanda know you’re the Amyrlin Seat in truth, whether or not they’ll admit it. That pair wouldn’t have fallen in line with Deane Aryman. I think they’re beginning to see you as another Edarna Noregovna.”

“That’s as may be,” Egwene said dryly. Deane was considered the White Tower’s savior, after Bonwhin’s disaster with Artur Hawkwing. Edarna was believed to have been the most politically skilled woman ever to hold the staff and stole. Both had been very strong Amyrlins. “But as you’ve reminded me, I have to make sure I don’t end up like Shein Chunla.” Shein had begun as a strong Amyrlin, firmly in charge of the Tower and the Hall, and ended as a puppet doing exactly as she was told.

Siuan nodded, in approval and agreement. She really was teaching Egwene the Tower’s history, and she often brought up Amyrlins who had misstepped fatally. Including herself. “This is another matter, though,” she muttered, tapping the note against her fingers. “When I lay my hands on Theodrin, I’ll make her wish she was a novice. And Faolain! If they think they can shirk off now, I swear, I’ll gut the pair of them like grunters on the dock!”

“You’ll gut who?” Sheriam asked as she walked in through the ward in a gust of cold air.

Egwene’s chair almost dropped her onto the carpets again. She needed to get a chair that did not try to fold up every time she moved. She was willing to bet Edarna never jumped as if she had itchoak down her back.

“No one who concerns you,” Siuan said calmly, putting the paper to one of the table-lamp’s flames. It burned quickly, right to her fingertips, and then she mashed it out between her hands and brushed the ash away. Only Egwene, Siuan and Leane knew the truth of Faolain and Theodrin. And the two sisters themselves, of course. Though there was a great deal neither of them knew, either.

Sheriam accepted the rebuff with equanimity. The fire-haired woman seemed to have recovered completely from her collapse in the Hall. At least, she had recovered her outer dignity, for the most part. Watching Siuan burn the note, her tilted green eyes might have tightened a little, and she did touch the narrow blue stole hanging from her shoulders as if to remind herself that it was there. She did not have to accept Siuan’s orders—putting her Keeper in that position had seemed too harsh to Egwene, in the end—but Sheriam knew very well that Siuan had no need to accept her orders either, which had to gall her now that Siuan stood so far beneath her in the Power. Knowing there were secrets she was not privy to had to gall her, as well. Sheriam would have to live with it though.

She also had brought a paper, which she laid on the table in front of Egwene. “I met Tiana on the way here, Mother, and told her I’d give this to you.”

“This” was the day’s report on runaways, though those no longer came every day, or even every week, since the novices had been organized into families. Cousins supported one another through frustrations and tears, and managed to talk one another out of the worst mistakes, like running away. There was only one name on the page. Nicola Treehill.

Egwene sighed and set the paper down. She would have thought Nicola’s greed for learning would have kept her feet still no matter how frustrated the woman grew. And yet, she could not say she was sorry to see the end of her. Nicola was conniving and unscrupulous, willing to try blackmail or whatever else she thought would advance her. Very likely she had had help. Areina would not have balked at stealing horses for the pair of them to flee.

Abruptly, the date beside the name caught her eye. Two dates, actually, marked as questions. Months were seldom named, much less days numbered, except in official documents and treaties. Signed, sealed and witnessed in the city of Illian on the twelfth day of Saven, this Year of Grace . . . And for reports of this nature, and entering a woman’s name in the novice book. For common use, so many days before this feastday or after that sufficed. Written out, dates always looked a little strange to her. She had to count on her fingers to be sure of what she saw.

“Nicola ran away three or four days ago, Sheriam, and Tiana is just reporting it? She isn’t even sure whether it was three days or four?”

“Nicola’s cousins covered for her, Mother.” Sheriam shook her head ruefully. Strangely, her small smile seemed amused, though. Or even admiring. “Not from love; apparently, they were glad to see the child go and afraid she’d be brought back. She was quite overbearing about her Talent at Foretelling. I’m afraid Tiana is very upset with them. None will be sitting comfortably in their classes today, or for days to come, I fear. Tiana says she intends to give them each a dose of the strap instead of breakfast every day till Nicola is found. I think she might relent, though. With Nicola gone so long before her flight was discovered, it may be some time before she’s located.”

Egwene winced slightly. She could recall her own visits to the study of the Mistress of Novices, then occupied by the very woman in front of her. Sheriam had a strong arm. A daily dose would be fierce. But hiding a runaway’s flight was more serious than sneaking out after hours or pulling a prank. She pushed the report to one side.

“Tiana will handle it as she sees fit,” she said. “Sheriam, has there been any change in how the sisters talk about my dream?” She had revealed the dream about a Seanchan attack the very morning after dreaming it, and the women she told stared at her apathetically, apparently because of the freshness of Anaiya’s death. That had stunned everyone.

Instead of answering, Sheriam cleared her throat and smoothed her blue-slashed skirts. “You may not be aware, Mother, but one of Nicola’s cousins is Larine Ayellin. From Emond’s Field,” she added, as if Egwene did not know that. “No one would think you were playing favorites if you pardoned the whole family. Whether or not she relents, Tiana does mean to be very sharp with them in the meantime. They will suffer.”

