At times, Asne wondered how much of Eldrith's apparent vagueness was real. No one so unaware of the world around her could have survived this long. On the other hand, she had been unfocused enough to let the masking slip more than once before they reached Samara, enough for her Warder to track her. Obedient to Moghedien's orders to await her return, they had hidden through the riots after her departure, waited while the so-called Prophet's mobs swept south into Amadicia, stayed in that wretched, ruined town even after Asne became convinced that Moghedien had abandoned them. Her lip curled at the memory. What had sparked the decision to leave was the arrival of Eldrith's Kennit in the town, sure that she was a murderer, half convinced she was Black Ajah, and determined to kill her no matter the consequences to himself. Not surprisingly, she had been unwilling to face those consequences herself, and refused to let anyone kill the man. The only alternative was to flee. Then again, Eldrith was the one who had pointed out Caemlyn as their only hope.
"Did you learn anything, Eldrith?" Asne asked politely. Chesmal was a fool. However tattered the world seemed at the moment, affairs would right themselves. One way or another.
"What? Oh. Only that the pepper sauce wasn't as good as I remembered. Of course, that was fifty years ago."
Asne suppressed a sigh. Perhaps after all it was time for Eldrith to have an accident.
The door opened and Temaile slipped into the room so silently they were all caught by surprise. The diminutive fox-faced Gray had tossed a robe embroidered with lions over her shoulders, but it gaped down the front, exposing a cream-colored silk nightdress that molded itself to her indecently. Draped over one hand she carried a bracelet made of twisted glass rings. They looked and felt like glass, at least, but a hammer could not have chipped one.
"You've been to Tel'aran'rhiod," Eldrith said, frowning at the ter'angreal. She did not speak forcefully, though. They were all a little afraid of Temaile since Moghedien had made them observe the last of Liandrin being broken. Asne had lost track of how often she had killed or tortured in the hundred and thirty-odd years since she gained the shawl, but she had seldom seen anyone so… enthusiastic… as Temaile. Watching Temaile and trying to pretend not to, Chesmal seemed unaware that she was licking her lips nervously. Asne hurriedly put her own tongue back behind her teeth and hoped no one had noticed. Eldrith certainly had not. "We agreed not to use those," she said, not very far short of pleading. "I'm certain it was Nynaeve who wounded Moghedien, and if she can best one of the Chosen in Tel'aran'rhiod, what chance do we have?" Rounding on the others, she attempted a scolding tone. "Did you two know about this?" She had managed to sound peevish.
Chesmal met Eldrith's stare indignantly, while Asne gave her surprised innocence. They had known, but who was going to stand in Temaile's way? She doubted very much that Eldrith would have made more than a token protest had she been there.
Temaile knew exactly her effect on them. She should have hung her head at Eldrith's lecture, fainthearted as it was, and apologized for going against her wishes. Instead, she smiled. That smile never reached her eyes, though, large and dark and much too bright. "You were right, Eldrith. Right that Elayne would come here, and right that Nynaeve would come with her, it seems. They were together, and it is clear they are both in the Palace."
"Yes," Eldrith said, squirming slightly under Temaile's gaze. "Well." And she licked her lips, and shifted her feet, too. "Even so, until we can see how to get at them past all those wilders—"
"They are wilders, Eldrith." Temaile threw herself down in a chair, limbs sprawling carelessly, and her tone hardened. Not enough to seem commanding, but still more than merely firm. "There are only three sisters to trouble us, and we can dispose of them. We can take Nynaeve, and perhaps Elayne in the bargain." Abruptly she leaned forward, hands on the arms of the chair. Disarrayed clothing or not, there was no shred of indolence about her now. Eldrith stepped back as though pushed by Temaile's eyes. "Else why are we here, Eldrith? It is what we came for."
No one had anything to say to that. Behind them lay a string of failures—in Tear, in Tanchico—that might well cost them their lives when the Supreme Council laid hands on them. But not if they had one of the Chosen for a patron, and if Moghedien had wanted Nynaeve so badly, perhaps another of them would, too. The real difficulty would be finding one of the Chosen to present with their gift. No one but Asne seemed to have considered that part of it.
