The Fires of Heaven

## Chapter 40

#### The Wheel Weaves

As soon as the building hid Galad, Nynaeve’s eyes darted down the street ahead. Fury bubbled up, at herself as much as Galadedrid Damodred. You witless wool-head! It was a narrow way like all the rest, paved with rounded stones, lined with gray shops and houses and taverns, populated with a scattered afternoon crowd. If you hadn’t come into town, he’d never have found you! Too scattered to hide anyone. You had to go see the Prophet! You had to go believing the Prophet would whisk you away before Moghedien gets here! When are you going to learn you can’t depend on anyone but yourself? In an instant she made her choice. When Galad turned that corner and did not see them, he would begin looking into shops, and maybe taverns as well.

“This way.” Gathering her skirts, she darted into the nearest alley and pressed her back against the wall. No one glanced at her twice, furtive as she was, and what that had to say about the way things were in Samara she did not want to consider. Uno and Ragan were beside her before she finished setting her feet, crowding her farther down the dusty dirt alleyway, past an old splintered bucket and a rain barrel dried to the point of collapse inside its hoops. At least they were doing what she wanted. In a manner of speaking. Tense hands on long sword hilts rising above their shoulders, they were ready to protect her whether she desired it or not. Let them, you fool! Do you think you can protect yourself?

She was certainly angry enough. Galad, of all people! She should never have left the menagerie! A fool whim, and one that might ruin everything. She could no more channel here than against Masema. Just the possibility that Moghedien or Black sisters were in Samara made her dependent on two men for her safety. It was enough to screw her anger tight; she could have chewed a hole in the stone wall behind her. She knew why Aes Sedai had Warders—all but Reds, anyway. In her head, she did. In her heart, it just made her want to snarl.

Galad appeared, threading his way slowly through the folk out in the street, eyes searching. By all reason, be should have gone on by—he should have—yet almost immediately his gaze settled on the alleyway. On them. He did not even have the grace to appear pleased or surprised.

Uno and Ragan moved together as Galad turned toward the alley. The one-eyed man had his sword out in the blink of an eye, and Ragan was scarcely slower for all he paused to push her deeper into the narrow passage. They positioned themselves one behind the other; should Galad make it past Uno, he would still have Ragan to face.

Nynaeve ground her teeth. She could make all these swords unnecessary, useless; she could sense the True Source, like a light unseen over her shoulder, waiting for her embrace. She could do it. If she dared.

Galad stopped at the alley mouth, cloak thrown back, one hand resting nonchalantly on his sword hilt, a picture of spring-steel grace. Except for his burnished mail, he could have been at a ball.

“I do not want to kill either of you, Shienaran,” he said calmly to Uno. Nynaeve had heard Elayne and Gawyn speak of Galad’s sword skill, but for the first time she realized that he might really be as good as they said. At least, he thought he was. Two seasoned soldiers with blades bare, and he eyed them as a wolfhound would eye a pair of lesser dogs, not seeking a fight yet utterly confident he could take both. Never quite looking away from the two men, he addressed her. “Someone else might have run into a shop or an inn, but you never do what is expected. Will you let me speak with you? There is no need to make me kill these men.”

None of the passersby were stopping, but even with three men blocking her view she could see heads swiveling for a glimpse of what had drawn the Whitecloak. And plainly taking in the swords. Rumors would be hatching in all those minds and taking flight on wings that made dusk swallows seem slow.

“Let him by,” she commanded. When Uno and Ragan did not budge, she repeated herself, even more firmly. They did move aside then, slowly, as much as the narrow alley would allow, yet though neither said a word, there was an air of muttering about them. Galad came by smoothly, seeming to forget the Shienarans. She suspected that believing so would be a mistake; the top-knotted men plainly did not.

Aside from one of the Forsaken, she could not imagine a man she would less like to see right then, but with that face in front of her, she was all too conscious of her own, breathing, her own heartbeat. It was ludicrous. Why could the man not be ugly? Or at least plain.

“You knew I knew that you were following.” Accusation rang strongly in her voice, though she was not sure what she was accusing him of. Not doing what she had expected and wanted, she imagined ruefully.

“I assumed as much as soon as I recognized you, Nynaeve. I remember that you generally see more than you let on.”

She would not let him divert her with compliments. Look where that had gotten her with Valan Luca. “What are you doing in Ghealdan? I thought you were on your way to Altara.”

