Tylin was a most impressive woman. No taller than Nynaeve, she stood with a regal bearing that Elayne would have had to strain to match on her best day. She should have replied to their courtesies with the same, but she did not. Instead her large black eyes examined them with imperious intensity.
Nynaeve returned the favor as well as she could. Waves of glossy black hair, gray at the temples, hung well below Tylin’s shoulders, framing a face that was handsome if not unlined. Shockingly, there were two scars on the woman’s cheeks, fine and so old they had all but vanished. Of course, she did have one of those curved knives stuck through a belt of woven gold, with hilt and scabbard encrusted in gems, Nynaeve was sure it must be for show. Tylin’s blue silk dress was certainly nothing anyone could wear fighting a duel, with falls of snowy lace that would nearly hide her fingers if she lowered her hands, and skirts drawn up above her knees in front to expose layers of green and white silk petticoats and trailing behind her a pace or more. The bodice, trimmed in the same lace, was snug enough that Nynaeve was not sure whether sitting in it or standing would be more uncomfortable. A collar of woven gold fastened around the gown’s high neck, which put more lace under her chin, supported a white-sheathed marriage knife hanging hilt-down into an oval cut-out that easily equalled any of those deep necklines.
“You two must be Elayne and Nynaeve.” Tylin took a chair carved to resemble bamboo, though covered in gilt, and arranged her skirts carefully without taking her eyes from them. Her voice was deep, melodious and commanding. “I understood there was a third. Aviendha?”
Nynaeve exchanged glances with Elayne. There had been no invitation for them to sit, not so much as a flicker of eyes toward a chair. “She is not Aes Sedai,” Elayne began calmly.
Tylin spoke before she could say more. “And you are? You’ve seen eighteen winters at most, Elayne. And you, Nynaeve, staring at me like a cat with its tail caught, how many have you seen? Twenty-two? Twenty-three perhaps? Stab my liver! I visited Tar Valon once, and the White Tower. I doubt any woman your age has ever worn that ring on her right hand.”
“Twenty-six!” Nynaeve snapped. With a good part of the Women’s Circle back in Emond’s Field thinking she was too young to be Wisdom, it had become habit with her to flourish every naming day she could claim. “I am twenty-six and an Aes Sedai of the Yellow Ajah.” She still felt a thrill of pride saying that. “Elayne may be eighteen, but she is Aes Sedai as well, and Green Ajah. Do you think Merilille or Vandene would let us wear these rings as a joke? A good many things have changed, Tylin. The Amyrlin Seat, Egwene al’Vere, is no older than Elayne.”
“Is she?” Tylin said in a flat voice. “I was not told that. When the Aes Sedai who counseled me from the day I took the throne, and my father before me, abruptly leaves for the Tower without explanation, and I then learn that rumors of a Tower divided are true; when Dragonsworn seem to spring out of the ground; when an Amyrlin is chosen to oppose Elaida and an army gathered under one of the great captains, inside Altara, before I hear of it—when all of that has happened, you cannot expect me to be enamored of surprises.”
Nynaeve hoped her face did not look as sickly as she felt. Why could she not learn to hold her tongue occasionally? Abruptly she realized she could no longer sense the True Source; anger and embarrassment did not go together very well. It was probably to the good. If she could channel, she might make an even bigger fool of herself.
Elayne moved to smooth things over without a pause. “I know you have heard this before,” she told Tylin, “but let me add my apologies to those of Merilille and the others. Gathering an army inside your borders without your permission was unconscionable. All I can say in mitigation is that events moved quickly and we in Salidar were caught up, but that is no excuse. I swear to you, no harm is intended to Altara, and no insult was meant to the Throne of the Winds. Even as we speak, Gareth Bryne leads that army north, out of Altara.”
Tylin stared at her, unblinking. “I have heard no word of apology or excuse until yours. But any ruler of Altara must learn to swallow insult from greater powers without salt.” Taking a deep breath, she gestured, lace waving. “Sit, sit. Both of you sit. Lean back on your knife and let your tongue go free.” Her sudden smile was very close to a grin. “I don’t know how you say it in Andor. Be at ease, and speak your mind as you wish.”
