The Path of Daggers

## Chapter 28

#### Crimsonthorn

It hardly seemed the setting for the explosion Elayne feared. Harlon Bridge was a village of moderate size, with three inns and enough houses that no one had to sleep in a hayloft. When Elayne and Birgitte went downstairs to the common room that morning, Mistress Dill, the round innkeeper, smiled warmly and offered as much of a curtsy as her size allowed. It was not just that Elayne was Aes Sedai. Mistress Dill was so pleased that her inn was full, what with the roads snowpacked, that she bobbed at nearly everyone. At their entrance, Aviendha hastily gulped the last of her breakfast bread and cheese, brushed a few crumbs from her green dress, and snatched up her dark cloak to join them.

Outside, the sun was just peeking over the horizon, a low dome of pale yellow. Only a few clouds marred a beautiful blue sky, and they were white and fluffy, not the sort to carry snow. It seemed a wonderful day for traveling.

Except that Adeleas was trampling a path up the snowy street, and the white-haired sister was dragging one of the Kin, Garenia Rosoinde, by her arm. Garenia was a slim-hipped Saldaean who had spent the last twenty years as a merchant although she looked only a few years older than Nynaeve did. Normally, her strongly hooked nose gave her a forceful appearance, a woman who would make hard trading and not back away. Now her dark tilted eyes were large in her face and her wide mouth hung open, emitting a wordless wail. A growing knot of Kinswomen followed behind, skirts held high out of the snow, whispering among themselves, with more running from every direction to join. Reanne and the rest of the Knitting Circle were in the front, all grim-faced except for Kirstian, who seemed even paler than usual. Alise was there, too, wearing an utterly blank expression.

Adeleas stopped in front of Elayne and shoved Garenia so hard the woman fell to hands and knees in the snow. Where she stayed, still wailing. The Kinswomen gathered behind her, more of their number flocking in.

“I’m bringing this to you because Nynaeve is busy,” the Brown sister told Elayne. She meant that Nynaeve was enjoying a little time alone with Lan somewhere, but for once, not so much as a hint of a smile crossed her lips. “Be quiet, child!” she snapped at Garenia. Who promptly went silent. Adeleas gave a satisfied nod. “This is not Garenia Rosoinde,” she said. “I finally recognized her. Zarya Alkaese, a novice who ran away just before Vandene and I decided to retire and write our history of the world. She admitted it, when I confronted her. I’m surprised Careane didn’t recognize her before this; they were novices together for two years. The law is clear, Elayne. A runaway must be put back in white as soon as possible and kept under strict discipline until she can be returned to the Tower for proper punishment. She won’t think of running again after that!”

Elayne nodded slowly, trying to think of what to say. Whether or not Garenia—Zarya—thought of running again, she would not be allowed the opportunity. She was very strong in the Power; the Tower would not let her go if it took the rest of her life to earn the shawl. But Elayne was recalling something she had heard this woman say the first time she met her. The meaning had not registered then, but now it did. How would Zarya face novice white again after living as her own woman for seventy years? Worse, those whispers among the Kinswomen had begun to sound like rumbles.

She did not have long to think. Suddenly Kirstian fell to her knees, clutching at Adeleas’ skirts with one hand. “I submit myself,” she said calmly, her tone a wonder coming from that bloodless face. “I was enrolled in the novice book almost three hundred years ago, and ran away less than a year later. I submit myself, and . . . and beg mercy.”

It was white-haired Adeleas’ turn to go wide-eyed. Kirstian was claiming to have run away from the White Tower when she herself was an infant, if not before she was born! Most of the sisters still did not really believe the ages claimed by the Kin. Indeed, Kirstian appeared just into her middle years.

Even so, Adeleas recovered herself quickly. However old the other woman was, Adeleas had been Aes Sedai about as long as anyone living. She carried an aura of age, and authority. “If that is so, child,” her voice did falter just a bit at that, “I fear we must put you in white, too. You will still be punished, but surrendering as you have will gain you some mitigation.”

“That is why I did it.” Kirstian’s steady tone was spoiled somewhat by a hard swallow. She was almost as strong as Zarya—none of the Knitting Circle were weak—and she would be held very closely. “I knew you would find me out sooner or later.”

Adeleas nodded as though that were clearly obvious, though how the woman would have been found out, Elayne could not guess. She very much doubted that Kirstian Chalwin was the name the woman had been born with. Most of the Kin believed in Aes Sedai omniscience, though. They had, at least.

