Nynaeve brightened, sitting up straighten “Egwene? Oh, that’s wonderful! So they didn’t come off as fools for once. I half wondered why they were not here to drag us off for another lesson.” She squinted at Siuan, but even the squint looked cheerful. “A boat, you say? Who’s the captain?”
“I am, you wretched little — ” Leane cleared her throat, and Siuan took a deep breath. “A share-crew, then; equal shares. But someone has to steer,” she added when Nynaeve began to smile, “and that will be me.”
“All right,” Nynaeve said after a long moment. Another hesitation, fiddling with her spoon, then, in a voice so casual Elayne wanted to throw up her hands, “Is there any chance you might help me — us — get us out of the kitchens?” They had faces no older than Nynaeve’s, but they had been Aes Sedai for a long time; their eyes remembered that Aes Sedai stare. Nynaeve met it more steadily than Elayne thought she could have — except for just a bit of shifting — but in the end it was no surprise when she muttered, “I suppose not.”
“We have to be going,” Siuan said, standing. “If anything, Leane understated the cost of discovery. We could be the first Aes Sedai skinned publicly, and I’ve already been the only first I want to.”
To Elayne’s surprise, Leane bent to hug her, whispering, “Friends.” Elayne returned the hug and the word warmly.
Leane also hugged Nynaeve, murmuring something Elayne could not hear, and then Siuan did too, with a “Thank you” that sounded gruff and reluctant.
At least, that was how it sounded to her, but once they were gone, Nynaeve said, “She was about to cry, Elayne. Maybe she really meant all of that. I suppose I should try to be nicer to her.” She sighed, which became a yawn, muffling “Especially since she’s Aes Sedai again.” And with that, she fell asleep with the tray still on her knees.
Muffling a yawn of her own behind her hand, Elayne got up and squared everything away neatly, tucking the tray under Nynaeve’s bed. It took a little time to get Nynaeve out of her dress and settled down into the bed more comfortably, but even that did not wake her. For herself, once Elayne had the candle snuffed and was hugging her pillow, she lay awake, staring at the darkness and thinking. Rand trying to deal with Aes Sedai sent by Elaida? They would eat him alive. Almost she wished she could have seen her way to accepting Nynaeve’s suggestion when it had a chance of success. She could guide him through any snares they set, she was sure — Thom had added a great deal to what her mother taught her — and he would listen to her. Besides, that way she could bond him. After all, she had not waited until she wore the shawl to bond Birgitte; why wait for Rand?
Shifting, she snuggled deeper into her pillow. He had to wait. He was in Caemlyn, not Salidar. Wait, Siuan said he was in Cairhien. How . . . ? She was too tired; the thought drifted. Siuan. Siuan was still hiding something; she was sure of it.
Sleep slid in, and with it a dream, a boat with Leane sitting in the bow flirting with a man whose face was different every time Elayne looked. In the stern, Siuan and Nynaeve were struggling, each trying to steer in a different direction — until Elayne stood up and took charge. A captain keeping secrets could be reason enough for a mutiny if need be.
In the morning Siuan and Leane returned before Nynaeve even opened her eyes, more than sufficient to make her angry enough to channel. It did no good, though. What was already Healed could not be Healed again.
“I will do what I can, Siuan,” Delana said, leaning forward to pat the other woman’s arm. They were alone in the sitting room, and the teacups on the small table between their chairs stood untouched.
Siuan sighed, looking dejected, though what she could expect after her outburst in front of the Hall, Delana did not know. Early-morning light spilled through the windows, and she thought of the breakfast she had not had yet, but this was Siuan. The situation was disconcerting, and Delana did not like being disconcerted. She had schooled herself not to see her old friend in this woman’s face — not hard, since she looked nothing at all like the Siuan Sanche Delana remembered, not at any age — yet seeing Siuan again, a Siuan young and pretty, was only the first shock. The second was Siuan appearing on her doorstep with the sun not up, asking help; Siuan never asked for help. And then there was the biggest shock of all, the one renewed every time she came face-to-face with Siuan since the al’Meara woman had worked her impossible miracle. She was stronger than Siuan, much stronger. The margin had always gone the other way; Siuan had taken the lead when they were novices, even before they were Accepted. Still, she was Siuan, and upset, which Delana never remembered before. Siuan could be upset, but she never let you see it. It distressed her that she could not do more for the woman who had stolen honeycakes with her and more than once had taken the blame for pranks they had both been involved in.
