Egwene smothered a small smile. Nynaeve was set up? Elayne’s face was beaming, and her dress had changed again, to a much lower neckline, apparently without her realizing it. The ter’angreal, the twisted stone ring, helped the Daughter-Heir reach the World of Dreams as easily as Egwene did, but it did not confer control. That had to be learned. Stray thoughts—such as how she might like to look for Rand—could still alter things for Elayne.
“How is he?” Elayne’s voice was a strange blend of forced casualness and apprehension.
“Well,” Egwene said. “I think he is.” She made it a full report. The Portal Stones, and Rhuidean—as much as she knew from what she had heard; what she had managed to infer from talk of seeing through ancestors’ eyes—the strange creature from the Dragon banner marked on Rand’s forearms, Bair’s revelation that he was the Aiel’s doom, the summons of the clan chiefs to Alcair Dal. Amys and the other Wise Ones should be doing that even now; she fervently hoped they were. She even told the strange story of Rand’s true parents, in a shorter form. “I don’t know, though. He has been acting stranger than ever, since, and Mat hardly less. I don’t mean that he’s mad, but … . He is as hard as Rhuarc or Lan, in some ways at least; maybe harder. He’s planning something, I think—something he doesn’t mean anybody to know—and he is in a rush to get to it. It is worrying. Sometimes I have the feeling he doesn’t see people anymore, only pieces on a stones board.”
Elayne did not look worried, or not about that, at any rate. “He is what he is, Egwene. A king, or a general, cannot always afford to see people. When a ruler has to do what is right for a nation, there are times when some will be hurt by what is best for the whole. Rand is a king, Egwene, even if without a nation unless you count Tear, and if he won’t do anything that will hurt anyone, he will end by hurting everyone.”
Egwene sniffed. It might make sense, but she did not have to like it. People were people, and they had to be seen as people. “There is more. Some of the Wise Ones can channel. I don’t know how many, but I suspect more than a few, to some degree. From what Amys tells me, they find every last woman who has the spark born in her.” No Aiel women died trying to teach themselves to channel while not even knowing what they were trying to do; there was no such thing as a wilder among the Aiel. Men who learned they could channel faced a grimmer fate; they went north, to the Great Blight and maybe beyond, to the Blasted Lands and Shayol Ghul. “Going to kill the Dark One,” they called it. None survived long enough to face madness. “Aviendha is one with the spark, it turns out. She’ll be very strong, I think. Amys thinks so, too.”
“Aviendha,” Elayne said wonderingly. “Of course. I should have known. I felt the same kinship for Jorin on first sight that I did for her. And for you, for that matter.”
“Jorin?”
Elayne grimaced. “I promised I would keep her secret, and the first chance I get, I let my tongue run wild. Well, I don’t suppose you will harm her or her sisters. Jorin is Windfinder on Wavedancer, Egwene. She can channel, and so can some of the other Windfinders.” She glanced at the columns around them, and her neckline was suddenly back up under her chin. She adjusted a dark lace shawl that had not been there a moment before, covering her hair and shadowing her face. “Egwene, you mustn’t tell anyone. Jorin is afraid the Tower will try to force them to become Aes Sedai, or try to control them in some fashion. I promised I would do what I can not to let that happen.”
“I won’t tell,” Egwene said slowly. Wise Ones and Windfinders. Women able to channel among both, and none who had taken the Three Oaths, bound by the Oath Rod. The Oaths were supposed to make people trust Aes Sedai, or at least not fear their power, but Aes Sedai still had to move in secret as often as not. Wise Ones—and Windfinders, she was willing to wager—had honored places in their societies. Without being bound to supposedly make them safe. It was something to think on.
“Nynaeve and I are ahead of schedule, too, Egwene. Jorin has been teaching me to work the weather—you would not believe the size of the flows of Air she can weave!—and between us, we’ve had Wavedancer moving as fast as he ever has, and that is fast. We should be in Tanchico in another three days, maybe two, according to Coine. She’s the Sailmistress, the captain. Ten days from Tear to Tanchico, perhaps. That is with stopping to talk with every Atha’an Miere ship we see. Egwene, the Sea Folk think Rand is their Coramoor.”
