The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  She had reached the edge of the tents. The encampment sprawled over miles, covering the hills east of the city whether treed or not. Aiel moved among the low tents, but only a handful of gai’shain nearby. None of the Wise Ones were in sight. She had broken a promise to them. To Amys, really, but to all of them. Necessity seemed an increasingly thin reed to support her deception.

  “Join us, Egwene,” a woman’s voice called. Even with her head covered, Egwene was not hard to pick out unless surrounded by girls not yet full grown. Surandha, Sorilea’s apprentice, had poked her dark golden head out of a tent and was waving to her. “The Wise Ones are meeting back among the tents, all of them, and they’ve given us all the day for ourselves. The entire day.” That was a luxury seldom offered, and not one Egwene would pass up.

  Inside, women lay sprawled on cushions reading by oil lamps—the tent was closed against dust, and thus against light as well—or sat sewing or knitting or doing embroidery. Two were playing cat’s cradle. A low murmur of conversation filled the tent, and several smiled greetings. They were not all apprentices—two mothers and several first-sisters had come to visit—and the older women wore as much jewelry as any Wise One. Everyone had their blouses half-unlaced and shawls wrapped around their waists, though the trapped heat did not seem to bother them.

  A gai’shain moved about refilling teacups. Something in the way he moved said he was a craftsman, not algai’d’siswai; he was still hard of face, yet a trifle softer by comparison, and maintaining a meek manner seemed less of a struggle. He wore one of those headbands naming him siswai’aman. None of the women gave it a second glance, though gai’shain were not supposed to wear anything but white.

  Egwene tied her shawl around her waist and gratefully accepted water to wash her face and hands, then undid a few of her blouse laces and took a tasseled red cushion between Surandha and Estair, Aeron’s red-haired apprentice. “What are the Wise Ones meeting about?” Her mind was not on the Wise Ones. She had no intention of avoiding the city entirely—she had agreed to look in at The Long Man every morning to see whether Gawyn was there, though the smirk on the stout innkeeper’s face made her cheeks grow warm; the Light only knew what that woman thought!—but there definitely would be no more attempts to listen in at Lady Arilyn’s mansion. After leaving Gawyn she had gone near enough to sense the channeling continuing inside, but left after one quick peek around the corner. Just standing that close produced the uneasy feeling that Nesune was going to pop up behind her. “Does anyone know?”

  “Your sisters, of course,” Surandha laughed. She was a handsome woman, with large blue eyes, and laughter made her beautiful. Some five years older than Egwene, she could channel as strongly as many Aes Sedai and was eagerly awaiting the call to a hold of her own. In the meanwhile, of course, she jumped when Sorilea thought jump. “What else would make them leap as if they had sat on segade spines?”

  “We should send Sorilea to talk with them,” Egwene said, taking a green-striped cup of tea from the gai’shain. While telling her how his Younglings were crowded into all the bedrooms not taken by the Aes Sedai, and some into the stables, Gawyn had let slip that there was no room for even another scullery maid, and that the Aes Sedai were not preparing any. It was good news. “Sorilea could make any number of Aes Sedai sit up straight.” Surandha’s head went back in gales of laughter.

  Estair’s laugh was faint, and more than a touch scandalized. A slender young woman with serious gray eyes, she always behaved as if a Wise One was watching her. It never ceased to amaze Egwene that Sorilea should have an apprentice who was full of fun, while Aeron, pleasant and smiling, with never a cross word, had one who seemed to hunt for rules to obey. “I believe it is the Car’a’carn,” Estair said in the gravest of tones.

  “Why?” Egwene asked absently. She was just going to have to avoid the city. Except for Gawyn, of course; embarrassing as it might be to admit, she would not forgo meeting him for anything less than the certainty of Nesune waiting in The Long Man. That meant back to walking around the city walls for exercise, in all that dust. This morning had been an exception, but she was not going to give the Wise Ones any excuse to put off her return to Tel’aran’rhiod. Tonight they would meet the Salidar Aes Sedai alone, but in seven nights, she would be with them. “What now?”

  “You have not heard?” Surandha exclaimed.

