The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  “Just that you should know what he’s doing behind your back. Obviously you didn’t know he was going off. Remember, he is the Dragon Reborn. That is very like a king, a king of kings, and kings sometimes use up even friends, by accident and on purpose.”

  “Rand wouldn’t do that. What are you suggesting, anyway? That I spy on him?”

  He meant it as a joke, but she said, “Not you, my love. Spying is a wife’s work.”

  “Faile!” Straightening so fast he nearly yanked another button loose, he took her shoulders and turned her to face him. “You are not going to spy on Rand, do you hear me?” She put on a dogged look, mouth drawing down, eyes narrowing—she practically reeked of stubbornness—but he could be dogged, too. “Faile, I want to see some of that obedience you were boasting about.” As far as he could see, she did what he said when she good and well pleased and otherwise not, and forget whether he was in the right or not. “I mean it, Faile. I want your promise. I’ll be no part of anyb—”

  “I promise, my heart,” she said, placing her fingers over his mouth. “I promise I will not spy on Rand. You see, I am obedient to my lord husband. Do you remember how many grandchildren my mother said she expects?”

  The sudden change of direction made him blink. But she had promised; that was the important thing. “Six, I think. I lost count when she started telling us which were to be boys and which girls.” Lady Deira had had some startlingly frank advice on how this was to be achieved; thankfully he had missed most of it from wondering whether he should leave the room till she finished. Faile had just nodded away as though it was the most natural thing in the world, with her husband and her father there.

  “At least six,” she said with a truly wicked grin. “Perrin, she will be looking over our shoulders unless I can tell her she can expect the first soon, and I thought, if you ever managed to undo the rest of my buttons. . . .” After months of marriage she still blushed, but that grin never faded. “The presence of a real bed after so many weeks makes me forward as a farmgirl at harvest.”

  Sometimes he wondered about these Saldaean farmgirls she was always bringing up. Blushes or no blushes, if they were as forward as Faile when he and she were alone, no crops would ever be harvested in Saldaea. He broke off two more buttons getting her dress undone, and she did not mind a bit. She actually managed to tear his shirt.

  Demira was surprised to open her eyes, surprised to find herself lying on the bed in her own room in The Crown of Roses. She expected to be dead, not undressed and tucked under a linen sheet. Stevan was sitting on a stool at the foot of her bed, managing to look relieved, concerned and stern all at the same time. Her slender Cairhienin Warder was a head shorter than she and nearly twenty years younger for all the gray streaking his temples, but sometimes he tried to behave like a father, all but claiming she could not take care of herself without him holding her hand. She very much feared this incident would give him the high ground in that struggle for months to come. Merana was on one side of the bed looking grave, Berenicia on the other. The plump Yellow sister always looked grave, but now she looked absolutely somber.

  “How?” Demira managed. Light, but she felt weak. Healing did that, but putting her arms outside the sheet was an effort. She must have been very close to death. Healing left no scars, but memories and weakness were quite enough.

  “A man came into the common room,” Stevan said, “claiming he wanted some ale. He said he had seen Aiel following an Aes Sedai—he described you exactly—and saying they were going to kill her. As soon as he spoke, I felt. . . .” He grimaced bleakly.

  “Stevan asked me to come,” Berenicia said, “he all but dragged me—and we ran the whole way. Truth, I was not certain we were in time until you opened your eyes just now.”

  “Of course,” Merana said in a flat voice, “it was all part of the same trap, the same warning. The Aiel and the man. A pity we let him get away, but we were so concerned over you that he managed to slip off before anyone thought to hold him.”

  Demira had been thinking about Milam and how this was going to affect the search in the library, about how long it was going to take Stevan to calm down, and what Merana was saying did not really penetrate until the last. “Hold him? A warning? What are you talking about, Merana?” Berenicia muttered something about her understanding if they showed it to her in a book; Berenicia had an acid tongue at times.

  “Have you seen anyone come into the common room for a drink since we arrived, Demira?” Merana asked patiently.

