The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  Nynaeve realized she was plucking at her skirts, and stilled her hands. Somehow, they had to find out what Elaida wanted—and more importantly, the Hall’s answer. They had to. Somehow.

  “I have to go,” Elayne sighed. “I must show some more sisters how I make ter’angreal.” Very few Aes Sedai in Salidar showed the knack, but they all wanted to learn, and most seemed to think they could, once they made Elayne demonstrate often enough. “You might as well take this,” she added, unfastening the bracelet. “I want to try something new in the making after the sisters are done with me, and then I have a novice class.” She did not sound happy about that either, not the way she had before the first time. After every class, she came back so full of irritation she bristled like a cat. The youngest girls were overeager, leaping ahead to things they had no idea how to handle, often without asking first, and the oldest, although a little more cautious, were much more likely to argue, or plain balk at an order from a woman six or seven years their junior. Elayne had taken to muttering “fool novices” and “headstrong idiots” like an Accepted of ten years. “You can have time for questions. Maybe you’ll have more luck with how to detect a man than I have.”

  Nynaeve shook her head. “I’m supposed to help Janya and Delana with their notes this morning.” She could not help grimacing. Delana was a Sitter for the Gray Ajah as Janya was for the Brown, but Nynaeve would get no glimmer of anything from them. “And then I have another lesson from Theodrin.” Another waste of time. Everybody in Salidar was wasting time. “Wear it,” she said as Elayne started to hang the bracelet on a wall peg with their clothes.

  The golden-haired woman gave an affected sigh, but refastened the bracelet. In Nynaeve’s opinion, Elayne was entirely too trusting of the a’dam. True, so long as the necklace remained on Moghedien’s neck, any woman able to channel could find her with the bracelet, and control her. If no one wore the bracelet, she could not move more than a dozen paces from it without falling to her knees retching, and the same if she shifted the bracelet more than a few inches from where it had been left, or tried to unfasten the necklace herself. Maybe it would hold her even on the peg, but maybe one of the Forsaken could reason a way around that, given enough chances. Once, in Tanchico, Nynaeve had left Moghedien shielded and bound with the Power, for just a few moments, and she managed to escape. The how of that had been one of the first things Nynaeve questioned her about once she was captured again, though prying out an answer almost required wringing her neck. A tied-off shield was vulnerable, it seemed, if the woman shielded had a little time and patience. Elayne insisted that would not work against the a’dam—there was no knot to attack, and with the necklace around her neck Moghedien could not even try to touch saidar without permission—but Nynaeve preferred taking no chances.

  “Do your copying slowly,” Elayne said. “I’ve copied for Delana before. She hates blots or mistakes. She’ll make you do it over fifty times to get a clean page if need be.”

  Nynaeve scowled. Her own hand might not be as clean and delicate as Elayne’s, but she was not some lout who had just learned which end of the pen to dip in the ink. The younger woman took no notice, simply slipped out of the room with a final smile. Maybe she had only meant to be helpful. If the Aes Sedai ever learned how much Nynaeve hated copying, they would start assigning it to her for punishment.

  “Perhaps you ought to go to al’Thor,” Moghedien said abruptly. She was sitting differently, straighter. Her dark eyes held steady on Nynaeve’s. Why?

  “What do you mean?” Nynaeve demanded.

  “You and Elayne should go to Caemlyn, to Rand, She can be queen, and you. . . .” Moghedien’s smile was not at all pleasant. “Sooner or later, they will sit you down and dig for how you can make all these marvelous discoveries yet quake like a girl caught with stolen sweets when you try to channel for them.”

  “I do not—!” She was not going to explain herself, not to this woman. Why was Moghedien so forward all of a sudden? “Just you remember, whatever happens to me if they find out the truth, your head will be on the chopping block before the week is done.”

  “Whereas you will have much longer to suffer. Semirhage once made a man scream his every waking hour for five years. She even kept him sane, but in the end even she could not keep his heart beating. I doubt any of these children have a tenth of Semirhage’s skill, but you may find out firsthand how much they do have.”

