Another time, Egwene would have laughed at the idea of Nynaeve pretending to be humble. Even Elayne managed a better job of it. But at present she did not feel like laughing. “And if Hurin is right? If we are attacked? He cannot defend us against twenty or thirty men, and we might be dead if we wait for Verin to do something. You said you sense a storm, Nynaeve.”
“You do?” Elayne said. Red-gold curls swung as she shook her head. “Verin will not like it if we. . . .” She trailed off. “Whatever Verin likes or doesn’t like, we may have to.”
“I will do what must be done,” Nynaeve said sharply, “if there is anything to be done, and you two will run, if need be. The White Tower may be all abuzz with your potential, but don’t think they will not still you both if the Amyrlin Seat or the Hall of the Tower decides it is necessary.”
Elayne swallowed hard. “If they would still us for it,” she said in a faint voice, “they would still you, too. We should all run together; or act together. Hurin has been right before. If we want to live to be in trouble in the Tower, we may have to . . . to do what we must.”
Egwene shivered. Stilled. Cut off from saidar, the female half of the True Source. Few Aes Sedai had ever incurred that penalty, yet there were deeds for which the Tower demanded stilling. Novices were required to learn the names of every Aes Sedai who had ever been stilled, and their crimes.
She could always feel the Source there, now, just out of sight, like the sun at noon over her shoulder. If she often caught nothing when she tried to touch saidar, she still wanted to touch it. The more she touched it, the more she wanted to, all the time, no matter what Sheriam Sedai, the Mistress of Novices, said about the dangers of growing too fond of the feel of the One Power. To be cut off from it; still able to sense saidar, but never to touch it again. . . .
Neither of the others seemed to want to talk, either.
To cover her shaking, she bent from her saddle to the gently swaying litter. Mat’s blankets had become disarrayed, exposing a curved dagger in a golden sheath clutched in one hand, a ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg capping the hilt. Careful not to touch the dagger, she eased the blankets back over his hand. He was only a few years older than she, but gaunt cheeks and sallow skin had aged him. His chest barely moved as he breathed hoarsely. A lumpy leather sack lay at his feet. She shifted the blanket to cover that, too. We have to get Mat to the Tower, she thought. And the sack.
Nynaeve leaned down as well, and felt Mat’s forehead. “His fever is worse.” She sounded worried. “If only I had some worrynot root or feverbane.”
“Perhaps if Verin tried Healing again,” Elayne said.
Nynaeve shook her head. She smoothed Mat’s hair back and sighed, then straightened before speaking. “She says it is all she can do to keep him alive, now, and I believe her. I—I tried Healing last night myself, but nothing happened.”
Elayne gasped. “Sheriam Sedai says we mustn’t try to Heal until we’ve been guided step by step a hundred times.”
“You could have killed him,” Egwene said sharply.
Nynaeve sniffed loudly. “I was Healing before I ever thought of going to Tar Valon, even if I didn’t know I was. But it seems I need my medicines to make it work for me. If I only had some feverbane. I do not think he has much time left. Hours, maybe.”
Egwene thought she sounded almost as unhappy about knowing, about how she knew, as she did about Mat. She wondered again why Nynaeve had chosen to go to Tar Valon for training at all. She had learned to channel unknowingly, even if she could not always control the act, and had passed the crisis that killed three out of four women who learned without Aes Sedai guidance. Nynaeve said she wanted to learn more, but often she was as reluctant about it as a child being dosed with sheepstongue root.
“We will have him in the White Tower soon,” Egwene said. “They can Heal him there. The Amyrlin will take care of him. She will take care of everything.” She did not look at where Mat’s blanket covered the sack at his feet. The other two women were studiously not looking at it, either. There were some secrets they would all be relieved to shed.
“Riders,” Nynaeve said suddenly, but Egwene had already seen them. Two dozen men appearing over a low rise ahead, white cloaks flapping as they galloped, angling toward them.
“Children of the Light,” Elayne said, like a curse. “I think we have found your storm, and Hurin’s trouble.”
Verin had pulled up, a hand on Hurin’s arm to stop him drawing his sword. Egwene touched the lead litter horse to stop it just behind the plump Aes Sedai.