“Siuan, I can do this much at least. Romanda would be more than happy to take those dream ter’angreal into the Hall’s keeping. She doesn’t have enough Sitters with her to bring it off, but if Sheriam thinks she does, if she thinks you’ve used your influence with Lelaine and me to stop it, then she won’t be able to refuse you. I know Lelaine will agree. Though why you want to meet these Aiel women, I cannot imagine. Romanda smiles like a cat in the buttery, watching Sheriam stalk around in a temper after one of those meetings. With your temper, you will likely burst something.” Such a change. Once she would never have thought of mentioning Siuan’s temper; now she mentioned it without thinking.
Siuan’s downcast face broke into a smile. “I hoped you would do something like that. I will speak to Lelaine. And Janya; I think Janya will help. You have to make sure Romanda doesn’t actually do it, though. From the little I know, Sheriam has worked out at least a semblance of how to get along with these Aiel. I’m afraid Romanda would need to start from the beginning. Of course, that might not be important to the Hall, but I would just as soon not have my first look at them when everybody has a hook in their gills.”
Delana kept her smile inside as she escorted Siuan to the front step and gave her a hug. Yes, it would be very important to the Hall to keep the Wise Ones pacific, though Siuan had no way of knowing that. She watched Siuan hurry down the street before going back in. It seemed she was going to be the one doing the protecting now. She hoped she made as good a job of it as her friend had.
The tea was still warm, and she decided to send Miesa, her serving woman, for some rolls and fruit, but when a timid tap came at the sitting room door, it was not Miesa but Lucilde, one of the novices they had brought from the Tower.
The lanky girl bobbed a nervous curtsy, but Lucilde was always nervous. “Delana Sedai? A woman arrived this morning, and Anaiya Sedai said I should bring her to you? Her name’s Halima Saranov? She says she knows you?”
Delana opened her mouth to say that she had never heard of any Halima Saranov, and a woman appeared in the doorway. Delana stared in spite of herself. The woman managed to be slender and lush at the same time, and wore a dark gray riding dress cut ridiculously low; long lustrous black hair framed a green-eyed face that probably made every man who glimpsed it gape. That was not why Delana stared, of course. The woman held her hands at her sides, but with thumbs thrust hard between the first two fingers. Delana had never expected to see that from any woman who did not wear the shawl, and this Halima Saranov could not even channel. She was close enough to be sure of that.
“Yes,” Delana said, “it seems to me I do remember. Leave us, Lucilde. And, child, do try to remember that every sentence isn’t a question.” Lucilde bobbed a curtsy so quick and deep that she nearly fell. Under other circumstances, Delana would have sighed; she had never done well with novices, though she could not understand why.
Almost before the novice was out of the room, Halima swayed over to the chair Siuan had used and sat without a word of invitation. Picking up one of the untouched cups, she crossed her legs and sipped, watching Delana over the rim.
Delana fixed her with a hard stare. “Who do you think you are, woman? However high you think you stand,
none stand higher than Aes Sedai. And where did you learn that sign?” For perhaps the first time in her life, that stare did no good.
Halima smiled at her mockingly. “Do you really think the secrets of the . . .shall we say, darker Ajah, are that secret? As for how high you stand, you know very well that if a beggar gave the proper signs, you would leap to obey. My story is that I was traveling companion for a time to one Cabriana Mecandes, a Blue sister. Unfortunately, Cabriana died in a fall from her horse, and her Warder simply refused to leave his blankets or eat after that. He died, too.” Halima smiled as if to ask whether Delana was following. “Cabriana and I talked a great deal before she died, and she told me about Salidar. She also told me a number of things she had learned about the White Tower’s plans for you here. And for the Dragon Reborn.” Another smile, a quick flash of white teeth, and she went back to her tea and her watching.