For a moment he stared down at her with those dark, beautiful eyes, then abruptly laughed. “In all the world, Nynaeve, only you would ask me the question I should be asking you. Very well. I’ll answer you, for all it should be the other way round. I did have orders for Salidar, in Altara, but all changed when this Prophet fellow—What is the matter? Are you unwell?”

Nynaeve forced her face to smoothness. “Of course not,” she said irritably. “My health is quite good, thank you very kindly.” Salidar! Of course! The name was like one of Aludra’s firesticks going off in her head. All of that racking of her brain, and Galad casually handed her what she had been unable to dig up on her own. Now if only Masema found a ship quickly. If only she could make sure Galad would not betray them. Without letting Uno and Ragan kill him, of course. Whatever Elayne said, Nynaeve could not believe she would appreciate having her brother cut down. Small chance he would believe Elayne was not with her. “I just cannot get over my shock at seeing you.”

“A small patch on mine, when I learned you had slipped out of Sienda.” Sternness became that handsome face to an unfortunate degree, but his tone offset it. Somewhat. He could have been lecturing a small girl who had sneaked out of the house after her bedtime to climb trees. “I was sick near to death with worry. What under the Light possessed you? Have you any idea of the risks you ran? And to come here, of all places. Elayne always chooses to saddle a horse at the gallop if she can, but I thought that you, at least, had more sense. This so-called Prophet—” He cut off, eyeing the other two men. Uno had grounded his sword-point, scarred hands folded atop the pommel. Ragan appeared to be inspecting his blade’s edge to the exclusion of everything else.

“I have heard rumors,” Galad went on slowly, “that he is Shienaran. You cannot have been witless enough to get yourself mixed up with him.” There was too much question in that for her taste by far.

“Neither of them is the Prophet, Galad,” she said wryly. “I’ve known them both for some little time, and I can assure you of that. Uno, Ragan, unless you intend to prune your toenails, put those things up. Well?” They hesitated before doing as they were told, Uno grumping under his breath and glaring, but they did it finally. Men usually responded to a firm voice. Most did. Sometimes, anyway.

“I hardly thought they were, Nynaeve.” Galad’s tone, even more arid than hers, made her bristle, but when he went on, he sounded annoyed rather than superior. And worried. Which made her bristle even more, of course. He all but gave her palpitations, and he had the nerve to be worried. “I do not know what you and Elayne have fallen into here, and I do not care, so long as I can extract you from it before you are hurt. Trade is slow on the, river, but a suitable boat of some sort should call in the next few days. Let me know where I can find you, and I will secure you passage to somewhere in Altara. From there, you can make your way to Caemlyn.”

She gaped in spite of herself. “You mean to find us a ship?”

“It is all I can do, now.” He sounded apologetic, and shook his head as if arguing with himself. “I cannot escort you to safety; my duty is here.”

“We wouldn’t want to take you from your duty,” she said, a touch breathless. If he wanted to misunderstand, let him. The most she had hoped for was that he would leave them be.

He seemed to feel the need to defend himself. “It is hardly safe to send you off alone, but a boat will take you away before the entire border explodes. Which it will, soon or late; all it needs is one spark, and the Prophet is sure to strike it if no one else does. You must see to setting yourselves to Caemlyn, you and Elayne. All I ask is your promise that you will go there. The Tower is no place for either of you. Or for—” He clamped his teeth shut, but he might as well have gone ahead and named Egwene.

It could not hurt, having Galad looking for a boat too. If Masema could forget whether he intended to close the taverns, he could forget to have anyone find a riverboat. Especially if he thought a convenient bout of forgetfulness might keep her there to further his own plans. It could not hurt—if she could trust Galad. If she could not, then she would have to hope he was not as good with that sword as he thought he was. A stark thought, but not so stark as what might happen—would happen—if he proved untrustworthy.

“I am what I am, Galad, and Elayne is the same.” Dodging around Masema had put a bad taste on her tongue. A little White Tower sidestepping was as close as she could come. “And you are what you are, now.” She raised her eyebrows significantly at his white cloak. “That lot hates the Tower, and they hate women who can channel. Now that you are one of them, why shouldn’t I think there will be fifty of you after me inside the hour, trying to put an arrow in my back if they can’t haul me off to a cell? Me, and Elayne as well.”

Galad’s head jerked in irritation. Or maybe he was offended. “How often must I tell you? I would never let harm come to my sister. Or to you.”

