The Wheel of Time

by Robert Jordan

  Perplexed, Aviendha glanced sideways at her near-sister. Pull her nose out of their coats? She and Elayne, at least, were not wearing coats. A summer ham? What did that mean? Wetlanders often said peculiar things, but the other women all looked as puzzled as she. Only Lan, staring at Elayne askance, appeared to understand, and he seemed . . . startled. And perhaps amused. It was difficult to tell; Aan’allein controlled his features well.

  Teslyn Baradon sniffed, pinching her face even tighter. Aviendha was trying hard to call these people by only part of their names the way they themselves did—when she used a whole name, they thought she was upset!—but she could not begin to imagine being so intimate with Teslyn Baradon. “I will leave you foolish children to your business,” the woman growled. “Be sure you do no get your noses caught in a worse crack than they already do be.”

  As she turned to go, gathering her skirts grandly, Nynaeve caught her arm. Wetlanders usually let emotion gild their faces, and Nynaeve’s was the image of conflict, anger struggling to break through fixed determination. “Wait, Teslyn,” she said reluctantly. “You and Joline may be in danger. I told Tylin, but I think she may be afraid to tell anyone else. Unwilling, anyway. It’s nothing anybody really wants to talk about.” She drew a long, deep breath, and if she was thinking of her own fears in the matter, she had cause. There was no shame in feeling fear, only in giving way to it, or letting it show. Aviendha felt a flutter in her own belly as Nynaeve went on. “Moghedien has been here in Ebou Dar. She might still be. And maybe another of the Forsaken, too. With a gholam, a kind of Shadowspawn the Power won’t touch. It looks like a man, but it was made, and made to kill Aes Sedai. Steel doesn’t seem to hurt it either, and it can squeeze through a mousehole. The Black Ajah is here, as well. And there’s a storm coming, a bad storm. Only it isn’t a storm, not weather. I can feel it; that’s a skill I have, a Talent, maybe. There’s danger headed for Ebou Dar, and trouble worse than any wind or rain or lightning.”

  “The Forsaken, a storm that is no a storm, and some Shadowspawn I did never hear of before,” Teslyn Baradon said wryly. “Not to mention the Black Ajah. Light! The Black Ajah! And the Dark One himself, perhaps?” Her twisted smile was razor thin. She plucked Nynaeve’s hand from her sleeve contemptuously. “When you do be back in the White Tower where you belong, in white as you all truly belong, you will learn no to waste your hours with wild fancies. Or to carry your tales to sisters.” Running her eyes over them, and once more skipping past Aviendha, she gave a loud sniff and marched off down the hallway so quickly that servants had to leap from her path.

  “That woman has the nerve to . . . !” Nynaeve spluttered, glaring after the retreating woman and strangling her braid with both hands. “After I made myself . . . !” She almost choked on her spleen. “Well, I tried.” And now regretted the attempt, by the sound.

  “You did,” Elayne agreed with a sharp nod, “and more than she deserves. Denying that we’re Aes Sedai! I won’t put up with that anymore! I won’t!” Her voice had only seemed cold before; now it was cold, and grim.

  “Can one like that be trusted?” Aviendha muttered. “Maybe we should be sure she cannot interfere.” She examined her fist; Teslyn Baradon would see that. The woman deserved to be caught by the Shadowsouled, by Moghedien or another. Fools deserved whatever their foolishness brought.

  Nynaeve appeared to consider the suggestion, but what she said was “If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was ready to turn on Elaida.” She clicked her tongue in exasperation.

  “You can dizzy yourself trying to read the currents in Aes Sedai politics.” Elayne did not say Nynaeve should know that by now, but her tone did. “Even a Red might be turning against Elaida, for some reason we can’t begin to imagine. Or she could be trying to make us lower our guard, so she can somehow trick us into putting ourselves into Elaida’s hands. Or—”

  Lan coughed. “If any of the Forsaken are coming,” he said in a voice like polished stone, “they could be here any moment. Or that gholam could. In either case, it would be best to be elsewhere.”

  “With Aes Sedai, always a little patience,” Birgitte murmured as though quoting. “But the Windfinders don’t seem to have any,” she continued, “so you might do well to forget Teslyn and remember Renaile.”