  It was true; she had not. One or even two Aes Sedai made little difference to an inn’s custom in Caemlyn, but nine was another matter. Mistress Cinchonine had remarked on it openly of late. “Then it was intended you should know Aiel had killed me. Or maybe that I was to be found before I died.” She had just recalled what that villainous-faced fellow had growled at her. “I was told to tell you all to stay away from al’Thor. Exact words. ‘Tell the other witches to stay away from the Dragon Reborn.’ I could hardly deliver that message dead, could I? How were my wounds placed?”

  Stevan shifted on his stool, darting a pained look at her. “Both missed any organ that would have killed you on the spot, but the amount of blood you lost—”

  “What are we to do now?” Demira cut in, directing her question to Merana, before he could start in on how foolish she had been to let herself be caught that way.

  “I say we should find the Aiel responsible,” Berenicia said firmly, “and make an example of them.” She came from the Border Marches of Shienar, and Aiel raids had been a feature of her growing up. “Seonid agrees with me.”

  “Oh, no!” Demira protested. “I will not have my first chance to study the Aiel ruined. They’ll hardly say two words as it is. It was my blood, after all. Besides, unless the man who gave you warning was Aiel too, it seems obvious to me that they acted under orders, and I think there is only one man in Caemlyn who orders Aiel.”

  “The rest of us,” Merana said, eyeing Berenicia firmly, “agree with you, Demira. I want to hear no more talk of wasting time and energy finding one pack of hounds among hundreds while the man who set them to hunt walks about grinning.” Berenicia bristled a little before bowing her head, but she always did.

  “We must at least show al’Thor he cannot treat Aes Sedai in this fashion,” Berenicia said sharply. A glance from Merana moderated her tone, though she did not sound happy. “Yet not so sharply that it ruins everything we’ve planned, of course.”

  Demira steepled her fingers against her lips and sighed. She did feel weak. “A thought occurs to me. If we charge him openly with what he’s done, he will deny it, of course, and we have no proof to fling in his face. Not only that, it might be wise to let it be learned that he feels free to hunt Aes Sedai like rabbits.” Merana and Berenicia exchanged glances and nodded quite firmly. Poor Stevan frowned furiously; he had never let anyone walk away from hurting her. “Might it not be better to say nothing? That will certainly make him ponder and sweat. Why haven’t we said anything? What are we going to do? I don’t know how much we can do, but we can at least make him look over his shoulder.”

  “A valid point,” Verin said from the doorway. “Al’Thor has to respect Aes Sedai, or there will be no working with him.” She motioned Stevan to leave—he waited for Demira’s nod, of course—then took his stool. “I thought since you were the target—” She frowned at Merana and Berenicia. “Will you sit down? I do not mean to get a crick in my neck staring up at you.” Verin went on while they were still placing the room’s only chair and a second stool beside the bed. “Since you were the target, Demira, you should help decide how Master al’Thor is to be taught his lesson. And you seem to have made a beginning already.”

  “What I think,” Merana began, but Verin cut her off.

  “In a moment, Merana. Demira has the right to first suggestions.”

  Demira’s breath caught as she waited for the explosion. Merana always seemed to want her decisions approved by Verin, which was natural e
nough under the circumstances, if awkward, but this was the first time Verin had simply taken charge. In front of others, at least. Yet all Merana did was stare at Verin for a moment, lips compressed, and then bow her head. Demira wondered whether this meant Merana was going to resign the embassy to Verin; there did not seem anything else she could do, now. All eyes turned to Demira, waiting. Verin’s were particularly penetrating.

  “If we want him to worry over what we intend to do, I suggest no one go to the Palace today. Perhaps without any explanation, or if that is too strong, with one he must see through.” Merana nodded. More importantly, as things were turning out, Verin did as well. Demira decided to venture a little more. “Maybe we should send no one for several days, to let him stew. I’m sure watching Min will tell us when he is nicely on the boil, and. . . .” Whatever they decided to do, she wanted to be part of it. It had been her blood, after all, and the Light only knew how long she would have to put off her researches in the library now. That last was almost as much reason to teach al’Thor a lesson as his forgetting who Aes Sedai were.