“Rubbish!” Sarainya Vostovan’s husky voice cut through the murmured babble of the Kin. Neither strong enough to become Aes Sedai nor nearly old enough to stand very high among the Kin, she still stepped from the pack defiantly. “Why should we give them up to the White Tower? We have helped women run away, and rightly so! It is not part of the rules to give them back!”

“Control yourself!” Reanne said sharply. “Alise, take Sarainya in hand, please. It seems she forgets too many of the rules she claims to know.”

Alise looked at Reanne, her face still unreadable. Alise, who enforced the Kin’s rules with a firm hand. “It is not part of our rules to hand runaways back, Reanne,” she said.

Reanne jerked as though struck. “And how do you suggest keeping them?” she demanded finally. “We have always held runaways apart until we were sure they were no longer hunted, and if they were found before, we let the sisters take them. That is the rule, Alise. What other rule do you propose violating? Do you suggest that we actually set ourselves against Aes Sedai?” Ridicule of such a notion larded her voice, yet Alise stood looking at her, silent.

“Yes!” a voice shouted from the crowd of Kinswomen. “We are many, and they are few!” Adeleas stared at the crowd in disbelief. Elayne embraced saidar, though she knew the voice was right—the Kin were too many. She felt Aviendha embracing the Power, and Birgitte setting herself.

Giving herself a shake as if coming to, Alise did something far more practical, certainly far more effective. “Sarainya,” she said loudly, “you will report to me when we stop tonight, with a switch you cut yourself before we leave this morning. You, too, Asra; I recognize your voice!” And then, just as loudly, she said to Reanne, “I will report myself for your judgment when we stop tonight. I don’t see anyone getting ready!”

The Kinswomen broke up quickly then, heading off to gather their things, yet Elayne saw some of them talking quietly as they went. When they rode over the bridge across the frozen stream that wound down beside the village, with Nynaeve incredulous over what she had missed and glaring about for someone to call down, Sarainya and Asra carried switches—as did Alise—and Zarya and Kirstian wore hastily found white dresses beneath their dark cloaks. The Windfinders pointed at them and laughed uproariously. But many of the Kinswomen still talked in clusters, falling silent whenever a sister or one of the Knitting Circle looked at them. And there was a darkness to their eyes when they looked at Aes Sedai.

Eight more days of floundering through the snow when it was not falling, and grinding her teeth in an inn when it was. Eight more days of brooding by the Kin, of staring bleakly at the sisters, days of strutting by the Windfinders around Kin and Aes Sedai alike. On the morning of the ninth day, Elayne began to wish everyone had simply gone for everyone else’s throat.

She was just wondering whether they could cover the last ten miles to Caemlyn without a murder, when Kirstian rapped at her door and darted in without waiting for an answer. The woman’s plain woolen dress was not the shade of white proper for a novice, and she had regained much of her dignity somehow, as if knowing her future had smoothed her present, but now she made a hasty curtsy, almost tripping over her cloak, and her nearly black eyes were anxious. “Nynaeve Sedai, Elayne Sedai, Lord Lan says you are to come at once,” she said breathlessly. “He told me to speak to no one, and you aren’t to, either.”

Elayne and Nynaeve exchanged looks with Aviendha and Birgitte. Nynaeve growled something under her breath about the man not knowing private from public, but it was clear before she blushed that she did not believe it. Elayne felt Birgitte focus, the drawn arrow hunting a target.

Kirstian did not know what Lan wanted, only where she was to lead them. The small hut outside of Cullen’s Crossing where Adeleas had taken Ispan the night before. Lan stood outside, his eyes as cold as the air, and would not let Kirstian enter. When Elayne went inside, she saw why.

Adeleas lay on her side beside an overturned stool, a cup on the rough wooden floor not far from one outstretched hand. Her eyes stared, and a pool of congealed blood spread out from the deep slash across her throat. Ispan lay on a small cot, staring at the ceiling. Lips drawn back in a rictus bared her teeth, and her bulging eyes seemed full of horror. As well they might have, since a wrist-thick wooden stake stood out from between her breasts. The hammer that had plainly been used to drive it in lay beside the cot, on the edge of a dark stain that ran back under the cot.