  Elayne and Nynaeve turned stares on the Warders cold enough to give ten Stone Dogs pause. Neither liked running from the Shadowsouled and this gholam, for all they were the ones who had decided there was no choice. Certainly neither liked being reminded that they needed to run to meet the Windfinders almost as much as to escape the Forsaken. Aviendha would have studied those looks—Wise Ones did with a glance or a few words what she had always needed the threat of spear or fist for, only they usually did it faster and with more success—she would have studied Elayne and Nynaeve, except that their glares had no visible effect on the pair at all. Birgitte grinned and cut her eyes toward Lan, who shrugged back at her with obvious forbearance.

  Elayne and Nynaeve gave over. Unhurriedly, and unnecessarily, straightening their skirts, they each took one of Aviendha’s arms before setting off again without so much as a glance to see that the Warders followed. Not that Elayne needed to, with the Warder bond. Or Nynaeve, if not for the same reason; Aan’allein’s bond might belong to another, but his heart hung alongside his ring on that chain around her neck. They made a great show of strolling casually, unwilling to let Birgitte and Lan think they had been brought to hurry, yet the truth was, they did walk faster than before.

  As if to make up for that, they chatted with deliberate idleness, choosing the most frivolous subjects. Elayne regretted not having a chance to truly see the Festival of Birds, just yesterday, and never gave a blush for the scant garments many people had worn. Nynaeve did not blush either, but she quickly began talking about the Feast of Embers, to be held that night. Some of the servants claimed there would be fireworks, supposedly made by a refugee Illuminator. Several traveling shows had come to the city with their strange animals and acrobats, which interested both Elayne and Nynaeve, since they had spent some time with such a show. They talked of seamstresses, and the varieties of lace available in Ebou Dar, and the different qualities of silk and linen that could be bought, and Aviendha found herself responding with pleasure to comments on how well her gray silk riding dress looked on her, and the other garments given to her by Tylin Quintara, fine woolens and silks, and the stockings and shifts to go with them, and jewelry. Elayne and Nynaeve also had received extravagant gifts. All together their presents filled a number of chests and bundles that had been carried down to the stables by servants, along with their saddlebags.

  “Why are you scowling, Aviendha?” Elayne asked, giving her a pat on the arm and a smile. “Don’t worry. You know the weave; you will do just fine.”

  Nynaeve leaned her head close and whispered, “I’ll fix you a tea when I have a chance. I know several that will soothe your stomach. Or any woman’s troubles.” She patted Aviendha’s arm, too.

  They did not understand. No comforting words or teas would cure what ailed her. She was enjoying talk of lace and embroidery! She did not know whether to growl in disgust or wail in despair. She was growing soft. Never before in her life had she looked at a woman’s dress except to think where it might be hiding a weapon, never to notice the color and cut, or think how it would look on her. It was past time to be away from this city, away from wetlander palaces. Soon she would start simpering. She had not seen Elayne or Nynaeve do that, but everyone knew wetlander women simpered, and it was obvious she had become as weak as any milk-water wetlander. Strolling arm-in-arm, chatting about lace! How was she to reach her belt knife if someone attacked them? A knife might be useless against the likeliest assailants, but she had had faith in steel long before she knew she could channel. Should anyone try to harm Elayne or Nynaeve—especially Elayne, but she had promised Mat Cauthon to protect them both as surely as Birgitte and Aan’allein had—should anyone try, she would plant steel in their hearts. L
ace! As they walked, she wept inside at how soft she had become.

  Huge, paired stable doors fronted three sides of the palace’s largest stableyard, the doorways crowded by servants in green-and-white livery. Behind them in the white stone stables waited horses, saddled or loaded with wicker panniers. Seabirds wheeled and cried overhead, an unpleasant reminder of how much water lay nearby. Heat shimmered up from pale paving stones, but it was tension that thickened the air. Aviendha had seen blood spilled where there was less strain.

  Renaile din Calon, in red and yellow silks, arms crossed arrogantly beneath her breasts, stood before nineteen more barefoot women with tattooed hands and brightly colored blouses, most in trousers and long sashes just as brilliant. Sweat glistening on dark faces did not lessen their grave dignity. Some sniffed at lacy gold boxes, filled with heavy scent, that hung about their necks. Five fat gold rings pierced each of Renaile din Calon’s ears, a chain from one dripping medallions as it ran across her left cheek to a ring in her nose. The three women close behind her each wore eight earrings and slightly fewer bits of dangling gold. That was how the Sea Folk marked rank among themselves, with the women at least. All deferred to Renaile din Calon, Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships to the Atha’an Miere, but even the two apprentices at the rear, in dark trousers and linen blouses instead of silk, added their own golden shimmers to the air. When Aviendha and the others appeared, Renaile din Calon ostentatiously looked to the sun, past its noon peak. Her eyebrows climbed as she directed her gaze back to them, eyes black as her white-winged hair, a demanding stare of impatience so loud she might as well have shouted.