Leaning back, carefully because of the wobbly chair leg, Egwene frowned up at the other woman. Larine was almost the same age as she, and a close friend growing up. They had spent hours together, gossiping and practicing putting their hair in braids for when the Women’s Circle said they were old enough. Despite that, Larine had been one of the few Emond’s Field girls who seemed to accept that Egwene might really be the Amyrlin Seat, though she showed it mainly by keeping her distance. But did Sheriam think Egwene would play favorites? Even Siuan looked taken aback. “You should know better than anyone, Sheriam, novice discipline is the province of the Mistress of Novices. Unless a girl is being abused, anyway, and you haven’t suggested that. Besides, if Larine thinks she can get away with helping a runaway today—helping a runaway, Sheriam!—what will she think she can get away with tomorrow? She can reach the shawl, if she has the gumption to stick with it. I won’t lead her down a path that ends with her being sent away for misbehavior. Now. What are they saying about my dream?”

Sheriam’s tilted green eyes blinked, and she glanced at Siuan. Light, the woman thought Egwene was being hard because Siuan was present? Because Siuan might carry tales? She should know better; she been the Mistress of Novices. “The attitude among the sisters, Mother,” Sheriam said finally, “is still that the Seanchan are a thousand miles away, they don’t know how to Travel, and if they start marching on Tar Valon, we’ll learn of it before they’re within two hundred leagues.”

Siuan muttered something under her breath that sounded vile, but not surprised. Egwene wanted to curse, too. Worries over Anaiya’s murder had had nothing to do with the sisters’ apathy. They did not believe that Egwene was a Dreamer. Anaiya had been sure, but Anaiya was dead. Siuan and Leane believed, yet neither stood high enough now to be listened to with more than impatient politeness, if that. And it was quite clear that Sheriam did not believe. She obeyed her oath of fealty as scrupulously as Egwene could have wished for, but you could not order someone to believe. They only mouthed what you told them, and nothing changed.

When Sheriam left, Egwene found herself wondering what had brought the woman in the first place. Could it have been just to point out that Larine was going to be punished? Surely not. But she had said nothing else, apart from answering Egwene’s questions.

Shortly, Myrelle arrived, followed closely by Morvrin. Egwene could feel each of them release the Source before she entered the tent, and they left their Warders waiting outside. Even in brief glimpses as the entry flaps were pushed aside, the men looked wary, even for Warders.

Myrelle’s big dark eyes flashed at the sight of Siuan, and her nostrils flared. Morvrin’s round face remained smooth as polished stone, but she brushed her dark brown skirts with both hands as if wiping something off. Perhaps it was unconscious. Unlike Sheriam, they did have to accept Siuan’s orders, and neither liked that at all. It was not that Egwene wanted to grind their noses, but she trusted Siuan, and oaths or no oaths, she did not entirely trust them. Not to the degree she did Siuan. Besides, there were times it was inconvenient if not impossible for her to tell the sisters sworn to her what she wanted done. Siuan could carry messages, and this way, Egwene could be sure they were obeyed.

She asked about talk of her dream straightaway, but unsurprisingly, their stories were the same as Sheriam’s. The Seanchan were far off. There would be plenty of warning should that change. The story had been the same for a good week and a half. Worse . . .

“It might be different if Anaiya were alive,” Morvrin said, balancing atop one of the rickety stools in front of the writing table. In spite of her bulk, she did it easily and gracefully. “Anaiya had a reputation for arcane knowledge. I always thought she should have chosen Brown, myself. If she said you were a Dreamer—” Her teeth clicked shut at a sharp look from Egwene. Myrelle suddenly took an interest in warming her hands at the brazier.

Neither of them believed, either. Except for Siuan and Leane, no one in the whole camp believed that Egwene had had a true dream. Varilin had taken over the talks in Darein, deftly pushing Beonin into a lesser role, and she offered constant excuses as to why she could not pass on a warning at just this moment. Perhaps in a few days, when the talks were going more smoothly. As if they were ever anything other than sisters talking in circles without saying a word that might send the other side away offended. No one at all but Siuan and Leane. She thought they believed.

Myrelle turned from the brazier as if steeling herself to put a hand on the coals. “Mother, I have been thinking about the day Shadar Logoth was destroyed—” She broke off and turned back to the brazier as a long-faced woman in deep blue entered the tent carrying a three-legged stool painted in bright spirals.

Maigan was beautiful, with large eyes and full lips, but she seemed elongated somehow. She was not that tall, but even her hands seemed long. She gave Morvrin a cool nod, and pointedly ignored Myrelle. “I brought my own seat today, Mother,” she said, making as much of a curtsy as she could with the stool in one hand. “Yours are rather unsteady, if I may say so.”

It had come as no surprise that Anaiya’s death meant the Blue Ajah would name someone else to Egwene’s “advisory council,” but she had hoped for the best when she learned who it was to be. Maigan had been one of Siuan’s allies when Siuan was Amyrlin.