Elayne forced herself to stop thinking about emptying her stomach on the spot. “Light,” she breathed. “Light! Who could do this? How could anyone do this?” Aviendha shook her head wonderingly, and Lan did not even bother with that. He just watched nine directions at once, as though he expected whoever, or whatever, had committed this murder to come through one of the two tiny windows if not through the walls. Birgitte drew her belt knife, and by her face, she dearly wished she had her bow. That drawn arrow was stronger than ever in Elayne’s head.

At first, Nynaeve simply stood in one spot, studying the hut’s interior. There was little to see, aside from the obvious. A second three-legged stool, a rough table holding a flickering lamp, a green teapot and a second cup, a rude stone fireplace with cold ash on the hearthstone. That was all. The hut was so small it only took Nynaeve a step to reach the table. Dipping her finger into the teapot, she touched it to the tip of her tongue, then spat vigorously and emptied the whole teapot into the table in a wash of tea and tea leaves. Elayne blinked wonderingly.

“What happened?” Vandene asked coolly from the door. Lan moved to bar her way, but she stopped him with a small gesture. Elayne started to put an arm around her, and received another raised hand to keep her back. Vandene’s eyes remained on her sister, calm in a face of Aes Sedai serenity. The dead woman on the cot might as well not have existed. “When I saw all of you heading this way, I thought . . . We knew we didn’t have many years remaining, but . . . ” Her voice sounded serenity itself, but small wonder if that was a mask. “What have you found, Nynaeve?”

Sympathy looked odd on Nynaeve’s face. Clearing her throat, she pointed to the tea leaves without touching them. To white shavings among the matted black leaves. “This is crimsonthorn root,” she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact and failing. “It’s sweet, so you might miss it in tea unless you know what it is, especially if you take a lot of honey.”

Vandene nodded, never taking her eyes from her sister. “Adeleas developed a taste for sweet tea in Ebou Dar.”

“A little kills pain,” Nynaeve said. “This much . . . This much kills, but slowly. Even a few sips would be enough.” Taking a deep breath, she added, “They might have remained conscious for hours. Not able to move, but aware. Either whoever did this didn’t want to risk someone coming too soon with an antidote—not that I know one, for a brew this strong—or else they wanted one or the other to know who was killing them.” Elayne gasped at the brutality, but Vandene simply nodded.

“Ispan, I think, since they appear to have taken the most time with her.” The white-haired Green almost seemed to be thinking aloud, working out a puzzle. Cutting a throat took less time than driving a stake through someone’s heart. The calm of her made Elayne’s skin crawl. “Adeleas would never have accepted anything to drink from someone she didn’t know, not out here with Ispan. Those two facts name her killer, in a way. A Darkfriend, and one of our party. One of us.” Elayne felt two chills, her own, and Birgitte’s.

“One of us,” Nynaeve agreed sadly. Aviendha began testing the edge of her belt knife on her thumb, and for once, Elayne felt no objection.

Vandene asked to be left alone with her sister for a few moments, and sat on the floor to cradle Adeleas in her arms before they were out of the door. Jaem, Vandene’s gnarled old Warder, was waiting outside with a shivering Kirstian.

Suddenly a wail burst out inside the hut, the full-throated cry of a woman mourning the loss of everything. Nynaeve, of all people, turned to go back, but Lan laid a hand on her arm, and Jaem planted himself before the door with eyes not much warmer than Lan’s. There was nothing to do but leave them, Vandene to shriek her pain, and Jaem to guard her in it. And share it, Elayne realized, feeling that knot of emotions in her head that was Birgitte. She shivered, and Birgitte put an arm around her shoulders. Aviendha did the same from the other side, and motioned for Nynaeve to join them, which she did, after a moment. The murder Elayne had thought of so lightly had come, one of their companions was a Darkfriend, and the day suddenly felt cold enough to shatter bones, but there was a warmth in the closeness of her friends.

The last ten funereal miles to Caemlyn took two days in the snow, with even the Windfinders decently subdued. Not that they pushed Merilille any less hard. Not that Kin stopped talking, and falling silent whenever a sister or one of the Knitting Circle came near. Vandene, with her sister’s silver-mounted saddle on her horse, appeared as serene as she had at Adeleas’ graveside, but Jaem’s eyes carried a silent promise of death that surely rode in Vandene’s heart, too. Elayne could not have been happier to see the walls and towers of Caemlyn if the very sight had given her the Rose Crown and brought back Adeleas.