“They do?”
“Coine has some of what happened in Tear wrong—she assumes the Aes Sedai serve Rand now, for one thing; Nynaeve and I thought it best not to put her straight about that—but as soon as she tells another Sailmistress, they’re all ready to spread the word and serve Rand. I believe they will do anything he asks of them.”
“I wish the Aiel were so accepting,” Egwene sighed. “Rhuarc thinks some of them might refuse to acknowledge him, Rhuidean Dragons or no. One fellow, a man called Couladin, I’m sure would kill him in a minute given half a chance.”
Elayne took a step forward. “You will see that doesn’t happen.” It was not a question or a request. There was a sharp light in her blue eyes, and a bared dagger in her hand.
“I will do the best I can. Rhuarc is giving him bodyguards.”
Elayne seemed to see the dagger for the first time, and gave a start. The blade vanished. “You must teach me whatever Amys is teaching you, Egwene. It is disconcerting to have things appear and disappear, or suddenly realize I’m wearing different clothes. It just happens.”
“I will. When I have time.” She had been in Tel’aran’rhiod too long already. “Elayne, if I am not here when we are supposed to meet next, don’t worry. I will try, but I may not be able to come. Be sure to tell Nynaeve. If I do not come, check every night thereafter. I won’t be more than one or two late, I’m sure.”
“If you say so,” Elayne said doubtfully. “It will surely take weeks to find out if Liandrin and the others are in Tanchico or not. Thom seems to think the city will be very confused.” Her eyes went to Callandor, driven half its length into the floor. “Why did he do that, do you think?”
“He said it will hold the Tairens to him. As long as they know it’s there, they have to know he is coming back. Maybe he knows what he is talking about. I hope so.”
“Oh. I thought … perhaps he … was angry about … something.”
Egwene frowned at her. This sudden diffidence was not like Elayne at all. “Angry about what?”
“Oh, nothing. It was just a thought. Egwene, I gave him two letters before leaving Tear. Do you know how he took them?”
“No, I don’t. Did you say something you think might have angered him?”
“Of course not.” Elayne laughed gaily; it sounded forced. Her dress was suddenly dark wool, stout enough for a hard winter. “I would have to be a fool to write things to make him angry.” Her hair sprang up in all directions, like a crazed crown. She was not aware of it. “I am trying to make him love me, after all. Just trying to make him love me. Oh, why can’t men be simple? Why do they have to cause such difficulties? At least he’s away from Berelain.” The wool became silk again, cut even lower than before; her hair made shimmers on her shoulders to shame the gown’s sheen. She hesitated, nibbling her lower lip. “Egwene? If you find the chance, would you tell him I meant what I said in—Egwene? Egwene!”
Something snatched Egwene. The Heart of the Stone dwindled into blackness as if she were being hauled away by the scruff of her neck.
With a gasp, Egwene started awake, heart pounding, staring up the low roof of the night-darkened tent over her head. Only a little moonlight crept in at the open sides. She lay under her blankets—the Waste was as cold at night as it was hot during the day, and the brazier that exuded the sweetish smell of dried dung burning gave little warmth—beneath her blankets right where she had lain down to sleep. But what had pulled her back?
Abruptly she became aware of Amys, sitting cross-legged beside her, cloaked in shadows. The Wise One’s murk-shrouded face seemed as dark and forboding as the night.
&
nbsp; “Did you do that, Amys?” she said angrily. “You have no right to just haul me about. I am Aes Sedai of the Green Ajah …” The lie came easily to her lips now. “ … and you have no right—”
Amys cut her off with a grim voice. “Beyond the Dragonwall, in the White Tower, you are Aes Sedai. Here, you are an ignorant pupil, a fool child crawling through a den of vipers.”
“I know I said I would not go to Tel’aran’rhiod without you,” Egwene said, trying to sound reasonable, “but—”
Something seized her ankles, hauled her feet into the air; blankets tumbled away, her shift dropped to bunch in her armpits. Upside down, she hung with her face level with that of Amys. Furious, she opened herself to saidar—and found herself blocked.