“Do you mind if I send Siuan for tea, Mother?” Maigan said as she settled onto her stool. “You really should have a novice or Accepted to run errands, but Siuan will do.”

“The novices have their classes, Daughter,” Egwene replied, “and even with the arrangement of families, the Accepted hardly have time for their own studies.” Besides which, she would have to send a novice or Accepted to stand in the cold any time she wanted to speak to someone in privacy. Hard on one who would not yet have been taught how to ignore heat or cold, and a flag planted outside the tent telling everyone there might be something worth eavesdropping on. “Siuan, will you please bring us some tea? I’m sure we could all do with a hot cup.”

Maigan raised a long-fingered hand as Siuan started for the entrance. “I have a jar of mint honey in my tent,” she said imperiously. “Fetch that. And mind you don’t filch any. I remember you used to have a sweet tooth. Hurry, now.” Maigan had been an ally. Now she was one of many sisters who blamed Siuan for breaking the White Tower.

“As you say, Maigan,” Siuan replied in a meek voice, and even bent her knee slightly before she hurried out. And she did hurry. Maigan stood as high as Myrelle or Morvrin, and there were no orders or oaths of fealty to protect her here. The long-faced woman gave a small, satisfied nod. Siuan had had to beg to be accepted back into the Blue Ajah, and rumor had it that Maigan had been the most insistent on the begging.

Morvrin made her excuses to leave behind Siuan, perhaps meaning to catch her up for some reason, but Myrelle took one of the stools and engaged in a competition with Maigan: who could ignore the other most completely. Egwene did not understand the animosity between the two women. Sometimes, people just disliked one another. In any case, it did not make for conversation. Egwene took the opportunity to leaf through the pages in Siuan’s folders, but she could not concentrate on rumors out of Illian and innuendoes out of Cairhien. There seemed nothing to account for Theodrin’s claim of a tale that had set the Yellow Sitters buzzing. Siuan would have said something, if she had known.

Maigan and Myrelle stared at her as if watching her turn over sheets of paper was the most interesting activity in the world. She would have sent them both away, but she wanted to find out what Myrelle had been thinking about the day Shadar Logoth had been scooped out of the earth. She could not send one away without sending both. Drat the pair of them!

When Siuan returned, with a wooden tray holding a silver teapot and porcelain cups—and Maigan’s white-glazed honey jar—she was followed into the tent by a soldier in plate-and-mail armor, a young Shienaran with his hair shaved off except for a topknot. Young, but not young. Ragan’s dark cheek carried a puckered white scar from an arrow, and his face was hard in the way only the face of a man who lived with death every hour could be hard. As Siuan distributed teacups, he bowed, one hand holding a moon-crested helmet on his hip, the other on his sword hilt. Nothing in his expression said he had ever met her before.

“Honor to serve, Mother,” he said formally. “Lord Bryne sent me. He said to tell you that it seems the raiders may have crossed to this side of the river last night. With Aes Sedai. Lord Bryne is doubling the patrols. He advises that sisters stay close to the camp. To avoid incidents.”

“May I be excused, Mother?” Siuan said suddenly, with the slightly abashed sound of a woman who found herself with an urgent need for the jakes.

“Yes, yes,” Egwene said, as impatiently as she could manage, and barely waited for the other woman to dash out of the tent before going on. “Tell Lord Bryne that Aes Sedai go where they wish, when they wish.” She snapped her mouth shut before she could call him “Ragan,” but that only served to make her seem severe. She hoped it did.

“I will tell him, Mother,” he replied, making another bow. “Heart and soul to serve.”

Maigan smiled faintly as he departed. She deprecated soldiers—Warders were good and necessary; soldiers made messes for others to clean up, in her opinion—but she did favor anything that seemed to indicate a wedge between Egwene and Gareth Bryne. Or perhaps better to say that Lelaine favored. In this, Maigan was Lelaine’s woman to her toenails. Myrelle merely looked puzzled. She knew that Egwene got on well with Lord Gareth.

Egwene got up and poured herself a cup of tea. And took a touch of Maigan’s honey. Her hands were quite steady. The boats were in place. In a few hours, Leane would gather Bode and ride well away from the camp before explaining what they were going to do. Larine must take the punishment she had earned, and Bode must do what needed doing. Egwene had been younger than Bode when she was set to hunt Black sisters. Shienarans served their war against the Shadow in the Blight, heart and soul. Aes Sedai, and those who would become Aes Sedai, served the Tower. A stronger weapon against the Shadow than any sword, and no less sharp to an unwary hand.

When Romanda arrived, with Theodrin to hold open the entry flap for her, the gray-haired Yellow made a very exact curtsy, neither a fraction more nor less than propriety required from Sitter to Amyrlin. They were not in the Hall, now. If the Amyrlin was only first among equals there, she was a little more in her own study, even for Romanda. She did not offer to kiss Egwene’s ring, though. There were limits. She eyed Myrelle and Maigan as if thinking of asking them to leave. Or perhaps telling them. It was a prickly point. Sitters expected obedience, but neither was of her Ajah. And this was the Amyrlin’s study.