Nynaeve was glad that Elayne’s blue eyes widened in surprise, because she herself gasped aloud. This was the woman who Merilille had claimed required ceremony carved in polished marble? Nynaeve was more than glad to take a chair. Thinking of all the hidden currents in Salidar, she wondered whether Tylin was trying to . . . to what? She had come to expect everyone who was not a close friend to try manipulating her. Elayne sat on the very front of her chair, and stiffly.
“I mean what I say,” Tylin insisted. “Whatever you say, I will hear no insult.” From the way her fingers tapped the jeweled hilt at her waist, though, silence might be heard as one.
“I am not certain where to begin,” Nynaeve said carefully. She did wish Elayne had not actually nodded at that; Elayne was supposed to know how to handle kings and queens. Why did she not say something?
“With why,” the Queen said impatiently. “Why do four more Aes Sedai come to Ebou Dar from Salidar? It cannot be to outshine Elaida’s embassy—Teslyn does not even call it that, and there are only her and Joline. . . . You did not know?” Falling back in her chair laughing, she pressed the fingers of one hand to her lips. “Do you know about the Whitecloaks? Yes?” Her free hand made a slashing gesture, and her mirth began to subside in small ripples. “That for Whitecloaks! But I must listen to all who court me, Lord Inquisitor Carridin as well as the others.”
“But why?” Nynaeve demanded. “I am glad you don’t like Whitecloaks, but in that case, why must you listen to a word Carridin says? The man’s a butcher.” She knew she had made another mistake. The way Elayne suddenly seemed to be studying the broad white fireplace, where the deep lintel was carved into towering waves, told her that even before the last vestige of Tylin’s laughter snuffed out like a candle.
“You take me at my word,” the Queen said quietly. “I said let your tongue go free, and. . . .” Those dark eyes went to the floor tiles, and she seemed to be gathering herself.
Nynaeve looked to Elayne, hoping for some hint of what she had done wrong, or better, how to make it right, but Elayne only gave her one sideways glance and the smallest shake of her head before returning to her study of the marble waves. Maybe she should avoid looking at Tylin, too? Yet the woman staring at the floor drew her eyes. With one hand Tylin stroked the hilt of her curved dagger, with the other fingered the smaller hilt nestled between her breasts.
The marriage dagger told quite a lot about Tylin; Vandene and Adeleas had been more than willing to explain some things concerning Ebou Dar, usually those that made the city seem unsafe for anyone not surrounded by a dozen armored guards. The white sheath meant the Queen was widowed and did not intend to remarry. The four pearls and one firedrop set in the gold-wrapped hilt said she had borne four sons and one daughter; the white-enameled setting of the firedrop and the red-enameled of three of the pearls said only one son survived. All had been at least sixteen when they died, and died in duels, or the settings would have been black. What must it be like to constantly carry a reminder of that sort! According to Vandene, women saw a red or white setting as a source of pride, whether her stones were pearls and firedrops or colored glass. Vandene said many Ebou Dari women removed the stones of their children past sixteen who refused a duel, and never acknowledged them again.
At long last Tylin raised her head. Her face was pleasant, and her hand left the dagger in her belt, but she continued to finger the marriage knife absently. “I want my son to follow me on the Throne of the Winds,” she said mildly. “Beslan is your age, Elayne. This would be a matter of course in Andor, though he would have to be a woman”—she actually grinned, in apparently genuine amusement—“or in any other land save Mu
randy, where matters are much the same as here in Altara. In the thousand years since Artur Hawkwing, only one House has held the throne for five generations, and Anarina’s fall was so precipitous that to this day House Todande is a lapdog for anyone who wants them. No other House has ever had more than two rulers in succession.
“When my father took the throne, other Houses had more of the city itself than Mitsobar. Had he stepped outside this palace without guards, he would have been sewn into a sack with rocks and tossed into the river. When he died, he gave me what I have now. Small, compared to other rulers. A man riding fresh horses could reach the end of my writ in one day’s hard ride. I have not been idle, though. When news of the Dragon Reborn came, I was certain I could hand on to Beslan twice what I hold, and allies of a sort beyond that. The Stone of Tear and Callandor changed everything. Now I thank Pedron Niall when he arranges for Illian to take a hundred-mile swathe of Altara instead of invading. I listen to Jaichim Carridin, and I do not spit in his eye, however many Altarans died in the Whitecloak War. I listen to Carridin, and to Teslyn, and to Merilille, and I pray that I can pass something to my son instead of being found drowned in my bath on the day Beslan meets with an accident hunting.”