  How could the woman be saying this? Her normal cringing anxiety had been shed like a snake skin. They could have been two equals discussing something of casual interest. No, worse. Moghedien’s attitude said it was of casual interest to her, but dire to Nynaeve. Nynaeve wished she had the bracelet. It would have been a comfort. Moghedien’s emotions could not possibly be as cool and calm as her face, and her voice.

  Nynaeve’s breath caught. The bracelet. That was it. The bracelet was not in the room. A ball of ice formed in the pit of her stomach; the sweat suddenly seemed to roll more heavily down her face. Logically, whether the bracelet was there or not made no difference. Elayne had it on—Please, Light, don’t let her have taken it off!—and the other half of the a’dam was firmly around Moghedien’s neck. Only, logic had nothing to do with it. Nynaeve had never been alone with the Woman without the bracelet there. Or rather, the only times she had had ended in near total disaster. Moghedien had not been wearing the a’dam then, but that made no difference either. She was one of the Forsaken, they were alone, and Nynaeve had no way to control her. She gripped her skirts to keep from gripping her belt knife.

  Moghedien’s smile deepened, as if she had read her thoughts. “In this, you can be sure I have your best interests at heart. This,” her hand hovered near the necklace for a moment, carefully not touching it, “will hold me in Caemlyn as well as here. Slavery there is better than death here. But don’t take too long to decide. If these so-called Aes Sedai resolve to return to the Tower, what better gift to take the new Amyrlin Seat than you, a woman so close to Rand al’Thor? And Elayne. If he feels for her half what she does for him, holding her will tie a cord to him he’ll never be able to cut.”

  Nynaeve stood, forcing her knees straight. “You can make the beds and clean the room, now. I expect to find it spotless when I return.”

  “How much time do you have?” Moghedien said before she reached the door. The woman could have been asking whether the water was hot for tea. “A few more days at most before they send their answer back to Tar Valon? A few hours? How will they balance Rand al’Thor, and even Elaida’s supposed crimes, against making their precious White Tower whole again?”

  “Pay special attention to the chamber pots,” Nynaeve said without turning around. “I want them clean this time.” She left before Moghedien could say anything else, shutting the door behind her firmly.

  She leaned back against the rough wooden planks, breathing deeply in the cramped windowless hallway. Dipping into her belt pouch, she plucked out a small sack and popped two frilly goosemint leaves into her mouth. Goosemint took time to soothe a burning belly, but she chewed and swallowed as though haste could make it work faster. The last few moments had been one blow after another as Moghedien shattered one thing after another that she had known. Even with all her distrust, she had believed the woman cowed. False. Oh, Light, false. She had been sure Moghedien knew almost as little about Elayne and Rand as the Aes Sedai did. False. And for her to suggest going to him. . . . They had talked too freely in front of her. What else had they let slip, and what use could Moghedien make of it?

  Another Accepted entered the dim hall from the small house’s front room, and Nynaeve straightened, tucking the goosemint away and smoothing her dress. Every room but the front one had been made into sleeping quarters, and Accepted and servants filled them, three or four to a room not much larger than the one behind her and sometimes two to a bed. The other Accepted was a slight woman, almost wispy, with gray eyes and a quick grin. An Illianer, Emara did not like Siuan or Leane, which Nynaeve found easy to und
erstand, and thought they should be sent away—decently, as she put it—the way stilled women always had been, but aside from that she was pleasant, not even resenting Elayne and Nynaeve’s “extra space” or “Marigan” doing their chores. No few did.

  “I hear you do be copying for Janya and Delana,” she said in her high-pitched voice, brushing past toward her own room. “Take my advice, and write as fast you can. Janya does care more for getting all her words down than for a few smudges.”

  Nynaeve glared at Emara’s back. Write slow for Delana. Write fast for Janya. A fine lot of counsel that added up to. In any case, she could not make herself worry about blotting copy now. Or even about Moghedien, until she had a chance to talk it over with Elayne.

  Shaking her head and muttering under her breath, she stalked outside. Maybe she had been taking things for granted, letting things slip, but it was time to give herself a good shake and stop it. She knew who she had to find.