  In two or three days she could approach Nynaeve and Elayne, or speak to them in their dreams again. Try to speak to them, anyway; you could never be absolutely certain the other person knew you were more than a dream, not unless they were used to communicating that way, which Nynaeve and Elayne certainly were not. She had only spoken to them that way once before. In any case, the thought of approaching them at all still made her vaguely uneasy. She had had another hazy almost nightmare about it; every time one of them said a word, they tripped and fell on their faces or dropped a cup or plate or knocked over a vase, always something that shattered on impact. Since interpreting the dream about Gawyn becoming her Warder she had been making an effort at all of them. To no real effect so far, but she was sure that one had meaning. Maybe it was best to wait on the next meeting to speak to them. Besides, there was always the chance of running into Gawyn’s dreams again, being drawn in. Just the thought made her cheeks color.

  “The Car’a’carn has returned,” Estair said. “He is to meet your sisters this afternoon.”

  All thoughts of Gawyn and dreams gone, Egwene frowned into her teacup. Twice inside ten days. It was unusual for him to come back so soon. Why had he? Had he learned of the Tower Aes Sedai somehow? How? And as always, his trips themselves triggered their own question. How did he do it?

  “How does he do what?” Estair asked, and Egwene blinked, startled that she had spoken aloud.

  “How does he upset my stomach so easily?”

  Surandha shook her head in commiseration, but she grinned too. “He is a man, Egwene.”

  “He is the Car’a’carn,” Estair said with heavy emphasis, and more than a touch of reverence. Egwene would not be entirely surprised to see her wind that fool strip of cloth around her head.

  Surandha immediately tackled Estair over how she was ever going to deal with a hold chief, much less a sept or clan chief, if she did not realize that a man did not stop being a man just because he led, while Estair maintained stoutly that the Car’a’carn was different. One of the older women, Mera, who had come to see her daughter, leaned toward them and said that the way to handle any chief—hold, sept, clan or the Car’a’carn—was the same as the way to handle a husband, which brought a laugh from Baerin, also there to visit a daughter, and a comment that that would be a good way to have a roofmistress lay her knife at your feet, a declaration of feud. Baerin had been a Maiden before she married, but anyone could declare a feud with anyone other than a Wise One or a blacksmith. Before the words were well out of Mera’s mouth everybody except the gai’shain joined in, overwhelming poor Estair—the Car’a’carn was a chief among chiefs, no more; that was certain—but arguing whether it was better to approach a chief directly or through his roofmistress.

  Egwene paid little attention. Surely Rand would not do anything foolish. He had been properly doubtful concerning Elaida’s letter, yet he believed Alviarin’s, which was not only more cordial, but downright fawning. He thought he had friends, even followers, in the Tower. She did not. Three Oaths or no Three Oaths, she was convinced Elaida and Alviarin had worked up that second letter between them, with all its ridiculous talk of “kneeling in his radiance.” It was all a ploy to get him into the Tower.

  Looking at her hands regretfully, she sighed and set down her cup. It was snatched up by the gai’shain before her hand was well away.

  “I must go,” she told the two apprentices. “There’s something I realize I have to do.” Surandha and Estair made noises about going with her—well, more than noises; if Aiel said something, they meant it—but they were caught up in the discussion and did not argue when she insisted they
stay. Wrapping her shawl around her head again and leaving the rising voices behind—Mera was telling Estair in no uncertain tones that she might be a Wise One eventually, but until she was she could listen to a woman who had managed a husband and raised three daughters and two sons without a sister-wife to help—Egwene ducked back into the windblown dust.

  In the city, she tried to creep through the crowded streets without appearing to creep, tried to look every way while seeming to watch only where she was going. The chances of walking into Nesune were small, but. . . . Ahead of her two women in sober dresses and prim aprons sidestepped to go around one another, but both moved the same way, and they came nose to nose. Murmured apologies, and each woman stepped aside again. In the same direction. More apologies, and as if dancing, they moved together once more. As Egwene passed them, they were still stepping from side to side in perfect unison, faces beginning to redden, apologies swallowed behind compressed lips. How long it might go on she had no idea, but it was well to remember that Rand was in the city. Light, when he was around, it would not be beyond belief for her to walk right up on all six Aes Sedai just as a gust of wind ripped the shawl from around her head and three people shouted her name and called her Aes Sedai. With him around, it would not be entirely beyond belief to walk into Elaida.