Tylin drew a long breath. The pleasant face remained, but an edge entered her voice. “Now. I have stood bare-breasted in the fishmarket for you. Answer me mine. Why do I have the honor of four more Aes Sedai?”
“We are here to find a ter’angreal,” Elayne said, and as Nynaeve stared in amazement, she told everything from Tel’aran’rhiod to the dust in the room where the bowl was.
“To make the weather right again would be a miraculous blessing,” Tylin said slowly, “but the quarter you describe sounds like the Rahad, across the river. Even the Civil Guard steps lightly there. Forgive me—I understand that you are Aes Sedai—but in the Rahad, you could have a knife in your back before you knew it. If the clothes are fine, they use a very narrow blade so there is little blood. Perhaps you should leave this search to Vandene and Adeleas. I think they have had a few more years than you to see such places.”
“They told you about the bowl?” Nynaeve said with a frown, but the Queen shook her head.
“Only that they were here to search for something. Aes Sedai never tell a word more than they absolutely must.” Once again that sudden grin flashed; it looked quite merry, though it did make her scars show as thin lines across her cheeks. “Until you two, at least. May the years not change you too much. I often wish Cavandra had not returned to the Tower; I could talk with her in this way.” Standing, she motioned them to remain seated and glided across the room to tap a silver gong with an ivory mallet; it produced quite a loud chime for such a small cylinder. “I will send for cool mint tea, and we will talk. You will tell me how I can help—if I send soldiers into the Rahad, it will be the Wine Riots all over again—and perhaps you will even be able to explain why the bay is full of Sea Folk ships that neither dock nor trade. . . .”
A goodly time passed over tea and talk, mostly about the dangers of the Rahad and what Tylin could not do, and Beslan was brought in, a soft-spoken youth who bowed respectfully and stared with beautiful black eyes that perhaps held relief when his mother said he could go. He certainly never doubted they were Aes Sedai. Finally, though, the pair of them were finding their way back to their apartment through the brightly painted corridors.
“So they mean to take over the search too,” Nynaeve murmured, glancing about to make sure none of the liveried servants was close enough to hear. Tylin had known too much about them too soon. And however she grinned, she had been upset over the Aes Sedai in Salidar. “Elayne, do you think it was wise to tell her everything? She might decide the best way to make sure that boy gets the throne is to let us find the bowl and then tell Teslyn.” She remembered Teslyn slightly; a Red, and an unpleasant woman.
“I know how my mother felt about Aes Sedai traveling about Andor, never letting her know what they were doing. I know how I would feel. Besides, I finally remembered being taught about that phrase—lean back on your knife and the rest. The only way to insult somebody who says that to you is to lie.” Elayne’s chin rose slightly. “As for Vandene and Adeleas, they only think they’ve taken over. This Rahad may be dangerous, but I cannot think it is any worse than Tanchico, and we won’t have the Black Ajah to worry about. I wager in ten days we will have the bowl, I will know what makes Mat’s ter’angreal do what it should not be able to do and we will be on our way to join Egwene, with him knuckling his forehead as fast as Master Vanin, and Vandene and Adeleas will be left sitting here with Merilille and Teslyn trying to puzzle out what happened.”
Nynaeve could not help it; she laughed out loud. A lanky serving man shifting a large vase of golden porcelain stared at her, and she stuck out her tongue at him. He nearly dropped the vase. “I won’t take that wager, except about Mat. Ten days it is.”
CHAPTER
49
The Mirror of Mists
Rand puffed contentedly on his pipe, sitting in his shirtsleeves with his back against one of the slender white columns that surrounded the small oval courtyard, and watched the water spray up in the marble fountain, sparkling like gems in the sunlight. The morning still left this part of the courtyard in pleasant shade. Even Lews Therin was still. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider Tear?”
Seated against the next column and also coatless, Perrin blew two smoke rings before replacing his pipe, a rather ornate thing carved with wolfheads. “What about what Min saw?”
Rand’s attempt at his own ring ran afoul of a sour grunt and came out just a puff of smoke. Min had had no right to bring that up where Perrin could hear. “Do you really want to be tied to my belt, Perrin?”