It truly was annoying, realizing that she was annoyed at the pause that made it clear she was an afterthought. She was not some silly girl, to lose her wits because a man had eyes that somehow managed to be melting and incredibly penetrating at the same time. “If you say it so,” she told him, and his head tossed again.

“Tell me where you are put up, and I will bring word, or send it, as soon as I locate a suitable vessel.”

If Elayne was right, he could no more lie than could an Aes Sedai who had sworn the Three Oaths, but still she hesitated. A mistake here could be her last. She had a right to take risks for herself, but this risk involved Elayne too. And Thom and Juilin, for that matter; they were her responsibility, whatever they wanted to think. But she was here, and the decision had to be hers. Not that it might be any other way, frankly.

“Light, woman, what more do you want of me?” Galad growled, half-raising his hands as though to grab her shoulders. Uno’s blade was between them in a flash of bright steel, but Elayne’s brother actually brushed it aside like a twig, and paid it no more mind than one. “I mean no harm to you, now or ever; I swear it by my mother’s name. You say that you are what you are? I know what you are. And what you are not. Perhaps half the reason I wear this,” he touched an edge of his snowy cloak, “is because the Tower sent you out—you and Elayne and Egwene—for the Light knows what reason, when you are what you are. It was like sending a boy who has just learned to hold a sword into battle, and I will never forgive them. There is still time for both of you to turn aside; you do not have to carry that sword. The Tower is too dangerous for you or my sister, especially now. Half the world is become too dangerous for you! Let me help you to safety.” The tightness slid from his voice, though it took on a raw edge. “I beg you, Nynaeve. If anything happened to Elayne . . . I half-wish that Egwene were with you, so I could . . . ” Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he looked left and right, searching for how to convince her. Uno and Ragan held their blades ready to drive through his body, but he did not appear to see them. “In the name of the Light, Nynaeve, please allow me to do what I can.”

It was a simple thing that finally tipped the balance in her mind. They were in Ghealdan. Amadicia was the only land that actually made a crime out of a woman being able to channel, and they were on the opposite bank of the river. That left only Galad’s oaths as a Child of the Light to battle against his duty to Elayne. She gave blood the edge in that struggle. Besides, he really was too gorgeous for her to let Uno and Ragan kill him. Not that that had anything to do with her decision, of course.

“We are with Valan Luca’s show,” she said at last.

He blinked at her, frowned. “Valan Luca’s . . . ? You mean one of the menageries?” Incredulity and disgust fought in his voice. “What under the Light are you doing in company like that? Those who keep such shows are no better than . . . No matter. If you need coin, I can supply some. Enough to see you in a decent inn.”

His tone bespoke his certainty that she would do as he wanted. Not a “can I help you with a few crowns?” or a “would you like me to find a room for you?” He thought they should be in an inn, so into an inn they would go. The man might have observed enough to know she would duck into an alley, but he did not know her at all, it seemed. Besides, there were reasons to stay with Luca.

“Do you think there is a room, or a hayloft, not taken in all of Samara?” she asked, a touch more tartly than intended.

“I am certain I can find—”

She cut him off. “The last place anyone would look for us is among the shows.” The last place anyone but Moghedien would look, at least. “You’ll agree we should keep from sight as much as possible? If you did find a room, more than likely you’d have to have someone put out of it. A Child of the Light securing a room so for two women? That would set tongues wagging and draw eyes like flies to a midden.”

He did not like it, grimacing, and glaring at Uno and Ragan as if it were their fault, but he had enough sense to see sense. “It is no fit place for either of you, but it is probably safer than anywhere inside the city at that. Since you have at least agreed to go to Caemlyn, I will say no more on it.”

She kept her face smooth and let him think as he wished. If he thought she had promised what she had not, that was his affair. She had to keep him away from the show as much as possible, though. One glimpse of his sister in those spangled white breeches, and the uproar would overshadow any riot Masema could raise. “You will have to stay clear of the menagerie, mind. Until you find a ship, anyway. Then come to the performers’ wagons at nightfall and ask for Nana.” He liked that even less, if possible, but she forestalled him firmly. “I’ve not seen a single Child of the Light near any of the shows. If you visit one, don’t you think people will notice and ask why?”

His smile was still gorgeous, but it showed too many teeth. “You have an answer for everything, it seems. Do you have any objection to my escorting you back there, at least?”

“I most certainly do. There will be rumors as it is—a hundred people must have noticed us talking here”—she could no longer see the street past the three men, yet she had no doubt passersby were still glancing into the alley, and Uno and Ragan had not resheathed their swords—“but if you accompany me, we’ll be seen by ten times as many.”