Even Caemlyn, one of the great cities of the world, had never seen the likes of their party before, and once inside the fifty-foot walls of gray stone they attracted notice as they crossed the New City along wide, slush-filled streets bustling with people and carts and wagons. Shopkeepers stood in their doorways and gaped. Wagon drivers reined in their teams to stare. Towering Aielmen and tall Maidens eyed them from every corner, it seemed. The people seemed to take no notice of the Aiel, but Elayne did. She loved Aviendha as she did herself, more, but she could not love an army of armed Aiel walking Caemlyn’s streets.

The Inner City, ringed by towered walls of silver-streaked white, was a remembered delight, and Elayne finally began to feel that she was coming home. The streets followed the curves of the hills, and every rise presented a new vista of snow-covered parks and monuments laid out to be seen from above as well as up close, of brightly tiled towers shining with a hundred colors in the afternoon sun. And then the Royal Palace itself was before them, a confection of pale spires and golden domes and intricate stonework traceries. The banner of Andor waved from nearly every prominence, the White Lion on red. And from the others, the Dragon Banner or the Banner of Light.

At the tall gilded gates of the Palace, Elayne rode forward alone in her travel-stained gray riding dress. Tradition and legend said women who first approached the Palace in splendor always failed. She had made clear that she had to do it alone, yet she almost wished Aviendha and Birgitte had succeeded in overruling her. Half the two dozen guards in front of the gates were Aiel Maidens, the others men in blue helmets and blue coats with a red-and-gold Dragon marching across the chest.

“I am Elayne Trakand,” she announced loudly, surprised at how calm she sounded. Her voice carried, and across the great plaza people turned from staring at her companions to stare at her. The ancient formula rolled from her tongue. “In the name of House Trakand, by right of descent from Ishara, I have come to claim the Lion Throne of Andor, if the Light wills it so.”

The gates opened wide.

It would not be that easy, of course. Even possession of the Palace was not enough to hold the throne of Andor by itself. Passing her companions into the care of an astonished Reene Harfor—and very pleased to see that the graying First Maid, round and as regal as any queen, still had the Palace in her capable hands—and a coterie of servants in red-and-white livery, Elayne hurried to the Grand Hall, the throne room of Andor. Alone, again. This was not part of the ritual, not yet. She should have been going to change into the red silk with the pearl-worked bodice and white lions climbing the sleeves, but she felt compelled. This time, not even Nynaeve tried to object.

White columns twenty paces high marched down the sides of the Grand Hall. The throne room was empty, still. That would not last long. Clear afternoon light through the glassed casements in tall windows along the walls mingled with the colored light through the great windows set in the ceiling, where the White Lion of Andor alternated with scenes of Andoran victories and the faces of the land’s earliest queens, beginning with Ishara herself, as dark as any of the Atha’an Miere, as full of authority as any Aes Sedai. No ruler of Andor could forget herself with the predecessors who had forged this nation staring down at her.

One thing she feared to see—the huge monstrosity of a throne, all gilded Dragons, that she had seen standing on the dais at the far end of the Hall in Tel’aran’rhiod. It was not there, thank the Light. The Lion Throne no longer rested on a tall plinth like some trophy, either, but kept its proper place upon the dais, a massive chair, carved and gilded, but sized for a woman. The White Lion, picked out in moonstones on a field of rubies, would stand above the head of any woman who sat there. No man could feel at his ease sitting on that throne, because, so legend said, he would know he had sealed his doom. Elayne thought it more likely the builders had simply made sure a man would not fit on it easily.

Climbing the white marble steps of the dais, she laid a hand on one arm of the throne. She had no right to sit on it herself, not yet. Not until she was acknowledged Queen. But taking oaths on the Lion Throne was a custom as old as Andor. She had to resist the desire to simply fall on her knees and weep into the throne’s seat. Reconciled to her mother’s death she might be, but this brought back all the pain. She could not break down now.

“Under the Light, I will honor your memory, Mother,” she said softly. “I will honor the name of Morgase Trakand, and try to bring only honor to House Trakand.”

“I ordered the guards to keep the curious and the favor-seekers away. I suspected you might want to be alone here for a time.”

Elayne turned slowly to face Dyelin Taravin, as the golden-haired woman walked the length of the Grand Hall. Dyelin had been one of her mother’s earliest supporters in her own quest for the throne. There was more gray in her hair than Elayne remembered, more lines at the corners of her eyes. She was still quite beautiful. A strong woman. And powerful as friend or foe.

She stopped at the foot of the dais, looking up. “I’ve been hearing for two days that you were alive, but I didn’t really believe it until now. You’ve come to accept the throne from the Dragon Reborn, then?”