  CHAPTER

  47

  The Wandering Woman

  Mat wanted a quiet ride to Ebou Dar, and he got one, in a way. But traveling with six women, four of them Aes Sedai, he had plenty of irritations.

  They reached the distant forest that first day with the sun still fairly well up in the sky, and rode several hours beneath a high canopy of mostly bare branches, with dead leaves and dry branches crunching under the horses’ hooves, until making camp near a dwindling stream just before sunset. Lantern-jawed Harnan, the file leader with the hawk tattooed on his cheek, saw to getting the troopers from the Band settled, the horses curried and hobbled, sentries set and fires lit. Nerim and Lopin bustled about moaning over not having brought tents, and how was a man to know they would be spending nights on the ground when his master said nothing, and if his master caught his death of something, it was not his fault. Skinny and stout, they managed to sound like echoes. Vanin took care of himself, of course, though he did keep an eye on Olver and even curried the parts of Wind that the boy could not reach even using his saddle for a stool. Everybody took care of Olver.

  The women shared the camp, but in a way their area was as separate as if it had been fifty paces away. An invisible line seemed to split the campsite in half, with invisible signs telling the troopers not to cross. Nynaeve and Elayne and the two white-haired women gathered around their own fire with Aviendha and the golden-haired Hunter, rarely even glancing toward where Mat and his men were laying out their blankets. The murmured conversation Mat heard, as much as he could make out, had to do with Vandene and Adeleas’ concern that Aviendha meant to lead her horse all the way to Ebou Dar instead of riding. Thom tried to get a word in with Elayne and received an absent pat on the cheek, of all things, before he was sent back to sit with Juilin and Jaem, the stringy old Warder, who belonged to Vandene and seemed to spend all of his time sharpening his sword.

  Mat had no objection to the women staying apart. A tension he could not understand hung around them. At least, it did around Nynaeve and Elayne, and the Hunter seemed to be infected too. They sometimes stared at the Aes Sedai—the other Aes Sedai; he was not sure he would ever become used to thinking of Nynaeve and Elayne that way—a bit too intently, though Vandene and Adeleas appeared as oblivious as Aviendha. Whatever the reason, Mat wanted no part of it. It smelled like an argument burning to leap out, and whether it burst into flame or smoldered underground, a wise man stepped wide of women’s arguments. Medallion or no medallion, a wise man stepped very wide if the women were Aes Sedai.

  A small irritant that, and so was the next, which was his own fault. Food. The smell of lamb and some sort of soup quickly wafted from the Aes Sedai’s fire. Expecting a quick arrival in Ebou Dar, he had said nothing about food to Vanin and the others, which meant they had a little dried meat and hard cakes of flatbread in their saddlebags. Mat had seen hardly a bird or squirrel, let alone sign of a deer, so hunting was out of the question. When Nerim set up a small folding table and stool for Mat—Lopin was putting up another for Nalesean—Mat told him to share out what he had tucked away in the packhorses’ panniers. The result was not as good as he hoped.

  Nerim stood by Mat’s table, pouring water from a silver pitcher as if it were wine and mournfully watching delicacies vanish down the trooper’s gullets. “Pickled quail eggs, my Lord,” he would announce in a funereal tone. “They would have gone very well for my Lord’s breakfast in Ebou Dar.” And, “The best smoked tongue, my Lord. If my Lord only knew what I went through to find honey-smoked tongue in that wretched village, with no time to find anything and all the best taken by the Aes Sedai.” Actually, his biggest grievance seemed to be that Lopin had found potted larks for Nalesean. Every time Nalesean crunched one between his teeth, Lopin’s smug smile grew wider and Nerim’s face grew longer. For that matter, it was plain from the way some of the men sniffed the air that they would rather have had a slice of lamb and a bowl of soup than any amount of honey-smoked tongue or goose-liver pudding. Olver stared at the women’s fire with open wistfulness.

  “You want to eat with them?” Mat asked him. “It’s all right, if you do.”