  She hurried on, increasingly uneasy about being caught in one of his ta’veren swirls, increasingly wild-eyed. Fortunately, the sight of a wild-eyed Aiel with her face hidden—what did they know of the difference between a shawl and a veil?—made people move out of her way, which allowed her to speed along at a near trot, but she did not draw a peaceful breath until she slipped into the Sun Palace by a small servant’s door in the rear.

  A strong smell of cooking hung in the narrow hallway, and liveried men and women scurried back and forth. Others, taking their ease in their shirtsleeves or flapping aprons to make a little breeze, stared at her in astonishment. Likely no one except other servants came this close to the kitchens from one year to the next. Certainly not an Aiel. They looked as though they expected her to produce a spear from under her skirts.

  She pointed a finger at a round little man who was wiping his neck with a kerchief. “Do you know where Rand al’Thor is?”

  He gave a start, rolling his eyes toward his companions, who were quickly drifting away. His feet shifted, wanting very much to follow. “The Lord Dragon, uh . . . Mistress? In his chambers? I suppose, anyway.” He began to shuffle sideways, bowing. “If Mistress . . . uh . . . if my Lady will forgive, I must get back to my—”

  “You will take me there,” she said firmly. She was not going to wander about this time.

  One last eye-rolling after his vanished friends, a sigh quickly suppressed, a hurried frightened look to see whether he had offended, and he scampered off to fetch his coat. He was very efficient in the warren of palace corridors, hurrying along and bowing her way at every turn, but when at last he pointed with yet another bow to tall doors worked with gilded rising suns and guarded by a Maiden and an Aiel man, she felt a flash of contempt as she dismissed him. She could not understand why; he was simply doing what he was paid to do.

  The Aiel man stood as she approached, a very tall man in his middle years, with bull-like chest and shoulders and cold gray eyes. Egwene did not know him, and he plainly meant to turn her away. Luckily she did know the Maiden.

  “Let her pass, Marie,” Somara said, grinning. “This is Amys’ apprentice, hers and Bair’s and Melaine’s, the only apprentice I know to serve three Wise Ones. And from the look of her, they have sent her running with strong words for Rand al’Thor.”

  “Running?” Marie’s chuckle softened neither face nor eyes. “Crawling, it looks.” He went back to watching the corridor.

  Egwene did not have to ask what he meant. Digging her handkerchief out of her belt pouch, she wiped hurriedly at her face; no one could take you seriously dirty, and Rand had to listen. “Important words anyway, Somara. He is alone, I hope. The Aes Sedai haven’t come yet?” The handkerchief came away gray and went back into her pouch with a sigh.

  Somara shook her head. “It is some good time before they are due. Will you tell him to be careful? I mean no disrespect to your sisters, but he will not look where he leaps. He is headstrong.”

  “I will tell him.” Egwene could not help a grin. She had heard Somara talk this way before—with the sort of exasperated pride a mother might have for an overadventurous son of about ten—and a few other Maidens as well. It had to be some sort of Aiel joke, and even if she did not understand, she was in favor of anything that kept him from getting too big a head. “I’ll tell him to wash his ears, too.” Somara actually nodded before catching herself. Egwene drew a deep breath. “Somara, my sisters mustn’t find out I am here.” Marie glanced at her curiously, between studying every servant who entered the hallway. She had to be careful. “We are not close, Somara. In fact, you might say we are as far apart as sisters can be.”

  “The worst bad blood is between first-sisters,” Somara said with a nod. “Go in. They will not hear your name from me, and if Marie’s tongue flaps, I will tie a knot in it.” Marie, head and shoulders taller and weighing at least twice as much, smiled slightly without looking at her.