His wince was half rueful, half mirthful. “An answer for everything,” he muttered. “But you have the right of it.” Clearly he wished she did not. “Hear me, Shienarans,” he said, turning his head, and suddenly his voice was steel. “I am Galadedrid Damodred, and this woman is under my protection. As for her companion, I would count it small loss to die in order to save her the smallest harm. If you allow either to come to that smallest harm, I will find you both and kill you.” Ignoring the sudden, dangerous blankness of their faces as completely as he did their swords, he swung his eyes back to her. “I suppose you still will not tell me where Egwene is?”

“All you need know is that she is far from here.” Folding her arms beneath her breasts, she could feel her heart beating through her ribs. Was she making a dangerous mistake because of a pretty face? “And safer than any action of yours can make her.”

He looked as if he did not believe her, but he made no more of it. “With luck, I will find a vessel in a day or two. Until then, stay close to this Valan Luca’s . . . show. Stay low and avoid notice. As much as you can with your hair that color. And tell Elayne not to run away from me again. The Light shone on you to let me find you still in one piece, and it will have to shine twice as brightly to keep you from harm if you try haring off across Ghealdan. This Prophet’s blasphemous ruffians are everywhere, without respect for law or persons, and that does not count brigands taking advantage of disorder. Samara itself is a wasp nest, but if you will sit quietly and convince my headstrong sister to do the same I will find a way to get you out of it before you are stung.”

It was an effort to keep her mouth shut. Taking what she told him and making it an injunction to her! Next thing the man would want to pack her and Elayne in wool and sit them on a shelf! Wouldn’t it be best if someone did? a tiny voice asked. Haven’t you caused enough trouble going your own way? She told the voice to be quiet. It did not listen, but began listing disasters and near disasters sprung from her own stubbornness.

Apparently taking her silence for acquiescence, he turned away from her—and stopped. Ragan and Uno had moved to block his way to the street, glancing at her with that strange, deceptive calm men so often adopted when they were a hairsbreadth from sudden violence. The air seemed to crackle, until she motioned hurriedly. The Shienarans lowered their blades and stood aside, and Galad took his hands from his sword, brushed past them and melded into the crowd without a backward glance.

Nynaeve gave Uno and Ragan each a good glare before stalking off in the opposite direction. There she had had everything arranged properly, and they had to nearly ruin it all. Men always seemed to think violence could solve anything. If she had had a stout stick, she would have thumped all three of them about the shoulders until they saw reason.

The Shienarans seemed to see a little of it, now; they caught up to her, swords scabbarded on their backs once more, and followed without a word, even when she twice took a wrong turn and had to double back. It was especially well for them that they kept silent then. She had had enough of holding her tongue. First Masema, and then Galad. All she wanted was a wafer-thin excuse to tell someone exactly what she thought. Especially that little voice in her head, pushed back to an insect buzz now but refusing to be quiet.

By the time they were out of Samara and on that dirt cart track, with its sparse traffic, the voice refused to be denied. She worried over Rand’s arrogance, but hers had brought herself and others as near calamity as made no never mind. For Birgitte, perhaps it was well over the line, even if she was alive. The best thing was for Nynaeve not to confront them again, not the Black Ajah and not Moghedien, not until someone who knew what they were doing could decide what should be done. Protest welled up, but she stamped on it as firmly as she ever had on Thom or Juilin. She would go to Salidar and hand the matter over to the Blues. That was how it would be. She was set on it.

“Have you eaten something that disagrees with you?” Ragan said. “Your mouth is twisted as if you had chewed a ripe duckberry.”

She gave him a look that snapped his teeth shut and stalked on. The two Shienarans kept pace to either side.

What was she going to do with them? That she should put them to some use was never in doubt; their appearance was too providential to throw away. For one thing, two additional pairs of eyes—well, three eyes anyway; she was going to learn to look at that patch without swallowing if it killed her—more eyes hunting for a ship might mean finding one sooner. All very well if Masema or Galad found a vessel first, but she did not want either to know more of her doings than she had to allow. There was no telling what either might do.

“Are you following me because Masema told you to look after me,” she demanded, “or because Galad did?”

“What flaming difference does it make?” Uno muttered. “If the Lord Dragon has summoned you, you bloody well—” He cut off, frowning, as she raised one finger. Ragan eyed it as if it were a weapon.