Delana had never been a woman to give up easily. She had bludgeoned kings into making peace when they wanted war, dragged queens by the scruff of the neck to sign treaties that had to be signed. True, she would have obeyed that hypothetical beggar if he had the proper signs and said the right things, but Halima’s hands had identified her as Black Ajah, which she clearly was not. Perhaps the woman thought that was the only way to make Delana acknowledge her, and perhaps she wanted to show off her forbidden knowledge as well. Delana did not like this Halima. “And I suppose I am supposed to make sure the Hall accepts your information,” she said gruffly. “It should be no problem so long as you know enough of Cabriana to support your tale. I can’t help you there; I never met her above twice. I suppose there is no chance of her appearing to spoil your story?”
“No chance at all.” Again that quick, mocking smile. “And I could recite Cabriana’s life. I know things she had forgotten herself.”
Delana only nodded to that. Killing a sister was always to be regretted, but what must be, must be. “Then there is no problem at all. The Hall will receive you as a guest, and I can make sure they listen,”
“A guest is not exactly what I had in mind. Something rather more permanent, I think. Your secretary, or better yet, your companion. I need to make sure your Hall is guided carefully. Beyond this tale of Cabriana’s news, from time to time I’ll have instructions for you.”
“Now you listen to me! I —!”
Halima cut her off without raising her voice. “I was told to mention a name to you. A name I use, sometimes. Aran’gar.”
Delana sat down heavily. That name had been mentioned in her dreams. For the first time in years, Delana Mosalaine was afraid.
Chapter 31
Red Wax
* * *
The sound of the black gelding’s hooves was all but swallowed in the noise of Amador as Eamon Valda rode slowly through the crowded streets. Sweat oozed from his every pore, the more for his perfectly polished mail and breastplate, gleaming despite a layer of dust, and the snowy cloak spread over the gelding’s powerful rump, yet it might have been a fine spring day for all the notice he took. He did his best to ignore the dirty men and women, even children, with lost expressions and travelworn clothes. Even here. Even here.
For once in his life, the great stone walls of the Fortress of the Light, towered and bannered and impregnable, bastion of truth and right, did not lift his spirits. Dismounting in the main courtyard, he tossed his reins to a Child with grated instructions for caring for the animal; the man knew what to do, of course, but Valda wanted to snap at something. White-cloaked men scurried everywhere in a great show of energy despite the heat. He hoped there was something more than show behind it.
Young Dain Bornhald came trotting across the courtyard, pressing fist to mailed chest in an eager salute. “The Light illumine you, my Lord Captain. You had a good ride from Tar Valon, yes?” His eyes were bloodshot, and a smell of brandy wafted from him. There was no excuse for drinking during the day.
“Fast, at least,” Valda growled, jerking off his gauntlets and stuffing them behind his sword belt.
It was not the brandy, though he would make a mark against the man for it. The journey had been fast, for that distance. He intended to give the legion a night in the city by way of reward, once they finished making camp outside the city. A fast journey, but he disapproved of the orders that called him back just when a strong push might have toppled the crippled Tower and buried the witches under the rubble. A ride to be remarked, yet every day had brought worse news. Al’Thor in Caemlyn. It did not really matter whether the man was a false Dragon or the real one; he could channel, and any man who did that had to be a Darkfriend. Dragonsworn rabble in Altara. This so-called Prophet and his scum in Ghealdan, in Amadicia itself.
He had managed to kill some of that filth, at least, though it was hard fighting foes who melted away more often than they stood, who could blend into the accursed streams of refugees, and worse, of brainless wanderers who seemed to think al’Thor had turned all order on its head. He had found a solution, however, if not a completely satisfactory one. The roads behind his legion were littered now, and the ravens fed to bursting. If it was not possible to tell the Prophet’s trash from refugee trash, well then, kill whoever clogged the way. The innocent should have remained in their homes where they belonged; the Creator would shelter them anyway. As far as he was concerned, the wanderers were added plums on the cake.