  “I like kippered eel,” Olver said stoutly. In a darker tone, he added, “Anyway, she might put something in it.” His eyes followed Aviendha every time she shifted, and he seemed to have taken against the Hunter too, perhaps because she spent a good bit of time in obviously friendly chat with the Aiel woman. Aviendha at least must have felt the boy’s stare, because she glanced at him and frowned.

  Wiping his chin and eyeing the Aes Sedai’s fire—come to think of it, he would rather have had lamb and soup himself—Mat noticed that Jaem was missing. Vanin grumped about being sent out again, but Mat sent him for the same reason he had had the man scout ahead during the day despite the fact that Jaem did too. He did not want to rely on what the Aes Sedai chose to tell him. He might have trusted Nynaeve—he did not think she would actually lie to him; as Wisdom, Nynaeve had always been death on anyone lying—but she kept peeping at him past Adeleas’ shoulder in a very suspicious way.

  To his surprise, Elayne rose as soon as she finished eating and came gliding across that invisible line. Some women just seemed to skim over the ground. “Will you walk aside with me, Master Cauthon?” she asked coolly. Not polite, exactly, but not exactly rude either.

  He motioned her to lead the way, and she floated out into the moon-shadowed trees beyond the sentries. That golden hair nestled about her shoulders, framing a face to make any man stare, and the moonlight softened her arrogance. If she had been anything but what she was. . . . And he did not mean just Aes Sedai, nor even that she belonged to Rand. Rand did seem to be tangling himself with the worst sort of woman for a man who had always known how to handle them. Then Elayne began talking, and he forgot everything else.

  “You have a ter’angreal,” she said without preamble, and without looking at him. She just glided along, rustling the leaves on the ground, as if she expected him to heel like a hunting hound. “Some hold that ter’angreal are rightfully the property of Aes Sedai, but I do not require you to surrender it. No one will take it from you. Such things need study, however. For that reason, I want you to give the ter’angreal to me each evening when we stop. I will return it each morning before we start out.”

  Mat gave her a sidelong look. She was serious, no doubt about it. “That’s very kind of you, letting me keep what’s mine. Only, what makes you think I have one of these . . . what did you call it? A ter-something?”

  Oh, she did stiffen up at that, and looked at him too. He was surprised not to see fire leap from her eyes to light up the night. Her voice, on the other hand, was purest crystal ice. “You know very well what a ter’angreal is, Master Cauthon. I heard Moiraine speak of them to you in the Stone of Tear.”

  “The Stone?” he said blandly. “Yes, I remember the Stone. A fine time we all had there. Do you remember something in the
Stone that gives you a right to make demands of me? I don’t. I am just here to keep you and Nynaeve from getting holes poked in your hides in Ebou Dar. You can ask Rand about ter’angreal after I deliver you to him.”

  For a long moment she stared at him as though meaning to beat him down by force of will, then turned on her heel without another word. He followed her back to the camp and was surprised to see her walk along the line of hobbled horses. She examined the fires and how the blankets were laid out, shook her head over the remains of the troopers’ meal. He had no idea what she was about until she returned to him with her chin raised.

  “Your men have done very well, Master Cauthon,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “In general I am more than satisfied. But if you had planned ahead properly, they would not have had to gorge themselves on foods that will at the very least keep them awake tonight. Still, on the whole, you have done well. I’m sure you will think ahead in future.” Cool as you please she strode back to her own fire before he could say a word, leaving him staring.

  Had that been the whole of it, though, the bloody Daughter-Heir thinking he was one of her subjects, and her and Nynaeve tight-lipped around Vandene and Adeleas—had that been all, he would have danced a jig. Right after Elayne’s “inspection,” before he could even reach his blankets, the foxhead went cold.

  He was so shocked that he stood there staring down at his chest before he even thought to look toward the Aes Sedai’s fire. There they stood in a row along that unseen dividing line, Aviendha as well. Elayne murmured something he could not make out and the two white-haired Aes Sedai nodded, Adeleas all the while hastily dipping a pen in an inkjar in a sort of scabbard at her belt and jotting notes in a small book. Nynaeve was tugging her braid and muttering to herself.