“Do you mean to help Elayne and me reach Rand?”

“We’ve nothing better to do,” Ragan said dryly. “As it is, we’ll not see Shienar again till we are gray and toothless. We might as well ride with you to Tear or wherever he is.”

She had not considered that, but it made sense. Two more to help Thom and Juilin with chores and standing guard. No need to let them know how long that might take, or how many stops and detours could lie along the way. The Blues in Salidar might not let any of them go further. Once they reached Aes Sedai, they would be only Accepted again. Stop thinking about it! You are going to do it!

The crowd waiting in front of Luca’s garish sign appeared no smaller than it had before. A stream of people trickled into the meadow to join the throng as another stream meandered out, exclaiming over what they had seen. Now and again the “boar-horses” were visible, rearing above the canvas wall, to oohs and aahs from those waiting to get in. Cerandin was putting them through their paces again. The Seanchan woman always saw that the s’redit got plenty of rest. She was very firm about that, whatever Luca wanted. Men did do as they were told when you left no doubt that anything else was inconceivable. Usually they did.

Short of the well-trampled brown grass, Nynaeve stopped and turned to face the two Shienarans. She kept her face calm, but they looked suitably wary, though in Uno’s case, regrettably, that involved fiddling with his eye-patch in a queasy-making way. The folk heading to or from the show paid no heed to them.

“Then it will not be because of Masema or Galad,” she said firmly. “If you are going to travel with me, you will do as I say, else you can go your own way, for I’ll have none of you.”

Of course they had to exchange glances before nodding acceptance. “If that’s how it flaming has to be,” Uno growled, “then well enough. If you don’t have somebody to bloody well look after you, you’ll never flaming live to reach the Lord Dragon. Some sheep-gutted farmer will have you for breakfast because of your tongue.” Ragan gave him a guarded look that said be agreed with every word but strongly doubted Uno’s wisdom in voicing them. Ragan, it seemed, had the makings of a wise man in him.

If they accepted her terms, it did not really matter why. For now. There would be plenty of time later to set them straight.

“I don’t doubt the others will agree, too,” Ragan said.

“Others?” she said, blinking. “You mean there are more than the two of you? How many?”

“There are only fifteen of us altogether now. I don’t think Bartu or Nengar will come.”

“Sniffing after the bloody Prophet.” Uno turned his head and spat copiously. “Only fifteen. Sar went over that bloody cliff in the mountains, and Mendao had to get himself into a flaming duel with three Hunters for the Horn, and . . . ”

Nynaeve was too busy stopping herself from gaping to listen. Fifteen! She could not help toting up in her head what it would cost to feed fifteen men. Even when they were not particularly hungry, Thom or Juilin either one ate more than Elayne and her combined. Light!

On the other hand, with fifteen Shienaran soldiers, there was no need to wait for a ship. A riverboat was certainly the fastest way to travel—she remembered what she had heard of Salidar, now; a river town, or close by; a boat could take them right to it—yet a Shienaran escort would make their wagon just as safe, from Whitecloaks or bandits or followers of the Prophet. But much slower. And a lone wagon heading away from Samara with such an escort would certainly stand out. A signpost for Moghedien, or the Black Ajah. I will let the Blues deal with them, and that is that!

“What is wrong?” Ragan asked, and Uno added apologetically, “I shouldn’t have mentioned how Sakaru died.” Sakaru? That must have been after she stopped listening. “I don’t spend much time around fla—around ladies. I forget you have weak bell—I mean, uh, delicate stomachs.” If he did not stop tugging at that eye-patch he was going to find out how delicate her stomach was.

The number changed nothing. If two Shienarans were good, fifteen were wonderful. Her own private army. No need to worry about Whitecloaks or brigands or riots, or whether she had made a mistake about Galad. How many hams could fifteen men eat every day? A firm voice. “Right, then. Every night just after dark, one of you—one, mind!—will come here and ask for Nana. That’s the name I am known by.” She had no reason for the order, except to put them in the habit of doing what she told them. “Elayne goes by Morelin, but you ask for Nana. If you need coin, come to me, not Masema.” She had to suppress a wince as the words left her mouth. There was still gold in the wagon’s stove, but Luca had not demanded his hundred gold crowns yet, and he would. There was always the jewelry, if need be, though. She had to be sure they were weaned away from Masema. “Aside from that, none of you are to come near me, or the show.” Without that, they would likely set a guard, or some such idiocy. “Not unless a riverboat arrives. In that case, you come running on the instant. Do you understand me?”