In the end, she did neither, merely allowed Theodrin to take her cloak, embroidered with borders of yellow flowers, and pour her a cup of tea. Theodrin did not have to be asked to do either, and she retreated to a corner, twitching her shawl and her mouth set sullenly, as Romanda took the empty stool. Despite the stool’s uneven legs, Romanda managed to make it seem a seat in the Hall of the Tower, or maybe a throne, as she adjusted the yellow-fringed shawl she had worn beneath her cloak.

“The talks are going badly,” she said in that high, musical voice. She still made it sound a proclamation. “Varilin is chewing her lips in frustration. Magla is frustrated, too, for that matter, and even Saroiya. When Saroiya starts grinding her teeth, most sisters would be shouting.” Excepting Janya, every Sitter who had held a chair before the Tower divided had insinuated herself into the negotiations. They were talking with women they had known in the Hall back then, after all. Beonin was nearly reduced to running errands.

Romanda touched the tea to her lips, then held the cup out to one side on its dish without saying a word. Theodrin darted from the corner to take the cup over to the tray, adding honey before she returned the cup to the Sitter and herself to the corner. Romanda tasted the tea again and nodded in approval. Theodrin’s face colored.

“The talks will go as they go,” Egwene said carefully. Romanda had opposed any sort of negotiations, spurious or not. And she knew what was to happen tonight. Keeping the Hall in the dark about that had seemed a needless slap in the face.

The tight bun on the back of Romanda’s head bobbed as she nodded. “They have shown us one thing already. Elaida won’t allow the Sitters speaking for her to budge an inch. She is dug into the Tower like a rat in a wall. The only way to flush her is to send ferrets in after her.” Myrelle made a sound in her throat, earning a surprised glance from Maigan. Romanda’s eyes remained steady on Egwene’s.

“Elaida will be removed one way or another,” Egwene said calmly, setting her teacup down on its dish. Her hand did not shake. What had the women learned? How?

Romanda grimaced faintly at her tea as if after all it lacked sufficient honey. Or in disappointment that Egwene had not said more. The woman shifted on her stool with the air of a swords-woman setting herself for another attack, blade coming up. “The things you’ve said about the Kin, Mother. That there are over a thousand of them rather than a few dozen. That some are five or six hundred years old.” She shook her head over the impossibility. “How could all of that have escaped the Tower?” She was challenging, not asking a question.

“We only recently learned how many wilders there are among the Sea Folk,” Egwene replied gently. “And we still aren’t sure how many there really are.” Romanda’s grimace was not so small, this time. It had been the Yellow that first confirmed hundreds of Sea Folk wilders in Illian alone. First blow to Egwene.

One blow was not enough to finish Romanda, though. Or even to wound her very badly. “We will have to hunt them down, once our business is done here,” she said in grim tones. “Letting a few dozen remain in Ebou Dar and Tar Valon, just to help us trace runaways, was one thing, but we cannot allow a thousand wilders to remain . . . organized.” She put even more contempt into the word, into the idea of wilders organizing, than she did into the rest. Myrelle and Maigan were watching closely, listening. Maigan was even leaning forward, she was so intent. Neither knew more than the stories Egwene had spread, which everyone assumed came through Siuan’s eyes-and-ears.

“Well over a thousand,” Egwene corrected, “and not one a wilder. All women sent away from the Tower, except for a few runaways who evaded capture.” She did not raise her voice, but she made each point firmly, meeting Romanda’s gaze. “In any case, how do you propose to hunt them down? They are spread through every country, in every sort of occupation. Ebou Dar was the only place they ever gathered or met other than by chance, and all those fled when the Seanchan came. Since the Trolloc Wars, the Kin have allowed the Tower to know only what they wanted known. Two thousand years, hiding under the White Tower’s nose. Their numbers have grown while the Tower’s numbers dwindled. How do you propose to find them now, among all the wilders out there that the Tower has always ignored because they were ‘too old’ to become novices? Kinswomen don’t stand out in any way, Romanda. They use the Power almost as often as Aes Sedai, but they show age like anyone else, if more slowly. If they want to remain hidden, we will never be able to find them.” And that was several more blows for Egwene, with none taken. Romanda wore a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, a sure sign of desperation in an Aes Sedai. Myrelle was sitting very still, but Maigan seemed about to fall off her stool onto her nose no matter how steady it was.

Romanda licked her lips. “If they channel, they would achieve the look. If they age, they cannot be channeling very often if at all. And neither way could they live five or six hundred years!” No more dissimulation, it seemed.

“There is only one real difference between Aes Sedai and the Kin,” Egwene said quietly. The words still seemed loud. Even Romanda appeared to be holding her breath. “They left the White Tower before they could swear on the Oath Rod.” There; it was in the open finally.