“I claim the throne by my own right, Dyelin, with my own hand. The Lion Throne is no bauble to be accepted from a man.” Dyelin nodded, as at self-evident truth. Which it was, to any Andoran. “How do you stand, Dyelin? With Trakand, or against? I have heard your name often on my way here.”

“Since you claim the throne by your own right, with.” Few people could sound as dry as she. Elayne sat down on the top step, and motioned the older woman to join her. “There are a few obstacles, of course,” Dyelin went on as she gathered her blue skirts to sit. “There have been several claimants already, as you may know. Naean and Elenia, I have securely locked up. On a charge of treason that most people seem willing to accept. For the time being. Elenia’s husband is still active for her, though quietly, and Arymilla has announced a claim, the silly goose. She’s getting support of a kind, but nothing that need worry you. Your real worries—aside from Aiel all over the city waiting for the Dragon Reborn to come back—are Aemlyn, Arathelle, and Pelivar. For the moment, Luan and Ellorien will be behind you, but they might go over to those three.”

A very succinct list, delivered in a tone suitable for discussing a possible horse trade. Naean and Elenia she knew about, if not that Jarid still thought his wife had a chance at the throne. Arymilla was a goose to believe she would be accepted, whatever her support. The last five names were worrying, though. Each had been as strong a supporter of her mother, as had Dyelin, and each led a strong House.

“So Arathelle and Aemlyn want the throne,” Elayne murmured. “I can’t believe it of Ellorien, not for herself.” Pelivar might be acting for one of his daughters, but Luan had only granddaughters, none near old enough. “You spoke as if they might unite, all five Houses. Behind whom?” That would be a dire threat.

Smiling, Dyelin propped her chin in her hand. “They seem to think I should have the throne. Now, what do you intend about the Dragon Reborn? He hasn’t been back here in some time, but he can pop out of the air, it seems.”

Elayne squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, but when she opened them, she was still sitting on the steps of the dais in the Grand Hall, and Dyelin was still smiling at her. Her brother fought for Elaida, and her half-brother was a Whitecloak. She had filled the Palace with women who might turn on one another at any moment, not to mention the fact that one was a Darkfriend, maybe even Black Ajah. And the strongest threat she faced in claiming the throne, a very strong one, stood behind a woman who said she supported Elayne. The world was quite mad. She might as well add her bit.

“I mean to bond him my Warder,” she said, and went on before the other woman could more than blink in astonishment. “I also hope to marry him. Those things have nothing to do with the Lion Throne, however. The very first thing I intend . . . ”

As she went on, Dyelin began to laugh. Elayne wished she knew whether it was from delight over her plans or because Dyelin saw her own path to the Lion Throne being made smooth. At least she knew what she faced, now.

Riding into Caemlyn, Daved Hanlon could not help thinking what a city for the looting it was. In his years soldiering, he had seen many villages and towns looted, and once, twenty years ago, a great city, Cairhien, after the Aiel left. Strange that all these Aiel had left Caemlyn so apparently untouched, but then, if the tallest towers in Cairhien had not been burning, it might have been hard to know they had been there; plenty of gold, among other things, lying about for the picking up, and plenty of men to do the picking. He could see these broad streets full of horsemen and fleeing people, fat merchants who would give up their gold before the knife touched them in the hope their lives would be spared, slim girls and plump women so terrified when they were dragged into a corner that they could hardly manage to squeal, much less struggle. He had seen those things and done them, and he hoped to again. Not in Caemlyn, though, he admitted with a sigh. If the orders that sent him here had been the sort he could disobey, he would have gone where the pickings might not be so rich, but definitely easier to pluck.

His instructions had been clear. Stabling his horse at The Red Bull, in the New City, he walked a mile to a tall stone house on a side street, the house of a wealthy merchant discreet about her gold, marked with a tiny painted sigil on the doors, a red heart on a golden hand. The hulking fellow who let him in was no merchant’s servant, with his sunken knuckles and sullen eyes. Without a word, the huge man led him deeper into the house, then down, toward the basements. Hanlon eased his sword in its scabbard. Among the things he had seen were men and women, failures, led to their own very elaborate executions. He did not think he had failed, but then again, he had hardly succeeded. He had followed orders, though. Which was not always enough.

In the rough stone basement, lit by gilded lamps set all around, his eyes went first to a pretty woman in a lace-trimmed dress of scarlet silk, with her hair caught in frothy lace net. He did not know who this Lady Shiaine was, but his orders had been to obey her. He made his best leg, smiling. She simply looked at him, as if waiting for him to notice what else the basement held.