“No,” Uno muttered. “Why do we flaming have to keep away—?” His head jerked back as her admonitory finger almost touched his nose.

“Do you remember what I said about your language?” She had to make herself give him a level look; that glaring red eye-patch made her stomach do flips. “Unless you do remember, you will learn why men in the Two Rivers have decent tongues in their mouths.”

She watched him turn that over in his mind. He did not know what her connection with the White Tower was, only that it existed. She might be an agent of the Tower, or Tower-trained. Or even Aes Sedai, though one not long to the shawl. And the threat was vague enough for him to put his own worst interpretation to it. She had known that technique long before hearing Juilin mention it to Elayne.

When it appeared the idea had taken hold—and before he could ask any questions—she lowered her hand. “You will stay away for the same reason Galad does. So as not to draw attention. For the rest, you will do it because I say so. If I must explain my every decision to you, I’ll have time for nothing else, so you must make the best of it.”

That was a suitably Aes Sedai comment. Besides, they had no choice if they intended to help her reach Rand, as they thought, which meant they had no choice. All in all, she was feeling quite satisfied with herself as she shooed them off back toward Samara and strode past the waiting crowd and under the sign bearing Valan Luca’s name.

To her surprise, there was an addition to the show. On a new platform not far from the entry, a woman in gauzy yellow trousers was standing on her head, arms outstretched to either side with a pair of white doves on each hand. No, not on her head. The woman was gripping some sort of wooden frame in her teeth and balancing on that. As Nynaeve watched, aghast, the peculiar acrobat lowered her hands to the platform for a moment while bending herself double, until she seemed to be sitting on her own head. Even that was not enough. Her legs curved down in front of her, then impossibly back up under her arms, whereupon she transferred the doves to the upturned soles of her feet, now the highest part of the contorted ball she had knotted herself into. The onlookers gasped and applauded, but the sight made Nynaeve shiver. It was all too good a reminder of what Moghedien had done to her.

That isn’t why I mean to hand her over to the Blues, she told herself. I just do not want to cause calamity again. That was true, but she was also afraid that the next time, she would not escape so easily or so lightly. She would not have admitted that to another soul. She did not like admitting it to herself.

Giving the contortionist one last puzzled glance—she could not begin to puzzle out what the woman had twisted herself into now—she turned away. And started as Elayne and Birgitte suddenly appeared at her side out of the milling crowd. Elayne had a cloak decently covering her white coat and breeches; Birgitte was all but flaunting her low-necked red gown. No, there was no “all but” to it. She stood even straighter than usual and had tossed back her braid to remove even its minimal covering. Nynaeve fingered the knot of her shawl at her waist, wishing every glance at Birgitte did not remind her how much she herself would be showing once the gray wool came off. The other woman’s quiver hung at her belt, and she carried the bow Luca had found for her. Surely the day was too late for her to go through with the shooting.

A glance at the sky told Nynaeve she was wrong. Despite everything that had happened, the sun still stood well above the horizon. Shadows stretched long, but not long enough to dissuade Birgitte, she suspected.

In an attempt to cover checking the sun, she nodded toward the woman in the gauzy trousers, who had now begun to twist herself into something that Nynaeve knew was impossible. While still balancing on her teeth. “Where did she come from?”

“Luca hired her,” Birgitte answered calmly. “He bought some leopards, as well. Her name is Muelin.”

If Birgitte was all self-possessed coolness, Elayne very nearly quivered with emotion. “Where did she come from?” she spluttered. “She came from a show that a mob nearly destroyed!”

“I heard about that,” Nynaeve said, “but that isn’t what is important. I—”

“Not important!” Elayne rolled her eyes to the heavens as if for guidance. “Did you also hear why? I don’t know whether it was Whitecloaks or this Prophet, but somebody whipped up that mob because they thought . . . ” She glanced around without slowing and lowered her voice; none of the crowd had stopped, but every passerby stared at two obvious performers standing. “ . . . that a woman in the show might wear a shawl.” She emphasized the last word significantly. “Fools to think she’d be with a traveling menagerie, but then, you and I are. And you go dashing into the city without a word to anyone. We’ve heard everything from a baldheaded man carrying you off over his shoulder to you kissing a Shienaran and traipsing away with him arm in arm.”