Romanda jerked as if she had taken a mortal blow. “You’ve not taken the Oaths yet,” she said hoarsely. “Do you mean to abandon them? To ask sisters to abandon them?” Myrelle or Maigan gasped. Perhaps both.

“No!” Egwene said sharply. “The Three Oaths are what make us Aes Sedai, and I will swear on the Oath Rod as soon as it is ours!” Drawing a deep breath, she modulated her tone. But she leaned toward the other woman, too, trying to draw her in, to include her. To convince her. She almost stretched out a hand. “As it is, sisters retire to spend their last years in quiet, Romanda. Wouldn’t it be better if those were not their last years? If sisters retired into the Kin, they could tie the Kin to the Tower. There would be no need for a futile hunt, then.” She had gone this far; she might as well go the last step. “The Oath Rod can unbind as well as bind.”

Maigan thudded to the carpets on her knees and scrambled up, brushing at her skirts as indignantly as if she had been pushed. Myrelle’s olive face looked a little pale.

Moving slowly, Romanda set her teacup on the edge of the writing table and stood, drawing her shawl around her. Expressionless, she stood staring down at Egwene while Theodrin settled her yellow-embroidered cloak on her shoulders, fastened the golden pin and arranged the folds as carefully as any lady’s maid. Only then did Romanda speak, in a voice like stone. “When I was a little girl, I dreamed of becoming Aes Sedai. From the day I reached the White Tower, I tried to live as an Aes Sedai. I have lived as Aes Sedai, and I will die as Aes Sedai. This cannot be allowed!”

She turned smoothly to go, but she knocked over the stool she had been sitting on, apparently without noticing. Theodrin hurried out after her. With concern on her face, oddly enough.

“Mother?” Myrelle drew a deep breath, fingers plucking at her deep green skirts. “Mother, are you really suggesting . . . ?” She trailed off, apparently unable to say it. Maigan sat on her stool as though forcing herself not to lean forward again.

“I have laid out the facts,” Egwene said calmly. “Any decision will be the Hall’s. Tell me, Daughter. Would you choose to die, when you could live and continue to serve the Tower?”

The Green sister and the Blue exchanged glances, then realized what they had done and snapped back to ignoring one another. Neither answered, but Egwene could almost see the thoughts churning behind their eyes. After a few moments, she got up and set the stool back upright. Even that failed to rouse them further than perfunctory apologies for making her see to that herself. Then they lapsed into silent reflection.

She tried to return to the pages in Siuan’s folders—the stalemate at the Stone of Tear was dragging on, and no one admitted to any idea of how it would end—but not long after Romanda’s departure, Lelaine arrived.

Unlike Romanda, the slender Blue Sitter was alone, and poured her own tea. Settling onto the empty stool, she tossed her fur-lined cloak back over both shoulders and let it hang from a silver cloak pin set with large sapphires. She wore her shawl, too; Sitters usually did. Lelaine was more direct than Romanda. Or so it might have seemed, on the surface. Her eyes held a sharp glitter.

“Kairen’s death put another crimp in the chances of making any sort of agreement with the Black Tower,” she murmured over her teacup, inhaling the fumes. “And there’s poor Llyw to deal with. Perhaps Myrelle will take him. Two of her three belonged to someone else first. No one else has ever saved two Warders whose Aes Sedai died.”

Egwene was not the only one to hear special emphasis in that. Myrelle’s face definitely paled. She had two secrets to hide, and one was that she had four Warders. The passing of Lan Mandragoran’s bond from Moiraine to her had been something not done in hundreds of years. Today, it was looked upon like bonding a man against his will. Something not done in even more hundreds of years. “Three is enough for me,” she said breathlessly. “If you will excuse me, Mother?”

Maigan laughed softly as Myrelle left the tent walking fast. Not so fast that she failed to embrace saidar before the entry flaps fell, though.

“Of course,” Lelaine said, exchanging amused looks with the other Blue, “they say she marries her Warders. All of them. Perhaps poor Llyw won’t do for a husband.”

“He is as wide as a horse,” Maigan put in. Despite her amusement over Myrelle’s flight, there was no maliciousness in her voice. She was simply stating a fact. Llyw was a very large man. “I think I know a young Blue who might take him. She isn’t interested in men that way.”

Lelaine nodded in a way that said the young Blue had found her Warder. “Greens can be very odd. Take Elayne Trakand, for example. Actually, I never thought Elayne would choose Green. I had her marked out for the Blue. The girl has a deft feel for the currents in politics. Though she also has a tendency to wander into deeper water than might be safe. Wouldn’t you say so, Mother?” Smiling, she sipped at her tea.

This was not at all like Romanda’s subtle feeling-out. This was slash and slash, with the blade appearing out of nowhere. Did Lelaine know about Myrelle and Lan? Had she sent someone to Caemlyn, and if so, how much had she learned? Egwene wondered whether Romanda had also felt off-balance and dazed.