“Let me do all the talking, children,” the Aes Sedai said placidly, pushing her cowl back to reveal gray in her hair. Egwene was not sure how old Verin was; she thought old enough to be a grandmother, but the gray streaks were the Aes Sedai’s only signs of age. “And whatever you do, do not allow them to make you angry.”
Verin’s face was as calm as her voice, but Egwene thought she saw the Aes Sedai measuring the distance to Tar Valon. The tops of the towers were visible now, and a high bridge arching over the river to the island, tall enough for the trading ships that plied the river to sail beneath.
Close enough to see, Egwene thought, but too far to do any good.
For a moment she was sure the oncoming Whitecloaks meant to charge them, but their leader raised a hand and they abruptly drew rein a scant forty paces off, scattering dust and dirt ahead of them.
Nynaeve muttered angrily under her breath, and Elayne sat straight and full of pride, appearing likely to berate the Whitecloaks for ill manners. Hurin still had a grip on his sword hilt; he looked ready to put himself between the women and the Whitecloaks no matter what Verin said. Verin mildly waved a hand in front of her face to dispel the dust. The white-cloaked riders spread out in an arc, blocking the way firmly.
Their breastplates and conical helmets shone from polishing, and even the mail on their arms gleamed brightly. Each man had the flaring, golden sun on his breast. Some fitted arrows to bows, which they did not raise, but held ready. Their leader was a young man, yet he wore two golden knots of rank beneath the sunburst on his cloak.
“Two Tar Valon witches, unless I miss my guess, yes?” he said with a tight smile that pinched his narrow face. Arrogance brightened his eyes, as if he knew some truth others were too stupid to see. “And two nits, and a pair of lapdogs, one sick and one old.” Hurin bristled, but Verin’s hand restrained him. “Where do you come from?” the Whitecloak demanded.
“We come from the west,” Verin said placidly. “Move out of our way, and let us continue. The Children of the Light have no authority here.”
“The Children have authority wherever the Light is, witch, and where the Light is not, we bring it. Answer my questions! Or must I take you to our camp and let the Questioners ask?”
Mat could not afford any more delay in reaching help in the White Tower. And more importantly—Egwene winced to think of it that way—more importantly, they could not let the contents of that sack fall into Whitecloak hands.
“I have answered you,” Verin said, still calm, “and more politely than you deserve. Do you really believe you can stop us?” Some of the Whitecloaks raised their bows as if she had uttered a threat, but she went on, her voice never rising. “In some lands you may hold sway by your threats, but not here, in sight of Tar Valon. Can you truly believe that in this place, you will be allowed to carry off Aes Sedai?”
The officer shifted uneasily in his saddle, as though suddenly doubting whether he could back up his words. Then he glanced back at his men—either to remind himself of their support or because he had remembered they were watching—and with that he took himself in hand. “I have no fear of your Darkfriend ways, witch. Answer me, or answer the Questioners.” He did not sound as forceful as he had.
Verin opened her mouth as if for idle conversation, but before she could speak, Elayne jumped in, voice ringing with command. “I am Elayne, Daughter-Heir of Andor. If you do not move aside at once, you will have Queen Morgase to an
swer to, Whitecloak!” Verin hissed with vexation.
The Whitecloak looked taken aback for an instant, but then he laughed. “You think it so, yes? Perhaps you will discover Morgase no longer has so much love for witches, girl. If I take you from them and return you to her side, she will thank me for it. Lord Captain Eamon Valda would like very much to speak to you, Daughter-Heir of Andor.” He raised a hand, whether to gesture or signal his men, Egwene could not say. Some of the Whitecloaks gathered their reins.
There’s no more time to wait, Egwene thought. I will not be chained again! She opened herself to the One Power. It was a simple exercise, and after long practice, it went much more swiftly than the first time she had tried. In a heartbeat her mind emptied of everything, everything but a single rosebud, floating in emptiness. She was the rosebud, opening to the light, opening to saidar, the female half of the True Source. The Power flooded her, threatening to sweep her away. It was like being filled with light, with the Light, like being one with the Light, a glorious ecstasy. She fought to keep from being overwhelmed, and focused on the ground in front of the Whitecloak officer’s horse. A small patch of ground; she did not want to kill anyone. You will not take me!