Nynaeve was still gaping when Birgitte added, “Luca was upset, whatever the tale. He said . . . ” She cleared her throat and made her voice deep. “ ‘So she likes rough men, does she? Well, I can be as rough as a winter cob!’ And off he set, leading two lads with shoulders like s’Gandin quarrymen, to fetch you back. Thom Merrilin and Juilin Sandar went as well, in not much better temper. That did not improve Luca’s, but they were all so upset over you it left no room for anger at each other.”

For a moment Nynaeve stared in confusion. She liked rough men? What could he possibly mean by . . . ? Slowly it sank in, and she groaned. “Oh, that is just what I need.” And Thom and Juilin running around Samara. The Light knew what trouble they could get into.

“I still want to know what you thought you were doing,” Elayne said, “but we are wasting time here.”

Nynaeve let them start her off through the crowd, one to either side, but even with the news of Luca and the others, she felt satisfied with her day’s work. “We should be out of here in a day or two, with luck. If Galad doesn’t find us a boat, Masema will. It turns out he is the Prophet. You remember Masema, Elayne. That sour-faced Shienaran we saw—” Realizing that Elayne had stopped, Nynaeve paused for her to catch up again.

“Galad?” the younger woman said disbelievingly, forgetting to hold her cloak closed. “You saw—you spoke to Galad? And the Prophet? You must have, or how would they be trying to find a vessel? Did you have tea with them, or did you just meet them in a common room? Where the bald-headed man carried you, no doubt. Maybe the King of Ghealdan was there, too? Would you please convince me I am dreaming so I can wake up?”

“Get a grip on yourself,” Nynaeve said firmly. “It is a queen, now, not a king, and yes, she was. And he wasn’t bald; he had a topknot. The Shienaran, I mean. Not the Prophet. He’s as bald as—” She glared at Birgitte until the woman stopped snickering. The glower slipped a little when Nynaeve remembered who she was glowering at and what she had done to her, but if the woman had not smoothed her features, they might have found out whether she could bring herself to slap Birgitte cross-eyed. They began walking again, and she said as levelly as she could manage, “This is what happened. I saw Uno, one of the Shienarans who was at Falme, watching you highwalk, Elayne. He doesn’t think any better of the Daughter-Heir of Andor showing her legs than I do, by the way. In any case, Moiraine sent them here after Falme, but . . . ”

She related everything quickly as they made their way through the crowd, riding roughshod over Elayne’s increasingly incredulous exclamations, answering their questions in as few words as possible. Despite a quick interest in the shifts of the Ghealdanin throne, Elayne concentrated on exactly what Galad had said and why Nynaeve had been fool enough to approach the Prophet, whoever he was. That word—fool—popped up often enough to make Nynaeve keep a tight leash on her temper. She might doubt whether she could slap Birgitte, but Elayne had no such protection, Daughter-Heir or not. A few more repetitions, and the girl would discover it. Birgitte was more interested in Masema’s intentions on the one hand and the Shienarans on the other. It seemed she had encountered Borderlanders in previous lives, though their nations had had different names, and thought well of them by and large. She said little, really, but she appeared to approve of holding on to the Shienarans.

Nynaeve expected the news about Salidar to startle them, or excite them, or anything but what it did. Birgitte took it as matter-of-factly as if she had said they would eat supper with Thom and Juilin that night. Plainly she meant to go where Elayne did, and all else mattered little. Elayne looked doubtful. Doubtful!

“Are you certain? You have tried so hard to remember, and . . . Well, it seems awfully fortuitous that Galad should just happen to mention it to you.”

Nynaeve glowered. “Of course I am certain. Coincidences do happen. The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, as you may have heard. I remember now that he mentioned it in Sienda, too, but I was so concerned over you being concerned about him that I didn’t—” She cut off short.

They had arrived at a long narrow area near the north wall, marked off by ropes. At one end stood something like a segment of wooden fence, two paces wide and two tall. People lined the ropes four deep, with children crouching down in front or holding a father’s leg or a mother’s skirts. A buzz rose as the three women appeared. Nynaeve would have stopped dead, but Birgitte had her by the arm, and it was walk or be dragged.

“I thought we were going to the wagon,” she said faintly. Busy with talking, she had paid too little attention to where they were going.

“Not unless you want to see me shoot in the dark,” Birgitte replied. She sounded all too willing to give it a try.

Nynaeve wished she could have made some other comment than a squeak. The bit of fence filled her vision as they progressed down the open space, to the exclusion of the onlookers. Even their increasing murmurs sounded distant. The fence looked a mile from where Birgitte would stand.