  In the last few days a quiet had settled over Salidar, although the streets were just as crowded. For one thing, the forges outside the village were silent. Everyone had been told to guard their tongues while Tarna was there, about the embassy on its way to Caemlyn, about Logain, who was safely tucked away in one of the soldiers’ camps, even about the soldiers themselves, and why they had been gathered. It left most fearful of saying anything at all above a whisper. The low buzz of talk had an anxious note.

  Everyone was affected. Servants who normally hurried now moved hesitantly, casting fearful glances over their shoulders. Even Aes Sedai seemed wary beneath their calm, eyeing each other in a calculating manner. There were few soldiers in the streets now, as though Tarna had not seen her fill the first day and come to her own conclusions. The wrong answer to the Hall would put nooses around all their necks; even rulers and nobles who wanted to stand aside from the Tower troubles would likely hang any soldiers they laid hands on, just to keep the notion of rebellion from spreading. Feeling the uncertainty, those few wore carefully blank faces or anxious frowns. Except for Gareth Bryne, waiting patiently in front of the Little Tower. He had been there every day, from before the Sitters arrived until they left. She thought he wanted to make sure they remembered him, and what he was doing for them. The one time she had seen the Sitters coming out, they had not appeared pleased to see him.

  Only the Warders seemed no different for the Red sister’s arrival. The Warders and the children. Nynaeve gave a start when three small girls burst up in front of her like quail, ribbons in their hair, sweaty, dusty and laughing as they ran. The children did not know what Salidar waited for, and likely would not understand if they did know. Each Warder would follow his Aes Sedai, whatever she decided and wherever she went, and never turn a hair.

  Most of the muted talk seemed to be about the weather. That and tales from elsewhere about strange happenings, two-headed calves talking and men smothered by swarms of flies, all the children in a village disappearing in the middle of the night and people struck dead by something unseen in broad daylight. Anyone who could think clearly knew that the drought and unseasonable heat were the Dark One’s hand touching the world, but even most Aes Sedai doubted Elayne and Nynaeve’s claims that the other happenings were as real, that bubbles of evil were rising from the Dark One’s prison as the seals weakened, rising and drifting along the Pattern till they burst. Most people could not think clearly. Some blamed it all on Rand. Some said the Creator was displeased that the world had not gathered behind the Dragon Reborn, or displeased that the Aes Sedai had not captured and gentled him, or displeased that Aes Sedai were opposing a seated Amyrlin. Nynaeve had heard people say the weather would come right as soon as the Tower was whole again. She pushed through the crowd.

  “. . . swear it’s true!” murmured a cook all flour to her elbows. “There’s a Whitecloak army massed the other side of the Eldar, just waiting word from Elaida to attack.” Aside from the weather and two-headed calves, tales of Whitecloaks outnumbered every other sort, but Whitecloaks waiting orders from Elaida? The heat had melted the woman’s brains!

  “The Light stand witness, it’s true,” a grizzled carter muttered to a frowning woman whose well-cut wool dress marked her an Aes Sedai’s maid. “Elaida’s dead. The Red’s come to summon Sheriam to be the new Amyrlin.” The woman nodded, accepting every word of it.

  “I say Elaida’s a fine Amyrlin,” one rough-coated man said, shifting a bundle of fagots on his shoulder. “As fine as any.” He did not murmur to his companion. He spoke loudly, trying hard not to look around to see who had heard him.

  Nynaeve’s mouth twisted sourly. He wanted to be overheard. How had Elaida discovered Salidar so quickly? Tarna must have left Tar Valon soon after Aes Sedai began gathering in the village. Siuan had pointed out darkly that a goodly number of Blue sisters were still missing—the original message to gather in Salidar had been aimed at Blues—and Alviarin was accomplished at applying the question. A stomach-turning thought, but not as wrenching as the most common explanation: secret supporters of Elaida here in Salidar. Everybody looked sideways at everybody else, and the woodman was not the first Nynaeve had heard say much the same, in the same manner. Aes Sedai might not say it, but Nynaeve suspected some wanted to. It all stirred Salidar into a stew, and not a tasty one. It made what she was doing even more right.