The man’s hand was still going up. With a roar the ground in front of him erupted in a narrow fountain of dirt and rocks higher than his head. Screaming, his horse reared, and he rolled out of his saddle like a sack.
Before he hit the ground, Egwene shifted her focus closer to the other Whitecloaks, and the ground threw up another small explosion. Bela danced sideways, but she controlled the mare with reins and knees without even thinking of it. Wrapped inside emptiness, she was still surprised at a third eruption, not of her making, and a fourth. Distantly, she was aware of Nynaeve and Elayne, both enveloped in the glow that said they, too, had embraced saidar, had been embraced by it. That aura would not be visible to any but another woman who could channel, but the results were visible to all. Explosions harried the Whitecloaks on every side, showering them with dirt, shaking them with noise, sending their horses plunging wildly.
Hurin stared around him, mouth open and obviously as frightened as the Whitecloaks, as he tried to keep the litter horses and his own mount from bolting. Verin was wide-eyed with astonishment and anger. Her mouth worked furiously, but whatever she might be saying was lost in the thunder.
And then the Whitecloaks were running away, some dropping their bows in panic, galloping as if the Dark One himself were at their backs. All but the young officer, who was picking himself up off the ground. Shoulders hunched, he stared at Verin, the whites of his eyes showing all the way ’round. Dust stained his fine white cloak, and his face, but he did not seem to notice. “Kill me, then, witch,” he said shakily. “Go ahead. Kill me, as you killed my father!”
The Aes Sedai ignored him. Her attention was all on her companions. As if they, too, had forgotten their officer, the fleeing Whitecloaks vanished over the same rise where they had first appeared, all in a body and none looking back. The officer’s horse ran with them.
Under Verin’s furious gaze, Egwene let go of saidar, slowly, unwillingly. It was always hard, letting go. Even more slowly, the glow around Nynaeve vanished. Nynaeve was frowning hard at the pinch-faced Whitecloak before them, as if he might still be capable of some sort of trickery. Elayne looked shocked by what she had done.
“What you have done,” Verin began, then stopped to take a deep breath. Her stare took in all three of the younger women. “What you have done is an abomination. An abomination! An Aes Sedai does not use the Power as a weapon except against Shadowspawn, or in the last extreme to defend her life. The Three Oaths—”
“They were ready to kill us,” Nynaeve broke in heatedly. “Kill us, or carry us off to be tortured. He was giving the order.”
“It . . . it was not really using the Power as a weapon, Verin Sedai.” Elayne held her chin high, but her voice shook. “We did not hurt anyone, or even try to hurt anyone. Surely—”
“Do not split hairs with me!” Verin snapped. “When you become full Aes Sedai—if you ever become full Aes Sedai!—you will be bound to obey the Three Oaths, but even novices are expected to do their best to live as if already bound.”
“What about him?” Nynaeve gestured to the Whitecloak officer, still standing there and looking stunned. Her face was as tight as a drum; she seemed almost as angry as the Aes Sedai. “He was about to take us prisoner. Mat will die if he doesn’t reach the Tower soon, and . . . and. . . .”
Egwene knew what Nynaeve was struggling not to say aloud. And we can’t let that sack fall into any hands but the Amyrlin’s.
Verin regarded the Whitecloak wearily. “He was only trying to bully us, child. He knew very well he could not make us go where we did not want, not without more trouble than he was willing to accept. Not here, not in sight of Tar Valon. I could have talked us past him, with a little time and a little patience. Oh, he might well have tried to kill us if he could have done it from hiding, but no Whitecloak with the brains of a goat will try harming an Aes Sedai who knows he is there. See what you have done! What stories will those men tell, and what harm will it do?”
The officer’s face had reddened when she mentioned hiding. “It is no cowardice not to charge the powers that Broke the World,” he burst out. “You witches want to Break the World again, in the service of the Dark One!” Verin shook her head in tired disbelief.