“Are you sure that he said he swore by . . . our mother?” Elayne demanded sourly. Acknowledging Galad as her brother even that far was unpleasant for her.

“What? Yes. I said so, didn’t I? Listen. If Luca is in the city, he would not know whether we did this or not until it was too late to . . . ” Nynaeve knew she was babbling, but she could not seem to stop her tongue. Somehow she had never realized how far a hundred paces really was. In the Two Rivers, grown men always shot targets at twice that. But then, none of those targets had ever been her. “I mean, it already is very late. The shadows . . . The glare . . . We really should do this in the morning. When the light is—”

“If he swore by her,” Elayne broke in as if she had not been listening, “then he will hold to it no matter what. He would sooner break an oath on his hope of salvation and rebirth than that. I think . . . no, I know we can trust him.” She did not sound as if she particularly liked it, though.

“The light is just fine,” Birgitte said, a hint of amusement in her calm voice. “I might try it blindfolded. This lot will want it to look difficult, I think.”

Nynaeve opened her mouth, but nothing came out. This time she would have settled for a squeak. Birgitte was only making a bad joke. She had to be joking.

They positioned her with her back against the rough wooden fence, and Elayne began tugging at the knot in the shawl as Birgitte turned back the way they had come, drawing an arrow from her quiver.

“You really did something foolish this time,” Elayne muttered. “We can trust Galad’s oath, I’m sure, but you could not know what he might do beforehand. And to approach the Prophet!” She jerked the shawl from Nynaeve’s shoulders roughly. “You could have had no idea whatsoever what he might do. You worried everybody and risked everything!”

“I know,” Nynaeve managed to get out. The sun was in her eyes; she could no longer see Birgitte at all. But Birgitte could see her. Of course she could. That was the important thing.

Elayne looked at her suspiciously. “You know?”

“I know I risked everything. I should have talked with you, asked you. I know I’ve been a fool. I should not be allowed outside without a keeper.” It all came in a breathless rush. Birgitte must be able to see her.

Suspicion became concern. “Are you all right? If you really do not want to do this . . . ”

The woman thought she was afraid. Nynaeve could not, would not, allow that. She forced a smile, hoped her eyes were not too wide. Her face felt tight. “Of course I want to. I’m looking forward to it, actually.”

Elayne gave her a dubious frown, but nodded at last. “You are sure about Salidar?”

She did not wait for an answer, but hurried off to one side, folding the shawl. For some reason, Nynaeve could not work up a proper indignation over the question, or Elayne not waiting. Her breath was coming so fast that she was dimly aware that she might come right out of the dress’s low neck, yet even that thought could not catch her. The sun filled her view; had she squinted, she might have been able to make out Birgitte after a fashion, but her eyes had a will of their own, increasingly widening.

There was nothing she could do now. It was a punishment for taking foolish risks. She could manage only the tiniest pique over being punished after working everything out so well. And Elayne did not even believe her about Salidar! She would have to take it stoically. She would—

Seemingly out of nowhere an arrow tchunked into the wood, vibrating against her right wrist, and stoic resolve broke with a low wail. It was all she could do to keep her knees straight. A second arrow brushed the other wrist, producing a slightly higher pitch to her yelp. She could as soon stop Birgitte’s shafts as silence herself. Arrow by arrow the yelps rose higher, and it seemed to her almost as if the crowd was cheering her cries. The louder she shrieked, the louder they cheered and applauded. By the time she was outlined from knees to head, the applause was thunderous. In truth, she felt some irritation at the finish, when the crowd all rushed to throng around Birgitte, leaving her standing there staring at the fletchings around her. Some still quivered. She still quivered.

Pushing away, she scurried off toward the wagons as quickly as she could before anyone noticed how much her legs were wobbling. Not that anyone was paying any attention to her. All she had done was stand there and pray Birgitte did not sneeze, or get an itch. And tomorrow she would have to go through it again. That or let Elayne—and worse, Birgitte—know she could not face it.

When Uno came that night asking after Nana, she told him in no uncertain terms to prod Masema as much as he dared and to find Galad and tell him he must find a boat quickly, whatever it required. Then she took to her bed without eating and tried to make herself believe that she could convince Elayne and Birgitte that she was too ill to stand against that wall. Only, she was all too certain they would know exactly what her illness was. That even Birgitte would likely be all sympathy just made it worse. One of those fool men had to find a riverboat!