"There were others, there," Temaile went on, leaning back once more. She sounded almost bored. "Spying on our two Accepted. A man who let them see him, and someone else I could not see." She pouted irritably. At least, it would have been a pout except for her eyes. "I had to stay behind a column so the girls would not see me. That should please you, Eldrith. That they did not see me. Are you pleased?"
Eldrith almost stammered getting out how pleased she was. Asne let herself feel her four Warders, coming ever closer. She had stopped masking herself when they left Samara. Only Powl was a Friend of the Dark, of course, yet the others would do whatever she said, believe whatever she told them. It would be necessary to keep them concealed from the others unless absolutely necessary, but she wanted armed men close at hand. Muscles and steel were very useful. And if worse came to worst, she could always reveal the long, fluted rod that Moghedien had not hidden so well as she thought she had.
The early-morning light in the sitting room's windows was gray, an earlier hour than the Lady Shiaine usually rose, but this morning she had been dressed while it was still full dark. The Lady Shiaine was how she thought of herself, now. Mili Skane, the saddler's daughter, was almost completely forgotten. In every way that mattered, she really was the Lady Shiaine Avarhin, and had been for years. Lord Willim Avarhin had been impoverished, reduced to living in a ramshackle farmhouse and unable to keep even that in good repair. He and his only daughter, the last of a declining line, had stayed in the country, far from anywhere their penury might be exposed, and now they were only bones buried in the forest near that farmhouse, and she was the Lady Shiaine, and if this tall, well-appointed stone house was not a manor, it still had been the property of a well-to-do merchant. She was long dead, too, after signing over her gold to her "heir." The furnishings were well made, the carpets costly, the tapestries and even the seat cushions embroidered with thread-of-gold, and the fire roared in a wide blue-veined marble fireplace. She had had the once-plain lintel carved with Avarhin's Heart and Hand row on row.
"More wine, girl," she said curtly, and Falion scurried with the tall-necked silver pitcher to refill her goblet with steaming spiced wine. The livery of a maid, with the Red Heart and Golden Hand on her breast, suited Falion. Her long face was a stiff mask as she hurried to replace the pitcher on the drawered highchest and take up her place beside the door.
"You play a dangerous game," Marillin Gemalphin said, rolling her own goblet between her palms. A skinny woman with lifeless pale brown hair, the Brown sister did not look an Aes Sedai. Her narrow face and wide nose would have fitted better above Falion's livery than it did above her fine blue wool, and that was suitable only for a middling merchant. "She is shielded somehow, I know, but when she can channel again, she will make you howl for this." Her thin lips quirked in a humorless smile. "You may find yourself wishing you could howl."
"Moridin chose this for her," Shiaine replied. "She failed in Ebou Dar, and he ordered her punished. I don't know the details and don't want to, but if Moridin wants her nose ground in the mud, I'll push it so deep she is breathing mud a year from now. Or do you suggest I disobey one of the Chosen?" She barely suppressed a shudder at the very thought. Marillin tried to hide her expression in drinking, but her eyes tightened. "What about you, Falion?" Shiaine asked. "Would you like me to ask Moridin to take you away? He might find you something less onerous." Mules might sing like nightingales, too.
Falion did not even hesitate. She bobbed a maid's straight-backed curtsy, her face going even paler than it already was. "No, mistress," she said hastily. "I am content with
my situation, mistress."
"You see?" Shiaine said to the other Aes Sedai. She doubted very much that Falion was anything approaching content, but the woman would accept whatever was handed out rather than face Moridin's displeasure directly. For the same reason, Shiaine would rule her with a very heavy hand. You never knew what one of the Chosen might learn of, and take amiss. She herself thought her own failure was buried deep, but she would take no chances. "When she can channel again, she won't have to be a maid all the time, Marillin." Anyway, Moridin had said Shiaine could kill her if she wished. There was always that, if her position began to chafe too much. He had said she could kill both sisters, if she wished.
"That's as may be," Marillin said darkly. She cast a sidelong glance at Falion and grimaced. "Now, Moghedien instructed me to offer you what assistance I thought I could give, but I'll tell you right now, I won't enter the Royal Palace. The whole city has too many sisters in it for my taste, but the Palace is stuffed with wilders on top. I wouldn't get ten feet without someone knowing I was there."