“Do you think Kairen’s murder is enough to stop an agreement?” she said. “For all anyone knows, this could be Logain returning for some mad revenge.” Why in the Light had she said that? She needed to put a rein on her tongue and keep her wits. “Or more likely, some poor fool from a farm around here, or one of the bridge towns.” Lelaine’s smile deepened, and it was mocking, not amused. Light, the woman had not shown this much disrespect in months.

“If Logain wanted revenge, Mother, I suspect he would be in the White Tower trying to kill Reds.” Despite her smile, her voice was smooth and level. A disturbing contrast. Perhaps that was her intention. “Perhaps it’s a pity he isn’t doing that. He might remove Elaida. But that would be easier than she deserves. No, Kairen won’t stop an agreement any more than Anaiya did, but the two combined will make sisters worry even harder about safeguards and strictures. We may need these men, but we must be certain we are in control. Complete control.”

Egwene nodded. A small nod. She agreed, but . . . “There might be difficulties bringing them to accept that,” she said. Difficulties. She was displaying a positive talent for understatement today.

“The Warder bond could be modified slightly,” Maigan said. “As it is, you can make the man do as you wish with a little tweaking, but the need to tweak could be removed quite easily.”

“That sounds too much like Compulsion,” Egwene said firmly. She had learned that weave from Moghedien, but only to work on how to counter it. The thing was filth, the theft of another person’s will, of their whole being. Someone who was Compelled did anything you ordered. Anything. And believed it was their own choice. Just thinking about it made her feel dirty.

Maigan met her gaze almost as levelly as Lelaine had, though, and her voice was as smooth as her face. She had no thoughts of filth. “Compulsion was used on sisters in Cairhien. That seems certain, now. But I was talking about the bond, a different thing entirely.”

“You think you can talk the Asha’man into accepting the bond?” Egwene could not keep the incredulity out of her voice. “Aside from that, who is going to do this bonding? Even if every sister who doesn’t have a Warder took an Asha’man, and every Green took two or three, there aren’t enough sisters. That’s if you can find one who doesn’t mind being bonded to a man who is going to go mad.”

Maigan nodded at each point as if accepting it. And adjusted her skirts as if not really listening. “If the bond can be changed in one way,” she said once Egwene finished, “it should be possible to change it in others. There might be a way to remove the sharing, perhaps some of the awareness. Then perhaps the madness would not be a problem. It would be a different sort of bond, not like the Warder bond at all. I’m certain everyone will agree it wouldn’t be like having a Warder, really. Any sister could bond whatever number of Asha’man was necessary.”

Abruptly, Egwene realized what was happening. Lelaine sat apparently peering into her teacup, but she was studying Egwene through her eyelashes. And using Maigan as a stalking horse. Smothering anger, Egwene did not have to make her voice cold. It was ice.

“That sounds exactly like Compulsion, Lelaine. It is Compulsion, and no twisting of words will make it anything else. I will point that out to anyone else who suggests this. And I will order the birch for anyone who does more than suggest. Compulsion is banned, and it will remain banned.”

“As you say,” Lelaine replied, which might have meant anything at all. What came next was more pointed. “The White Tower makes mistakes upon occasion. It is impossible to live or move without making mistakes. But we live, and we go on. And if we sometimes need to conceal our mistakes, whenever possible, we rectify them. Even when it is painful.” Putting her cup back on the tray, she left with Maigan at her heels. Maigan embraced the Source before she left the tent. Lelaine did not.

For a time, Egwene concentrated on keeping her breathing steady. She performed the river contained by the bank. Lelaine had not quite said that Egwene al’Vere as Amyrlin was a mistake that might have to be rectified, but she had come very close.

At midday, Chesa brought Egwene’s meal on another wooden tray, warm crusty bread with only one or two suspiciously dark flecks and lentil stew with slivers of tough turnip and woody carrot and bits of something that might have been goat. One spoonful was all Egwene could get down. It was not Lelaine that troubled her. Lelaine had threatened her before, if not since she made it clear that she was the Amyrlin and not a puppet. Instead of eating, she stared at Tiana’s report lying to the side of the table. Nicola might not have gained the shawl in spite of her potential, but the Tower had long experience in taking muleheaded, fault-riddled women and turning them into confident Aes Sedai. Larine had a bright future ahead of her, but she had to learn to obey the rules before she could begin learning which could be broken and when. The White Tower was good at teaching both things, but the first always came first. Bode’s future would be brilliant. Her potential almost equaled Egwene’s. But Aes Sedai, Accepted or novice, the Tower required you to do what was needed for the Tower. Aes Sedai, Accepted, novice or Amyrlin.

Chesa was voluble in her disappointment when she returned to find the tray almost untouched, especially after she had found a practically untouched breakfast. Egwene considered claiming an upset stomach and rejected it. After Chesa’s tea worked on her headaches—at least for a few days, until they returned fiercer than ever and every night—the plump woman had turned out to have a collection of herbal remedies for every ill, purchased from every peddler with a glib tongue and each viler-tasting than the last. She had a way of looking so downhearted when you would not drink the awful mixtures that you found yourself swallowing them just to keep her from worrying. Sometimes, surprisingly, they worked, but they were never anything Egwene wanted to put in her mouth. She sent Chesa away with the tray and a promise to eat later. No doubt Chesa would present a supper big enough to stuff a goose.