  Elayne and Nynaeve stopped short, dragging Aviendha to an abrupt halt. They exchanged worried glances past her, and deep sighs. She did not see how they were to escape. Obligation bound her near-sister and Nynaeve hand and foot, and they themselves had tied the knots tight.

  “I’ll see to the Knitting Circle,” Nynaeve muttered under her breath, and Elayne said, a little more stoutly, “I’ll make sure the sisters are ready.”

  Releasing her arms, they went in opposite directions, holding their skirts up to step quickly and followed by Birgitte and Lan. That left her facing Renaile din Calon’s gaze alone, the eagle stare of a woman who knew she held the high ground and could not be dislodged. Fortunately, the Windfinder to the Mistress of the Ships quickly turned to her companions, so quickly that the ends of her long yellow sash swung wide. The other Windfinders gathered around her, intent on her quiet words. Hitting her even once would surely ruin everything. Aviendha tried not to glare at them, but as much she attempted to look elsewhere, her eyes returned. No one had the right to catch her near-sister in a cleft stick. Nose rings! A good grip on that chain, and Renaile din Calon Blue Star would wear a very different expression.

  Clustered together at one end of the stableyard, tiny Merilille Ceandevin and four more Aes Sedai also regarded the Windfinders, most with annoyance ill-concealed behind cool serenity. Even slender white-haired Vandene Namelle and her mirror-image first-sister Adeleas, who usually looked the most imperturbable of them all. Now and then one or another adjusted a thin linen dust-cloak or brushed at divided silk skirts. Sudden gusts did raise a little dust and stir the color-shifting cloaks of the five Warders just at their backs, yet clearly annoyance moved their hands. Only Sareitha, standing guard over a large white disc-shaped bundle, did not twitch, but she frowned. Merilille’s . . . maid . . . Pol, scowled from behind them. The Aes Sedai heatedly disapproved of the bargain that had brought the Atha’an Miere from their ships and given them a right to stare at Aes Sedai with demanding impatience, but that bargain tied the sisters’ tongues and choked them on their own irritation. Which they tried to hide; they might have succeeded with the wetlanders. The third group of women, in a tight knot at the opposite end of the yard, earned almost as much of their study.

  Reanne Corly and the other ten survivors of the Kin’s Knitting Circle stirred uneasily under that disapproving scrutiny, dabbing their sweaty faces with embroidered handkerchiefs, adjusting their broad, colorful straw hats, smoothing sober woolen skirts sewn up on one side to expose layers of petticoats as bright as the Sea Folk’s garb. In part it was the stares of the Aes Sedai that had them shifting from foot to foot; fear of the Forsaken and the gholam added to it, and so did other things. The narrow, plunging necklines of those dresses should have been enough. Most of these women showed at least a few lines on their cheeks, yet they looked like girls caught with their hands full of stolen nutbread. All but stout Sumeko, fists planted on broad hips, who met the Aes Sedai stare for stare. A bright glow of saidar surrounded one of their number, Kirstian, who kept glancing over her shoulder. With a pale face perhaps ten years older than Nynaeve’s, she appeared out of place among the others. That face grew whiter every time her black eyes met those of an Aes Sedai.

  Nynaeve hurried to the women who led the Kin, her face beaming encouragement, and Reanne and the others smiled with visible relief. Marred a little, true, by the sidelong glances they directed at Lan; him they regarded as the wolf he resembled. Nynaeve, however, was the reason Sumeko did not wilt like the rest whenever an Aes Sedai glanced in her direction. She had vowed to teach those women that they possessed backbones, though Aviendha did not completely understand why. Nynaeve was Aes Sedai herself; no Wise One would ever tell anyone to stand up to Wise Ones.