  Finding who she sought took time. She needed groups of children playing, and there were not many children in Salidar. Sure enough, Birgitte was watching five boys scramble about the street throwing a small bag of pebbles at each other, all laughing uproariously whenever one of them was hit, including the one hit. It made no more sense than most boys’ games. Or men’s.

  Birgitte was not alone, of course. She seldom was unless she made an effort to be. Areina stood at her shoulder, dabbing at the perspiration streaming down her face and trying not to show boredom with the children. A year or two younger than Nynaeve, Areina wore her dark hair in a braid patterned after Birgitte’s golden one, though still little below her shoulders; Birgitte’s hung properly to the waist. Her clothes copied Birgitte, too, a waist-length coat of pale gray and voluminous bronze-colored trousers, gathered at the ankle above short boots with raised heels, as did the bow she carried and the quiver at her waist. Nynaeve did not think Areina had ever held a bow before meeting Birgitte. She ignored the woman.

  “I need to talk to you,” she told Birgitte. “Alone.”

  Areina glanced at her, blue eyes close to contempt. “I’d think you’d be wearing your shawl this fine day, Nynaeve. Oh, my. You seem to be sweating like a horse. Why is that?”

  Nynaeve’s face tightened. She had befriended the woman before Birgitte had, but the friendship melted on reaching Salidar. Learning that Nynaeve was not full Aes Sedai brought something more than disappointment. Only a request from Birgitte had held Areina back from informing the Aes Sedai that she had masqueraded as one. Besides, Areina had taken the oaths as a Hunter for the Horn, and Birgitte was certainly a better model for that life than Nynaeve. To think she had once pitied the woman her bruises!

  “From your face,” Birgitte said with a sweaty grin, “either you’re ready to strangle somebody—probably Areina here—or else your dress fell off in the middle of a pack of soldiers and you weren’t wearing a shift.” Areina snorted a laugh, but she looked shocked. Why she should, Nynaeve did not know; the woman had had plenty of time to become used to Birgitte’s so-called sense of humor, more suited as it was to some unshaven man with his nose in a mug and his belly full of ale.

  Nynaeve studied the boys’ play for a minute to give her irritation a chance to die down. Worse than useless to let herself get angry when she had a favor to ask.

  Seve and Jaril were among the boys dodging and tossing the bag. The Yellows had been right about them; time was what they had needed. After close to two months in Salidar with other children and no fear, they laughed and shouted as loudly as the rest.

  A sudden thought hit her like a hammer. “Marigan” still looked after them, i
f grudgingly, saw that they were bathed and fed, but now that they were talking again, at any time they might tell that the woman was not their mother. Perhaps they already had. That might not cause questions, but then again it might, and questions could bring the house of twigs they had built tumbling down on their heads. The ball of ice reappeared in the pit of Nynaeve’s belly. Why had she not thought of this before?

  She gave a start as Birgitte touched her arm. “What is wrong, Nynaeve? You look as though your best friend died and cursed you with her last breath.”

  Areina was striding away, stiff-backed, casting one look over her shoulder at them. The woman could watch Birgitte drink and flirt with men without turning a hair, and even try to emulate her, yet she bristled every time Birgitte wanted to be alone with Elayne or Nynaeve. Men were no threat; only women could be friends in Areina’s book, but only she could be Birgitte’s friend. The idea of having two friends seemed foreign to her. Well, enough and be done with her.

  “Could you get horses for us?” Nynaeve tried to steady her voice. That was not what she had come to ask, but Seve and Jaril made it an excellent question. “How long will it take?”

  Birgitte drew her out of the street, to the mouth of a narrow alley between two weathered houses, and looked around carefully before answering. No one was close enough to overhear, or pay them any mind. “A day or two. Uno was just telling me—”

  “Not Uno! We will leave him out of this. Just you, me, Elayne and Marigan. Unless Thom and Juilin return in time. And Areina, I suppose, if you insist.”

  “Areina’s a fool some ways,” Birgitte said slowly, “but life will wring that out of her, or wring her out. You know I’d never insist on her going along if you and Elayne don’t want her.”