She felt like smiling at the thought—Chesa would stand over her, wringing her hands, till she ate every bite—but her eyes fell back on Tiana’s report. Nicola, Larine and Bode. The White Tower was a strict taskmistress. Unless the Tower is at war by consensus of the Hall, the Amyrlin shall not . . . But the Tower was at war.

She did not know how long she sat staring at that piece of paper with one name on it, but when Siuan returned, she had made up her mind. A strict taskmistress who never played favorites.

“Have Leane and Bode gone?” she asked.

“At least two hours ago, Mother. Leane had to deliver Bode, and then ride downriver.”

Egwene nodded. “Please have Daishar saddled . . . ” No. Some people recognized the Amyrlin’s horse by this time. Too many. There was no time for arguments and explanations. No time to assert her authority and make it stick. “Saddle Bela, and meet me on the corner two streets north.” Almost everyone knew Bela, too. Siuan’s horse, everybody knew.

“What do you mean to do, Mother?” Siuan asked worriedly.

“I mean to take a ride. And Siuan, tell no one.” She caught the other woman’s eyes, held them with her own. Siuan had been Amyrlin, and able to stare down a stone. Egwene was Amyrlin, now. “Not anyone, Siuan. Now go on. Go. And hurry.” Forehead still creased, Siuan hurried.

As soon as she was alone, Egwene slid the stole from her neck, folded it carefully, and tucked it into her belt pouch. Her cloak was good wool, and stout, but quite plain. Without the stole dangling from her cowl, she could have been anyone.

The walkway in front of her study was empty, of course, but once she crossed the frozen street, she made her way through the usual white river of novices speckled with Accepted and the occasional Aes Sedai. The novices bent knees to her without slowing, the Accepted offered curtsies as she passed, once they saw that the skirts beneath her cloak were not banded white, and the Aes Sedai glided along with their own faces hidden by their cowls. If any noticed that she was not followed by a Warder, well, a number of sisters lacked Warders. And not everyone was surrounded by the glowing nimbus of saidar. Just most.

Two streets from her study, she stopped at the edge of the wooden walkway facing away from the stream of hurrying women. She tried not to fret. The sun sat halfway down toward the horizon in the west, a golden ball stabbed by the broken peak of Dragonmount. The mountain’s shadow already stretched across the camp, casting the tents in evening dimness.

At last Siuan appeared, mounted on Bela. The shaggy little mare walked surefooted on the slick street, but Siuan clung to reins and saddle as if she were afraid of falling off. Maybe she was. Siuan was one of the worst riders Egwene had ever seen. When she scrambled down from the saddle in a flurry of skirts and muttered curses, she looked relieved to have escaped with her life. Bela whickered at Egwene in recognition. Tugging her disarrayed cowl back into place, Siuan opened her mouth too, but Egwene held up a warning hand before the other woman could speak. She could see the word “Mother” forming on Siuan’s lips. And likely it would have been loud enough to be heard fifty paces off.

“Tell no one,” Egwene said softly. “And no notes or hints, either.” That should cover everything. “Keep Chesa company till I get back. I don’t want her worried.”

Siuan gave a reluctant nod. Her mouth almost looked sullen. Egwene suspected she had been wise to add “notes” and “hints.” Leaving the onetime Amyrlin Seat looking like a sulky girl, she climbed smoothly into Bela’s saddle.

She had to walk the stout mare, at first, because of the frozen ruts in the camp’s streets. And because everyone would wonder if they saw Siuan riding Bela at anything faster than a walk. She tried to ride like Siuan, swaying uncertainly, clinging to the saddle’s tall pommel with one hand and sometimes both. It made her feel as if she were about to fall off, too. Bela twisted her head around to look at her. She knew who was on her back, and she knew Egwene rode better than this. Egwene continued to imitate Siuan and tried not to think about where the sun stood. All the way out of the camp, beyond the rows of wagons, until the first trees hid her from tents and wagons.

Then she bent over the pommel to press her face into Bela’s mane. “You carried me away from the Two Rivers,” she whispered. “Can you run as fast now?” Straightening, she dug in her heels.

Bela could not gallop like Daishar, but her sturdy legs churned through the snow. She had been a carthorse, once, not a racer or warhorse, but she gave what she had, stretching out her neck as bravely as Daishar ever could. Bela raced, and the sun slid lower as if the sky had suddenly become greased. Egwene lay low in the saddle and urged the mare on. A race with the sun that Egwene knew she could not win. But even if she could not beat the sun, there was still time. She thumped her heels in time with Bela’s hooves, and Bela ran.

Twilight rolled over them, and then darkness, before Egwene saw the moon glinting on the water of the Erinin. Still time. It was almost the spot where she had sat Daishar with Gareth, watching the riverships slide toward Tar Valon. Reining Bela in, she listened.