“I heard in the city that Morgase is here,” he said. He did not believe it — every other word in Andor had been speculation over who killed Morgase — so he was startled when Dain nodded.
Surprise turned to disgust as the young man babbled about Morgase’s apartments and her hunting, how well she was treated, how she was sure to sign a treaty with the Children any day. Valda scowled openly. He should have expected no better from Niall. The man had been one of the best soldiers in his time, accounted a great captain, but he grew old and soft. Valda had known that as soon as his orders reached Tar Valon. Niall should have moved on Tear in strength with the first word of al’Thor. He would have gathered all the numbers he needed on the march; nations would have rallied to the Children against a false Dragon. They would have, then. Now al’Thor was in Caemlyn, and strong enough to frighten the fainthearted. But Morgase was here. If he had Morgase, she would sign that treaty the first day if somebody had to guide her hand to hold the pen. By the Light, he would teach her to leap when he said leap. If she balked at returning to Andor with the Children, he would lash her to a staff by her wrists. That would be a banner to lead the advance into Andor.
Dain ran down, waiting. No doubt hoping for an invitation to dinner this evening. As a junior, he could not issue one to an officer senior to him, but doubtless he hoped to talk with his old commander, about Tar Valon, perhaps even about his dead father. Valda had not thought much of Geofram Bornhald; the man had been soft. “I will see you at the camp for dinner at six. I will see you sober, Child Bornhald.”
Bornhald surely was in drink; he gaped and stammered before making his salute and going. Valda wondered what had happened. Dain had been a fine young officer. One who worried too much over niceties, such as proof of guilt when there was no way to obtain it, yet still fine for all that. Not as weak as his father. A shame to see him waste himself in brandy.
Muttering under his breath — officers drinking in the very Fortress of the Light was another sign that Niall was rotting at the core — Valda went in search of his rooms. He intended to sleep in the camp, but a hot bath would not be amiss.
A square-shouldered young Child approached in the plain stone corridor, the scarlet shepherd’s crook of the Hand of the Light behind the flaring golden sun on his chest. Without stopping or even looking at Valda, the Questioner murmured respectfully, “My Lord Captain might wish to visit the Dome of Truth.”
Valda frowned after the man — he did not like Questioners; they did good work in their way, yet he could never escape the feeling that they had donned the crook because that way they would never have to face an armed foe — started to
raise his voice and dress the fellow down, then stopped. Questioners were sloppy in their discipline, but a simple Child would never speak idly to a Lord Captain. Perhaps the bath could wait.
The Dome of Truth was a wonder that finally did restore some of his essence. Pure white outside, inside gold leaf cast down the light of a thousand hanging lamps. Thick white columns ringed the chamber, plain and polished to glistening, but the dome itself stretched a hundred paces across unsupported and rose fifty at its peak, above the simple white marble dais, centered on the white marble floor, where the Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light stood to address the assembled Children in their most solemn moments, their most serious ceremonies. He would stand there, one day. Niall would not live forever.
Dozens of Children wandered about the vast chamber — it was a sight worth seeing, though none but the Children ever did, of course — yet that message had not come so he could admire the Dome. He was sure of it. Behind the great columns ran rows of smaller ones, just as simple and polished just as highly, and tall alcoves where scenes of the Children’s triumphs made frescoes of a thousand years. Valda strolled, looking into each recess. Finally he saw a tall, graying man studying one of the paintings, Serenia Latar being raised on the scaffold, the only Amyrlin the Children had ever managed to hang. She had been dead already, of course, live witches being somewhat hard to hang, but that was beside the point. Six hundred and ninety-three years ago, justice had been done according to the law.
“Are you troubled, my son?” The voice was soft, almost mild.