Egwene wished she could mend some of the damage she had done. “I am very sorry for what I did,” she told the officer. She was glad she was not bound to speak no word that was not true, as full Aes Sedai were, because what she had said was only half true at best. “I should not have, and I apologize. I am sure Verin Sedai will Heal your bruises.” He stepped back as if she had offered to have him skinned alive, and Verin sniffed loudly. “We have come a long way,” Egwene went on, “all the way from Toman Head, and if I weren’t so tired, I would never have—”
“Be quiet, girl!” Verin shouted at the same time the Whitecloak snarled, “Toman Head? Falme! You were at Falme!” He stumbled back another step and half drew his sword. From the look on his face, Egwene did not know whether he meant to attack, or to defend himself. Hurin moved his horse closer to the Whitecloak, a hand on his sword-breaker, but the narrow-faced man went on in a rant, spittle flying with his fury. “My father died at Falme! Byar told me! You witches killed him for your false Dragon! I’ll see you dead for it! I will see you burn!”
“Impetuous children,” Verin sighed. “Almost as bad as boys for letting your mouths run away with you. Go with the Light, my son,” she told the Whitecloak.
Without another word, she guided them around the man, but his shouts followed after. “My name is Dain Bornhald! Remember it, Darkfriends! I will make you fear my name! Remember my name!”
As Bornhald’s shouts faded behind them, they rode in silence for a time. Finally, Egwene said to no one in particular, “I was only trying to make things better.”
“Better!” Verin muttered. “You must learn there is a time to speak all of the truth, and a time to govern your tongue. The least of the lessons you must learn, but important, if you mean to live long enough to wear the shawl of a full sister. Did it never occur to you that word of Falme might have come ahead of us?”
“Why should it have occurred to her?” Nynaeve asked. “No one we’ve met before this had heard more than rumors, if that, and we have outrun even rumor in the last month.”
“And all word has to come along the same roads we used?” Verin replied. “We have moved slowly. Rumor takes wing along a hundred paths. Always plan for the worst, child; that way, all your surprises will be pleasant ones.”
“What did he mean about my mother?” Elayne said suddenly. “He must have been lying. She would never turn against Tar Valon.”
“The Queens of Andor have always been friends to Tar Valon, but all things change.” Verin’s face was calm again, yet there was a tightness in her voice. She turned in her saddle to look over
them, the three young women, Hurin, Mat in the litter. “The world is strange, and all things change.” They capped the ridge; a village was in sight ahead of them now, yellow tile roofs clustered around the great bridge that led to Tar Valon. “Now you must truly be on your guard,” Verin told them. “Now the real danger begins.”
CHAPTER
11
Tar Valon
The small village of Darein had lain beside the River Erinin almost as long as Tar Valon had occupied its island. Darein’s small, red and brown brick houses and shops, its stone-paved streets, gave a feel of permanence, but the village had been burned in the Trolloc Wars, sacked when Artur Hawkwing’s armies besieged Tar Valon, looted more than once during the War of the Hundred Years, and put to the torch again in the Aiel War, not quite twenty years before. An unquiet history for a little village, but Darein’s place, at the foot of one of the bridges leading out to Tar Valon, ensured it would always be rebuilt, however many times it was destroyed. So long as Tar Valon stood, at least.
At first it seemed to Egwene that Darein was expecting war again. A square of pikemen marched along the streets, ranks and files bristling like a carding comb, followed by bowmen in flat, rimmed helmets, with filled quivers riding at their hips and bows slanted across their chests. A squadron of armored horsemen, faces hidden behind the steel bars of their helmets, gave way to Verin and her party at a wave of their officer’s gauntleted hand. All wore the White Flame of Tar Valon, like a snowy teardrop, on their breasts.
Yet townspeople went about their business with apparent unconcern, the market throng dividing around the soldiers as if marching men were obstructions they were long used to. A few men and women carrying trays of fruit kept pace with the soldiers, trying to interest them in wrinkled apples and pears pulled from winter cellars, but aside from those few, shopkeepers and hawkers alike paid the soldiers no mind. Verin seemingly ignored them, too, as she led Egwene and the others through the village to the great bridge, arching over half a mile or more of water like lace woven from stone.
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