Stillness. And then a muffled curse. The quiet grunts and scrapes of men dragging a heavy burden across the snow and trying for silence. She turned Bela through the trees toward the sounds. Shadows stirred, and she heard the soft whisper of steel sliding from scabbards.

Then a man muttered, not far enough under his breath, “I know that pony. It’s one of the sisters. The one they say used to be Amyrlin. She doesn’t look it to me. No older’n the one they say’s Amyrlin now.”

“Bela is not a pony,” Egwene said crisply. “Take me to Bode Cauthon.”

A dozen men coalesced out of the night shadows among the trees, surrounding her and Bela. They all seemed to think she was Siuan, but that was all right. To them, Aes Sedai was Aes Sedai, and they guided her to where Bode was sitting a horse not much taller than Bela and holding a dark cloak around her. Her dress was dark, too. White would have stood out, tonight.

Bode recognized Bela, too, and reached out to scratch the mare’s ear fondly when Egwene rode up beside her.

“You’re staying ashore,” Egwene said quietly. “You can go back with me when it’s done.”

Bode jerked her hand back as if stung at the sound of Egwene’s voice. “Why?” she said, not quite a demand. She had learned that much, at least. “I can do this. Leane Sedai explained to me, and I can do it.”

“I know you can. But not as well as I can. Not yet.” That seemed too much like a criticism that the other woman had not earned. “I am the Amyrlin Seat, Bode. Some decisions, only I can make. And some things, I shouldn’t ask a novice to do when I can do them better.” Perhaps that was not a great deal milder, but she could not explain about Larine and Nicola, or the price the White Tower demanded of all its daughters. The Amyrlin could not explain the one to a novice, and a novice was not ready to learn about the other.

Even in the night, the set of Bode’s shoulders said she did not understand, but she had learned not to argue with Aes Sedai, too. Just as she had learned that Egwene was Aes Sedai. The rest, she would learn eventually. The Tower could take all the time it needed to teach her.

Dismounting, Egwene handed Bela’s reins to one of the soldiers and raised her skirts to tramp through the snow toward the labored sounds of dragging. It was a large rowboat, being pushed and pulled across the snow like a sled. A bulky sled that had to be maneuvered between trees, though with fewer curses once the men doing the pushing and pulling realized that she was following them closely. Most men guarded their tongues around Aes Sedai, and if they could not see her face between the darkness and her cowl, who else would be down here by the river? If they knew she was not the same woman intended at first to accompany them, who questioned Aes Sedai?

They eased the boat into the river, careful of splashes, and six men scrambled aboard to set oars in rag-padded oarlocks. The men were barefoot, to avoid the noise of a boot scraping on the hullplanks. Smaller boats plied these waters, but tonight, they had to master the currents. One of the men on the bank gave her a hand to steady herself climbing in, and she settled on a seat in the bow, holding her cloak close. The boat slid way from the bank, silent except for the faint swirl of the oars in the water.

Egwene looked ahead, south toward Tar Valon. The white walls gleamed in the light of a fat, waning moon, and lamp-lit windows gave the city a muted glow, almost as if the island was embracing saidar. The White Tower stood out even in the darkness, windows alight, the great mass shining beneath the moon. Something flashed across the moon, and her breath caught. For an instant, she thought it had been a Draghkar, an evil sight on this of all nights. Only a bat, she decided. Spring might be near enough for bats to be venturing out. Pulling her cloak tighter, she peered toward the city drawing nearer. Nearer.

As the tall wall of Northharbor loomed in front of the boat, the oarsmen backed water so the bow just missed kissing the wall beside the harbor entrance. Egwene almost put out a hand to fend off from the pale stone before the boat could bump into the wall. That thump would surely have been heard by the soldiers on guard. The oars made only a small gurgling noise as they swept back, though, and the boat stopped where she could have touched the massive iron chain across the harbor, its huge links giving off their own faint gleam from the grease coating them.

There was no need for touching, though. No need for waiting, either. Embracing saidar, she was barely aware of the thrill of life filling her before she had the weaves in place. Earth, Fire and Air surrounding the chain; Earth and Fire touching it. The black iron flashed to white across the whole width of the harbor mouth.

She had just time to realize that someone had embraced the Source not far away, above her on the wall, then something struck the boat, struck her, and she was aware of cold water enveloping her, filling her nose, her mouth. Darkness.

Egwene felt hardness beneath her. She heard women’s voices. Excited voices.

“Do you know who this is?”

“Well, well. We certainly got better than we bargained for tonight.”

Something was pressed to her mouth, and warmth trickled in, tasting faintly of mint. She swallowed convulsively, suddenly aware of how cold she was, shivering. Her eyes flickered open. And fastened on the face of the woman holding her head and the cup. Lanterns held by soldiers crowding around gave light enough for her to make out the face clearly. An ageless face. She was inside Northharbor.

“That’s it, girl,” the Aes Sedai said encouragingly. “Drink it all down. A strong dose, for now.”

Egwene tried to push the cup away, tried to embrace saidar, but she could feel herself sliding back down into darkness. They had been waiting for her. She had been betrayed. But by whom?