He could hardly have missed it, since except for a few casks the room held only a large heavy table, decorated in a very strange fashion. Two ovals had been cut in the tabletop, and from one stuck the head and shoulders of a man, his head wrenched back against the wooden surface and held there by means of leather straps nailed to the tabletop and fastened to a block of wood jammed between his teeth. A woman, prepared the same, provided the other decoration. Beneath the table, they knelt with wrists tied to ankles. Quite securely held for any sort of pleasure. The man had a touch of gray in his hair and the face of a lord, but unsurprisingly, his deep-set eyes rolled wildly. The woman’s hair, spread out on the table, was dark and glossy, but her face was a little long for Hanlon’s taste.

Suddenly he really saw her face, and his hand leaped to his sword before he could stop it. Releasing the hilt took some effort, which he made pains to hide. An Aes Sedai’s face, but an Aes Sedai who let herself be fastened like that was no threat.

“So you have some brains,” Shiaine said. By her accents, she was a noble, and she certainly had the commanding air, sweeping around the table to peer down into the bound man’s face. “I asked the Great Master Moridin to send me a man with brains. Poor Jaichim here has very few.”

Hanlon frowned, and smoothed it away immediately. His orders had come from Moghedien herself. Who in the Pit of Doom was Moridin? It did not matter. His orders had come from Moghedien; that was enough.

The hulking fellow handed Shiaine a funnel, which she fitted into a hole bored through the block of wood between this Jaichim’s teeth. The man’s eyes seemed ready to leap from his head. “Poor Jaichim here failed very badly,” Shiaine said, smiling like a fox looking at a chicken. “Moridin wishes him punished. Poor Jaichim does like his brandy.”

She stepped back, not so far that she could not see clearly, and Hanlon gave a start as the hulking man came to the table with one of the casks. Hanlon did think he could have lifted the thing unaided, but the big man tipped it easily. The bound man shrieked once, and then a stream of dark liquid was pouring from the cask into the funnel, turning his cry to gurgling. The rough smell of crude brandy filled the air. Secured as he was, the man fought, thrashing about, even managing to heave the table sideways, but the brandy kept pouring. Bubbles rose in the funnel as he tried to shout or scream, but the steady stream never faltered. And then his thrashing slowed and stopped. Wide, glazing eyes stared up the ceiling, and brandy trickled from his nostrils. The big fellow still did not stop until the last drops fell from an empty cask.

“I think poor Jaichim has finally had enough brandy,” Shiaine said, and laughed in delight.

Hanlon nodded. He supposed the man had, at that. He wondered who he had been.

Shiaine was not quite finished. At a gesture from her, the hulking man ripped one of the straps holding the Aes Sedai’s gag off of its nail. Hanlon thought the wooden block might have loosened a few of her teeth coming out of her mouth, but if so, she did not waste time on them. She began babbling before the fellow let go of the strap.

“I will obey you!” she howled. “I will obey, as the Great Master commanded! He set the shield on me to dissolve so I could obey! He told me so! Let me prove myself! I will crawl! I am a worm, and you are the sun! Oh, please! Please! Please!”

Shiaine stifled words if not whimpers by putting a hand over the Aes Sedai’s mouth. “How do I know you won’t fail again, Falion? You have failed before, and Moridin left your punishment to me. He gave me another; do I need two of you? I may give you a second chance to plead your case, Falion—perhaps—but if I do, you will have to convince me. I will expect true enthusiasm.”

Falion began screaming pleas again, making extravagant promises, the moment Shiaine’s hand moved, but soon enough she was reduced to wordless shrieks and tears as the gag was replaced, the nail driven through the strap again, and Jaichim’s funnel placed above her gaping throat. The hulking man stood another cask on the table beside her head. The Aes Sedai seemed to go mad, bulging eyes rolling, flinging herself about below the table till it trembled.

Hanlon was impressed. An Aes Sedai must be harder to break than a plump merchant or his round-cheeked daughter. Still, she had had the help of one of the Chosen, it seemed. Realizing that Shiaine was looking at him, he stopped smiling down at Falion. His first rule in life was never to offend those the Chosen set above him.

“Tell me, Hanlon,” Shiaine said, “how would you like to put your hands on a queen?”

He licked his lips in spite of himself. A queen? That he had never done.