“You wanted to go off alone,” Amys hissed softly. “You were warned, but you had to go.” Her eyes seemed to glow in the dark, brighter and brighter. “Never a care for what might be waiting. There are things in dreams to shatter the bravest heart.” Around eyes like blue coals, her face melted, stretched. Scales sprouted where skin had been; her jaws thrust out, lined with sharp teeth. “Things to eat the bravest heart,” she growled.
Screaming, Egwene battered vainly at the shield holding her from the True Source. She tried to beat at that horrible face, at the thing that could not be Amys, but something gripped her wrists, stretched her taut and quivering in midair. All she could do was shriek as those jaws closed around her face.
Screaming, Egwene sat up, clutching at her blankets. With an effort she managed to snap her mouth shut, but she could do nothing about the shudders that racked her. She was in the tent—or was she? There was Amys, cross-legged in the shadows, glowing with saidar—or was it she? Desperately, she opened herself to the Source, and nearly howled when she found the barrier again. Tossing the blankets aside, she scrambled across the layered rugs on hands and knees, scattered her neatly folded clothes with both hands. She had a belt knife. Where was it? Where? There!
“Sit down,” Amys said acerbically, “before I dose you for vapors and fidgets. You will not like the taste.”
Egwene twisted around on her knees, the short knife held in both hands; they would have trembled if not clutched together around the hilt. “Is it really you this time?”
“I am myself, now and also then. Sharp lessons are the best lessons. Do you mean to stab me?”
Hesitating, Egwene sheathed the knife. “You have no right to—”
“I have every right! You gave me your word. I did not know Aes Sedai could lie. If I am to teach you, I must know you will do as I say. I will not watch a pupil of mine cut her own throat!” Amys sighed; the glow around her vanished, and so did the barrier between Egwene and saidar. “I cannot shield you any longer. You are far stronger than I. In the One Power, you are. You very nearly battered down my shield. But if you cannot keep your word, I do not know that I want to instruct you.”
“I will keep my word, Amys. I promise I will. But I have to meet with my friends, in Tel’aran’rhiod. I promised them, too. Amys, they might need my help, my advice.” Amys’s face was not easy to make out in the darkness, but Egwene did not see any softening. “Please, Amys. You’ve taught me so much already. I think I could find them wherever they are, now. Please, don’t stop when there is so much yet for me to learn. Whatever you want me to do, I will.”
“Braid your hair,” Amys said in a flat tone.
“My hair?” Egwene said uncertainly. It would certainly be no inconvenience, but why? She wore it loose now, falling below her shoulders, yet it was not that long ago that she had almost burst with pride on the day the Women’s Circle back home had said she was old enough to put her hair in a braid like the one Nynaeve still wore. In the Two Rivers, a braid said you were old enough to be considered a woman.
“One over each ear.” Amys’s voice was still like a flat rock. “If you have no ribbon to twine in the braids, I will give you some. That is how little girls wear their hair among us. Girls too young to be held to their word. When you prove to me that you can keep yours, you can stop wearing it so. But if you lie to me again, I will make you cut your skirts off short, like little girls’ dresses, and find you a doll to carry. When you decide to behave as a woman, you will be treated as a woman. Agree to it, or I will teach you no more.”
“I will agree if you will accompany me when I must meet—”
“Agree, Aes Sedai! I do not bargain with children, or those who cannot keep their word. You will do as I say, accept what I choose to give, and no more. Or else go off and get yourself killed on your own. I—will—not—aid it!”
Egwene was glad of the dark; it hid her scowl. She had given her word, but this was all so unfair. No one was trying to hedge Rand around with silly rules. Well, perhaps he was different. She was not sure she wanted to trade Amys’s edicts for Couladin’s desiring to put a spear through her, in any case. Mat would certainly not put up with other people’s rules. Yet ta’veren or not, Mat had nothing to learn; all he had to do was be. Very likely he would refuse to learn anything given the chance, unless it had to do with gambling or raising food. She wanted to learn. Sometimes it seemed an unending thirst; however much she absorbed, she could not quench it. That still did not make it fair. Only the way things are, she thought ruefully.
“I agree,” she said. “I will do as you say, accept what you give, and no more.”