“What I want hasn’t seemed to count much since the first time we saw Moiraine back in Emond’s Field,” Perrin said dryly. He sighed. “You are who you are, Rand. If you fail, everything fails.” Suddenly he sat forward, frowning toward a wide doorway behind the columns to their left.
A long moment later Rand heard footsteps in that direction, too heavy for any human. The broad shape that ducked through the doorway and strode into the courtyard was more than twice as tall as the serving woman who was almost running to keep up with the Ogier’s long legs.
“Loial!” Rand exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. He and Perrin reached the Ogier together. The grin on Loial’s wide mouth really did almost split his huge face in two, but his long coat, spreading out above turned-down knee-high boots, still carried travel dust. The big pockets bulged with squarish shapes, too; Loial was never far from books. “Are you all right, Loial?”
“You look tired,” Perrin said, urging the Ogier toward the fountain. “Sit on the coping.”
Loial let himself be led, but his long dangling eyebrows rose and tufted ears quivered in puzzlement as he stared from one of them to the other. Sitting, he was as tall as Perrin standing. “All right? Tired?” His voice was a rumble like the earth moving. “Of course I am all right. And if I’m tired, I have walked a long way. I must say it felt good to be back on my own feet. You always know where your feet are taking you, but you never can be sure with a horse. Anyway, my feet are faster.” Abruptly he let out a thunderous laugh. “You owe me a gold crown, Perrin. You and your ten days. I will wager another crown you’ve not been here more than five days before me.”
“You’ll get your crown.” Perrin laughed. In an aside to Rand that had Loial’s ears vibrating indignantly, he added, “Gaul corrupted him. He dices now, and bets on horse races when he can barely tell one horse from another.”
Rand grinned. Loial always had looked at horses rather dubiously, and small wonder since his legs were longer than theirs. “Are you sure you’re all right, Loial?”
“Did you find that abandoned stedding?” Perrin asked around his pipestem.
“Did you stay long enough?”
“What are you two talking about?” Loial’s uncertain frown trailed the ends of his eyebrows down onto his ch
eeks. “I just wanted to see a stedding again, to feel one. I am ready for ten more years.”
“That isn’t what your mother says,” Rand said seriously.
Loial was on his feet before Rand finished, staring wildly in every direction, ears laid back and trembling. “My mother? Here? She is here?”
“No, she isn’t,” Perrin said, and Loial’s ears almost went limp with relief. “It seems she’s in the Two Rivers. Or was a month ago. Rand used some way of hopping about he has to take her and Elder Haman—What’s the matter?”
Halfway to sitting down again, Loial froze with his knees bent at Elder Haman’s name. Eyes closed, he lowered himself slowly the rest of the way. “Elder Haman,” he muttered, rubbing his face with a thick-fingered hand. “Elder Haman and my mother.” He peered at Perrin. He peered at Rand. In a voice that was low and much too casual, he asked, “Was anyone else with them?” Well, it was low for an Ogier; a giant bumblebee buzzing in a huge waterjar.
“A young Ogier woman named Erith,” Rand told him. “You—” That was as far as he got.
With a moan Loial leaped to his feet again. Servants’ heads appeared at doorways and windows to see what that vast noise was, and vanished again when they saw Rand. Loial began pacing back and forth, ears and eyebrows both drooping so much that he seemed to be melting. “A wife,” he mumbled. “It cannot mean anything else, not with Mother and Elder Haman. A wife. I’m too young to get married!” Rand hid a smile behind his hand; Loial might be young for an Ogier, but in his case that meant more than ninety. “She’ll drag me back to Stedding Shangtai. I know she won’t let me travel with you, and I still don’t have near enough notes for my book. Oh, you can smile, Perrin. Faile does whatever you say.” Perrin choked on his pipe, wheezing until Rand slapped his back. “It is different with us,” Loial went on. “It is considered very rude not to do as your wife says. Very rude. I know she’ll make me settle down to something solid and respectable, like treesinging or. . . .” Abruptly he frowned and stopped pacing. “Did you say Erith?” Rand nodded; Perrin seemed to be getting his breath back, but he was glaring at Loial in a sort of malevolent amusement. “Erith, daughter of Iva daughter of Alar?” Rand nodded again, and Loial sank back to his place on the fountain coping. “But I know her. You remember her, Rand. We met her at Stedding Tsofu.”
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