  However well that might be working with respect to the other Aes Sedai, even Sumeko wore a slightly fawning air for Nynaeve. The Knitting Circle found it strange, to say the least, that women as young as Elayne and Nynaeve gave orders to the other Aes Sedai and were obeyed. Aviendha herself found it peculiar; how could strength in the Power, something you were born with as surely as your eyes, weigh more heavily than the honor that years could bring? Yet the older Aes Sedai did obey, and for the Kinswomen, that was enough. Ieine, nearly as tall as Aviendha herself and almost as dark as the Sea Folk, returned Nynaeve’s every glance with an obsequious smile, while Dimana, white streaking her bright red hair, ducked her head constantly under Nynaeve’s eyes, and yellow-haired Sibella hid nervous giggles behind a hand. Despite their Ebou Dari garments, only Tamarla, lean and olive-skinned, was Altaran, and not even from the city.

  They parted as soon as Nynaeve came close, revealing a woman on her knees, wrists bound behind her, a leather sack covering her head, and her fine clothes torn and dusty. She was as much the reason for their uneasiness as Merilille’s frowns or the Forsaken. Perhaps more.

  Tamarla dragged the hood off, leaving the woman’s thin, bead-studded braids tangled; Ispan Shefar tried to rise, and managed to reach an awkward crouch before she staggered and sank back down, blinking and giggling foolishly. Sweat ran down her cheeks, and a few bruises from her capture marred her ageless features. She had been treated too gently for her crimes, to Aviendha’s mind.

  The herbs Nynaeve had forced down the woman’s throat still fogged her wits as well as weakening her knees, but Kirstian held a shield on her with every shred of the Power she could summon. There was no chance the Shadowrunner might escape—even had she not been dosed, Kirstian was as strong in the Power as Reanne, stronger than most Aes Sedai Aviendha had met—yet even Sumeko plucked her skirts nervously and avoided looking at the kneeling woman.

  “Surely the sisters should have her, now.” Reanne’s high-pitched voice carried, unsteady enough to belong to the Black sister Kirstian shielded. “Nynaeve Sedai, we . . . we should not be guar—uh—in charge of . . . an Aes Sedai.”

  “That’s right,” Sumeko put in quickly. And anxiously. “The Aes Sedai should have her, now.” Sibella echoed her, and nods and murmurs of agreement rippled through the Kinswomen. They believed in their bones that they stood far below Aes Sedai; very likely they would have chosen guarding Trollocs over holding an Aes Sedai.

  The disapproving stares from Merilille and the other sisters changed once Ispan Shefar’s face was revealed. Sareitha Tomares, who had worn her brown-fringed shawl only a few years and still did
not have the ageless appearance, glared with a disgust that should have flayed the Shadowrunner at fifty paces. Adeleas and Vandene, hands tightening on their skirts, appeared to struggle with hatred for the woman who had been their sister and betrayed them. Yet the stares they gave the Knitting Circle were not that much better. They, too, knew in their hearts that the Kin stood a very long way below them. There was much more to it than that, but the betrayer had been one of their own, and no one but they had the right to her. Aviendha agreed. A Maiden who betrayed her spear-sisters did not die quickly or un-shamed.

  Nynaeve pulled the sack back down over Ispan Shefar’s head with some force. “You’ve done well so far, and you’ll continue to do well,” she told the Kinswomen firmly. “If she shows signs of coming round, pour some more of that mixture down her. It’ll keep her giddy as a goat full of ale. Hold her nose, if she tries not to swallow. Even an Aes Sedai will swallow if you hold her nose and threaten to box her ears.”

  Reanne’s jaw dropped and her eyes sprang wide, like most of her companions’. Sumeko nodded, but slowly, and goggled nearly as much as the others. When Kinswomen said Aes Sedai, they might have been naming the Creator. The thought of holding an Aes Sedai’s nose, even a Shadowrunner’s, painted their faces with horror.

  By the popping eyes among the Aes Sedai, they liked the notion even less. Merilille opened her mouth, staring at Nynaeve, but just then Elayne reached her, and the Gray sister rounded on her instead, sparing barely a single disapproving frown for Birgitte. It was a measure of her agitation that her voice rose rather than dropping; normally Merilille was very discreet. “Elayne, you must speak to Nynaeve. Those women are confused and frightened out of their wits already. It won’t help if she upsets them even more. If the Amyrlin Seat really does intend to allow them to go to the Tower,” she shook her head slowly, trying to deny that, and perhaps a great deal else, “if she does mean to, they must have a clear picture of their places, and—”