“Good.” After a long pause, as if waiting to see whether Egwene wanted to say more—she wisely held her tongue—Amys added, “I mean to be hard on you, Egwene, but not without purpose. That you think I have taught you much already only shows how little you knew to begin. You have a strong talent for the dream; very likely you will outstrip any of us by far, one day. But if you do not learn what I can teach you—what we four can all teach you—you will never develop that talent fully. It is most likely you will not live long enough to do so.”
“I will try, Amys.” She thought she managed a good approximation of meekness. Why did the woman not say what she wanted to hear? If Egwene could not go to Tel’aran’rhiod alone, then Amys had to come, too, when she next met Elayne. Or it might be Nynaeve, next time.
“Good. Do you have anything else to say?”
“No, Amys.”
The pause was longer this time; Egwene waited as patiently as she could, hands folded on her knees.
“So you can hold your demands inside when you wish,” Amys said at last, “even if it does make you twitch like a goat with the itch. Do I mistake the cause? I can give you an ointment. No? Very well. I will accompany you when you must meet your friends.”
“Thank you,” Egwene said primly. A goat with an itch indeed!
“In case you did not listen when I first told you, learning will be neither easy nor short. You think you have worked these last days. Prepare to give real time and effort now.”
“Amys, I will learn as much as you can teach me, and I will work as hard as you want, but between Rand and the Darkfriends … . Time to learn may turn out to be a luxury, and my purse empty.”
“I know,” Amys said wearily. “He troubles us already. Come. You have wasted enough time with your childishness. There is women’s business to be discussed. Come. The others are waiting.”
For the first time Egwene realized Moiraine’s blankets were empty. She reached for her dress, but Amys said, “That will not be needed. We only go a short way. Throw a blanket around your shoulders and come. I have done a great deal of work for Rand al’Thor already, and I must do more when we are finished.”
Shrugging a blanket around her doubtfully, Egwene followed the older woman into the night. It was cold. Skin turning to tight goose bumps, she hopped from bare foot to bare foot over stony ground that seemed little short of ice. After the heat of day, the night seemed as frigid as the heart of a Two Rivers winter. Her breath turned to thin mist in front of her mouth, absorbed immediately by the air. Cold or not, the air was still dry.
At the rear of the Wise Ones’ camp stood a small tent she had
not seen before, low like the others, but staked tightly down all around. To her surprise, Amys began stripping off her clothes, and motioned her to do the same. Clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering, she followed Amys’s example slowly. When the Aiel woman had shed down to her skin, she stood there just as if the night were not freezing, taking deep breaths and flailing herself with her arms before finally ducking inside. Egwene darted after her with alacrity.
Damp heat hit her like a stick between the eyes. Sweat popped out of every pore.
Moiraine was already there, and the other Wise Ones, and Aviendha, all bare-skinned and sweating, sitting around a large iron kettle full to the brim with sooty stones. Kettle and stones alike radiated heat. The Aes Sedai looked mostly recovered from her ordeal, though there was a tightness around her eyes that had not been there before.
As Egwene was gingerly finding a place to sit—no layered rugs here; only rocky ground—Aviendha scooped a handful of water from a smaller kettle at her side and tossed it into the larger one. The water hissed to steam, leaving not even a damp spot on the stones. Aviendha had a sour look on her face. Egwene knew how she felt. Novices in the Tower were also given chores; she was not sure if she had hated scrubbing floors more than pots or the other way around. This task did not look nearly so onerous.
“We must discuss what to do about Rand al’Thor,” Bair said when Amys was seated, too.
“Do about him?” Egwene said, alarmed. “He has the signs. He is the one you have been looking for.”
“He is the one,” Melaine said grimly, brushing long strands of red-gold hair from her damp face. “We must try to see that as many of our people as possible survive his coming.”
“Just as importantly,” Seana said, “we must assure that he survives to fulfill the rest of the prophecy.” Melaine glared at her, and Seana added in a patient tone, “Else none of us will survive.”
“Rhuarc said he would set some of the Jindo for bodyguards,” Egwene said slowly. “Has he changed his mind?”
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