Sighing, Shiaine leaned back and crossed her legs, idly kicking a slippered foot. Why did people always think you did not know as much as they? The world was full of fools! "Moghedien ordered you to obey me, Marillin. I know, because Moridin told me. He did not say so right out, but I think when he snaps his fingers, Moghedien jumps." Talking about the Chosen this way was dangerous, but she had to make matters clear. "Do you want to tell me again what you won't do?"
The narrow-faced Aes Sedai licked her lips, darting another glance at Falion. Did the woman fear she would end up that way? Truth to tell, Shiaine would have traded Falion for a proper lady's maid in a heartbeat. Well, as long as she could retain her other services. Very likely, they both would have to die when this was finished. Shiaine did not like leaving loose ends.
"I wasn't lying about that," Marillin said slowly. "I really wouldn't get ten feet. But there's a woman already in the Palace. She can do what you need. It may take time to make contact, though."
"Just make sure it's not too long a time, Marillin." So. One of the sisters in the Palace was Black Ajah, was she? She would have to be Aes Sedai, not just a Darkfriend, to do what Shiaine needed.
The door opened, and Murellin looked in questioningly, his heavily muscled bulk almost filling the doorway. Beyond him, she could make out another man. At her nod, Murellin stepped aside and motioned Daved Hanlon to enter, closing the door behind him. Hanlon was swathed in a dark cloak, but he snaked out one hand to cup Falion's bottom through her dress. She glared at him bitterly, but did not move away. Hanlon was part of her punishment. Still, Shiaine had no wish to watch him fondle the woman.
"Do that later," she ordered. "Did it go well?" A broad smile split his axe-like face. "It went exactly as I planned it, of course." He threw one side of the dark cloak over his shoulder, revealing golden knots of rank on his red coat. "You are speaking to the Captain of the Queen's Bodyguard."
Chapter 11: Ideas of Importance
Without even taking a look, Rand stepped through the gateway into a large dark room. The strain of holding the weave, of fighting saidin, made him sway; he wanted to gag, to double over and spew up everything in him. Holding himself upright was an effort. A little light crept through cracks between the shutters on a few small windows set high in one wall, just enough to see by with the Power in him. Furniture and large cloth-covered shapes nearly filled the room, interspersed with wide barrels of the sort used to store crockery, chests of all shapes and sizes, boxes and crates and knickknacks. Little more than walkways a pace or two wide remained clear. He had been sure he would not find servants hunting for something, or cleaning up. The highest floor of the Royal Palace had several such storerooms, looking like the attics of huge farmhouses and just about forgotten. Besides, he was ta'veren, after all. A good thing no one had been there when the gateway opened. One edge of it had sliced the corner off an empty chest bound in cracked, rotting leather, and the other had taken a glass-smooth shaving down the length of a long, inlaid table stacked with vases and wooden boxes. Maybe some Queen of Andor had eaten at that table, a century or two gone.
A century or two, Lews Therin laughed thickly in his head. A very long time. For the love of the Light, let go! This is the Pit of Doom! The voice dwindled as the man fled into the recesses of Rand's mind.
For once, he had his own reasons to listen to Lews Therin's complaints. Hastily he motioned Min to follow him from the forest clearing on the other side of the gateway, and as soon as she did, he let it close behind her in a quick vertical slash of light by releasing saidin. Blessedly, the nausea went with it. His head still spun a little, but he did not feel as if he were going to vomit or fall over or both. The feel of filth remained, though, the Dark One's taint oozing into him from the weaves he had tied off around himself. Shifting the strap of his leather scrip from one shoulder to the other, he tried to use the motion to hide wiping sweat from his face with his sleeve. He did not have to worry about Min noticing after all, however.