  The Maidens’ habit of sending her in without announcing her had led to embarrassments in the past, but this time Rand was not sitting in his bath. The apartments had obviously belonged to the king, and the anteroom was more a throne room in miniature. Miniature by comparison with the real throne room, anyway. The wavy rays of a golden sun a full span across, set in the polished stone floor, were the only curves in sight. Tall mirrors in severe gold frames lined the walls beneath broad straight bands of gilding, and the deep cornice was made of golden triangles overlapping like scales. Heavily gilded chairs to either side of the rising sun made two facing lines as stiff as their tall backs. Rand sat in another chair, with twice the gilding and a back twice as high, atop a small dais that was itself encrusted with gilt. In a red silk coat embroidered in gold and holding that piece of carved Seanchan spear in the crook of his arm, he wore a dark scowl. He looked a king, and one about to do murder.

  She planted her fists on her hips. “Somara says you should wash your ears right this instant, young man,” she said, and his head jerked up.

  Surprise, and a touch of outrage, lasted only a moment. With a grin he stepped down and tossed the spearhead onto the chair seat. “What under the Light have you been doing?” Striding the length of the chamber, he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face the nearest mirror.

  She winced in spite of herself. She was a sight. The dust that had sifted through her shawl—no; mud, with the sweat added—made streaks across her cheeks and swirls across her forehead where she had tried to scrub it away.

  “I’ll have Somara send for some water,” he said dryly. “Perhaps she’ll think it is for my ears.” That grin was insufferable!

  “There is no need,” she told him with as much dignity as she could muster. She was not about to have him stand there watching her wash. Pulling out her already grimy handkerchief, she hurriedly tried to clean off the worst. “You’re meeting Coiren and the others soon. I don’t have to warn you they’re dangerous, do I?”

  “I think you just did. They aren’t all coming. I said no more than three, so that is what they’re sending.” In the mirror his head tilted as if he were listening, and he nodded, voice dropping to a murmur. “Yes, I can handle three, if they aren’t too strong.” Abruptly he noticed her looking. “Of course, if one of them is Moghedien in a wig, or Semirhage, I may be in trouble.”

  “Rand, you must take this seriously.” The handkerchief was not doing much good. With the greatest reluctance, she spat on it; there was simply no dignified way to spit on a handkerchief. “I know how strong you are, but they are Aes Sedai. You can’t behave like they’re women in from the country. Even if you think Alviarin will kneel at your feet, and all her friends with her, these were sent by Elaida. You can’t think sh
e means anything but to try putting a leash on you. The short and simple of it is, you should send them away.”

  “And trust your hidden friends?” he asked softly. Much too softly.

  There was nothing to be done with her face; she should have let him send for the water. There was no asking for it now, though, not after refusing. “You know you cannot trust Elaida,” she said carefully, turning to him. Mindful of what had happened the last time, she did not even want to mention the Aes Sedai in Salidar. “You know that.”

  “I don’t trust any Aes Sedai. They”—there was a hesitation in his voice, as if he had started to use another word, though she could not imagine what—“will try to use me, and I will try to use them. A pretty circle, don’t you think?” If she had ever considered the possibility that he could be allowed near the Salidar Aes Sedai, his eyes disabused her of it, so hard, so cold, that she shivered inside.

  Maybe if he got angry enough, if he struck enough sparks with Coiren that the embassy went back to the Tower empty-handed, on their own. . . . “If you think it is pretty, I suppose it is; you are the Dragon Reborn. Well, since you intend to go through with this, you might as well do it right. Just remember that they are Aes Sedai. Even a king listens to Aes Sedai with respect, even when he doesn’t agree, and he’d set out for Tar Valon on the hour if summoned. Even the Tairen High Lords would, or Pedron Niall.” The fool man grinned at her again, or at least showed his teeth; the rest of his face was as blank as river rock. “I hope you’re paying attention. I am trying to help you.” Just not the way he thought. “If you mean to use them, you can’t make them bristle like doused cats. The Dragon Reborn won’t impress them any more than he does me, with your fancy coats and your thrones and your fool scepter.” She shot a scornful look at the tasseled spearhead; Light, the thing made her skin crawl! “They aren’t going to fall on their knees when they see you, and it won’t kill you when they don’t. It will not kill you to be courteous, either. Bend your stubborn neck. It isn’t groveling to show a proper deference, a little humbleness.”