Her blue, heeled boots stirred the dust on the floor at her first step, and her second made it rise. She pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from her coatsleeve just in time to catch a violent sneeze, followed by a second and third, each worse than the last. He wished she had been willing to stay in a dress. Embroidered white flowers decorated the sleeves and lapels of her blue coat, and paler blue breeches molded her legs snugly. With yellow-embroidered bright blue riding gloves tucked behind her belt, and a cloak edged with yellow scrollwork and held by a golden pin in the shape of a rose, she did look as if she had arrived by more normal means, but she would draw every eye. He was in coarse brown woolens any laborer might wear. Most places in the last few days, he had been blatant with his presence; this time he did not want just to be gone before anyone knew he had been here, he did not want anyone but a special few to ever know he had been.
"Why are you grinning at me and thumbing your ear like a loobie?" she demanded, stuffing the handkerchief back into her sleeve. Suspicion filled her big, dark eyes.
"I was just thinking how beautiful you are," he said quietly. She was. He could not look at her without thinking so. Or without regretting that he was too weak to send her away to safety.
She drew a deep breath, and sneezed before she could even clap a hand over her mouth, then glared at him as if it were somehow his fault. "I abandoned my horse for you, Rand al'Thor. I curled my hair for you. I gave up my life for you! I will not give up my coat and breeches! Besides, no one here has ever seen me in a dress for more time than it took me to change out of it. You know this won't work unless I'm recognized. You certainly can't pretend you wandered in off the street with that face."
Unthinking, he ran a hand across his jaw, feeling his own face, but that was not what Min saw. Anyone looking at him would see a man inches shorter and years older than Rand al'Thor, with lank black hair, dull brown eyes and a wart on his bulbous nose. Only someone who touched him could pierce the Mask of Mirrors. Even an Asha'man would not see it, with the weaves inverted. Though if there were Asha'man in the Palace, it might mean his plans had gone further awry than he believed. This visit could not, must not, come to killing. In any case, she was right; it was not a face that would have been allowed into the Royal Palace of Andor unescorted.
"As long as we can finish this and be gone quickly," he said. "Before anyone has time to think that if you're here, maybe I am, too."
"Rand," she said, her voice soft, and he eyed her warily. Resting a hand on his chest, she looked up at him with a serious expression. "Rand, you really need to see Elayne. And Aviendha, I suppose; you know she's probably here, too. If you—"
He shook his head, and wished he had not. The dizziness had still not gone completely. "No!" he said curtly. Light! No matter what Min said, he just could not believe that Elayne and Aviendha both loved him. Or that the fact they did, if it was a fact, did not upset her. Women were not that strange! Elayne and Aviendha had reason to hate him, not love him, a
nd Elayne, at least, had made herself clear. Worse, he was in love with both of them, as well as with Min! He had to be as hard as steel, but he thought he might shatter if he had to face all three at once. "We find Nynaeve and Mat, and go, as fast as we can." She opened her mouth, but he gave her no chance to speak. "Don't argue with me, Min. This is no time for it!"
Tilting her head to one side, Min put on a small, amused smile. "When do I ever argue with you? Don't I always do exactly as you tell me?" If that lie were not bad enough, she added, "I was going to say, if you want to hurry, why are we standing in this dusty storeroom all day?" For punctuation, she sneezed again.
She was the least likely to cause comment, even dressed as she was, so she put her head out of the room first. Apparently the storeroom was not entirely forgotten; the heavy door's hinges barely creaked. A quick look both ways, and she hurried out, gesturing him to follow. Ta'veren or no, he was relieved to find the long corridor empty. The most timid servant might have wondered at seeing them emerge from a storeroom in the upper reaches of the Palace. Still, they would encounter people soon enough. The Royal Palace did not run as heavily to servants as the Sun Palace or the Stone of Tear, but there were still hundreds of them in a place this size. Walking along beside Min, he tried to shamble and gawk at bright tapestries and carved wall panels and polished highchests. None were so fine this high as they would be lower down, but a common workman would gawk.
"We need to get down to a lower floor as fast as we can," he murmured. There was still no one in sight, but there might be ten people around the next corner. "Remember, just ask the first servant we see where to find Nynaeve and Mat. Don't elaborate unless you have to."
"Why, thank you for reminding me, Rand. I knew something had slipped my mind, and I just couldn't imagine what." Her brief smile was much too tight, and she muttered something under her breath.
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